Mind the manners gap

William must have known a great deal about the importance of good manners as a social lubricant because this prince of the church was actually born a Hampshire peasant in the middle of the 14th century.

Wiliam’s was the sort of family that probably didn’t even own its own pig let alone a house, so when, at the culmination of a successful career in politics and the church, he was able to commission a coat of arms it’s not surprising that he chose a motto that celebrated his humble roots.

‘It doesn’t matter who you are - it’s what you do’ all-powerful Bishop William was saying in a motto that must have been something of a two-fingered gesture to the assorted high-born lords, dukes and princes who jostled for favour around the King.

For the 14th century, this must have been a modern, not to say revolutionary concept, so it’s a bit disappointing that 600 years later we seem to have completely forgotten William of Wykeham’s excellent advice.

Increasingly, these days, ‘manners maketh man stand out like ye olde sore thumb’. In fact, if you have the temerity to make a gesture that could be interpreted as socially graceful or just plain kind, people usually stare at you as if you are an alien visiting from a distant planet… which in a way you are.

Take last week, for example. First Crapital was playing its usual interactive passenger game ‘guess the time of your train’ and when one finally chugged into view it was not only late, but packed to the luggage racks.

We all burrowed on board and played sardines in the aisle - another of First Crapital’s favourite games - but I couldn’t help noticing that a young woman seated to my right had ostentatiously spread her coat and bag over the only remaining free seat in the carriage.

Totally, some might say, deliberately, oblivious to the conditions around her, she was sitting in a way that blocked any possible attempt to reach the empty seat.

In addition she appeared to be doggedly engrossed in a slim paperback that looked suspiciously like 50 Shades of Grey.

It was difficult to be certain about that because she had her back turned the aisle and was hunched over the book in a way that suggested she didn’t want to be disturbed.

A very elderly woman wedged behind me sighed and asked if it was “always like this?”.

I smiled grimly. “‘Fraid so.”

“I tried to change my hospital appointment,” she continued, “but they could only offer me 10am.” That was it.

“Well, there’s a seat just here,” I said very loudly, expecting the furtive reader to bundle her belongings together and shuffle up.

Nothing.

“Look,” my voice was really quite loud now and people were looking at me and wondering if I was mad. “There’s a spare seat here, just by the window.”

Still nothing except a detectable squaring of the shoulders - so I leaned forward, tapped the reader on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me, would you mind letting this lady sit down, please?”

Talk about 50 shades of puce. The woman looked absolutely furious - and even then she didn’t move along to let the elderly passenger sit down easily. Instead she frowned, tutted and moved her bag and coat to her feet, indicating that the ‘irritating’ passenger would have to clamber over them.

Fortunately, a man sitting opposite saw how difficult she was making things, so he simply swapped over to the newly empty window seat leaving his own, easy-to-reach, aisle seat free for the older woman.

It was a small, pointless victory, but it set me thinking about the way people today - especially people on public transport - treat each other. No one last Wednesday considered giving up their seat to a frail old woman. They were all so immersed in their bubbles that the thought of sacrificing their own 20 minutes of comfort simply didn’t occur.

Partly, I think the problem is that commuting is such a horrible, painful, joyless and expensive business these days that the normal rules of civility don’t apply. Treated like cattle, we’ve all begun to lose the simple vestiges of humanity in those fetid compartments.

Instead it’s every man and woman for himself / herself out there.

On the Tube you can often sense people on the platform manoeuvring themselves into pole position so that when the train comes in they’ll be standing slap in front of the door. They stand just a bit too close and then perform a bit of discrete shuffling so that they manage to ease themselves in front of you.

Truly, these are the Rudolph Nureyev’s of the Circle Line, divas whose breathtaking footwork probably would merit flowers and deafening applause and if the end result wasn’t something as banal as getting a seat.

When the train actually appears, these same men and women data-scan the approaching compartment, locking onto the coordinates of a free seat with NASA-like precision. Heads down, they are first on when the doors open and seconds later they are docking their landing modules into the mother ship. But the very worst offenders when it comes to crimes against commuting are the low-lifers who can’t wait for passengers to exit a train compartment before they get on. It’s been getting worse.

These days, navigating your way off a train at Liverpool Street is like hurling yourself into the midst of a rugby scrum. Last month I actually got trapped by the incoming horde and ended up at Aldgate!

The worst offenders are foreign tourists with pull-along cases who appear to treat the London underground like Ben Hur’s chariot race around the Circus Maximus (there, I’ve said it - I don‘t care, it‘s true!). But at least visitors have the excuse of not having the benefit of at least 1,000 years of the great British tradition of queuing locked into their DNA.

It’s far more worrying when you are mown down by a group of teenagers from Essex who are so totes wrapped up in themselves or their smart phones that they wouldn’t notice a fellow commuter even if they were crushed beneath the soles of their Nike air tops.

Hilariously, with the horror of the Olympics slumping into view, we are now treated to the plum-packed voice of Boris Johnson exhorting TfL passengers to ‘play nicely because it’s going to be very busy out there.’ (That’s the gist, anyway).

Well, Boris, my old fruit, have I got news for you! That message is already about a decade too late.

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