Mobiles law... not the Government’s call

THIS idea that legislation alone can solve all our problems is a very flawed argument. Take the latest wheeze to prevent people under the age of 16 accessing social media… since when have youngsters obeyed a law that might hobble their lifestyles in any way?

Besides, it’s not the role of government to micro-manage anyone’s life. What about the personal responsibility of parents and other adults making decisions and, if need be, monitoring mobile phone use? Hmmm, taking personal responsibility. Now there’s a thought.

As ever though, it’s not just the billionaire social media moguls at fault here, even if cyber space is clearly the new Wild West. Certain politicians – still shamelessly hoovering up prestigious, virtue-signalling jobs - are also answerable. And they should take their share of the blame, laughably unlikely that this might come about before Hell freezes over.

Talking of which, a lot of that blame should be laid at the door of the 1990s Blair government’s ludicrous idea of 50 per cent of young people going to ‘uni’.

This helped to create today’s entitlement society, prefaced by the destruction of apprenticeships with day release schemes, crippling unpayable debts, and its logical result – the current scandal of one million young people not in education, employment or seeking employment, known by the truly tragic acronym NEETS.

No wonder kids are now glued to their phones. What else is there to do? I’d probably have been the same at their age.

However, yet more repressive state control from the increasingly authoritarian bunch we’re lumbered with at the moment is most surely not the answer. But taking charge of one’s own life and making reasoned, value judgements most certainly IS.

After all, Starmer’s reduced the voting age to 16. So, by his own logic these people are now adults, therefore they can make grown-up decisions. Yes? So, let’s apply that reasoning to young people and mobile phones.

All right. He’s talking about legislation affecting those UNDER 16. But by what miraculous metamorphosis does someone wake up on their 16^th birthday with the brainpower of an Aristotle or Einstein, with voting wisdom to match? From child to adult at one minute past midnight. Amazing.

Anyway, being of a certain age – and with more to wistfully gaze back at than to look forward to – I cast a rheumy-eyed glance back to my own at-times misspent youth in the Warwickshire town of Rugby.

OK folks. Let’s all now pour ourselves a warming drink and then climb into our favourite dog basket to sit comfortably by the fire…

It was the 1960s, and while there were no world wars to spoil the fun, there was most definitely another global conflagration blazing away - and that was the war of the generations.

For example, my father hated rock music. Dressed up as being criticism of its actual musical form – the old, tedious ‘it’s just three chords’ argument – the real reason was that he didn’t like what it represented.

Long hair. Effeminate clothes. Teddy Boys – ah no, it’s now Mods, isn’t it. Hedonism. Dangerous views. Oh yes, as far as the latter’s concerned, now that IS very much how it is today. But otherwise…

Billy Fury, Elvis-lip-snarling on Thank Your Lucky Stars. What do you want to watch that rubbish for? The Rolling Stones blasting down the stairs from my bedroom in Woodbine Cottage, Churchover. Turn that damn noise down!

But did it make the slightest difference? Not one jot. That is, apart from giving the volume control on my green Dansette record player a tweak, only to resume sound levels once he’d gone up the garden path to get his fork and lift some parsnips.

Off to school on a Monday morning, with a French ‘period’ first thing. Lessons were called ‘periods’ at Lawrence Sheriff School, and could also be routinely bloody affairs.

Take French master ‘Slime’ Skeet, he of the billowing gown, sardonic grin and a not particularly skilled line in schoolboy humiliation.

“Quelle est la longueur des cheveux de Phillpott?” he’d slobber, hoping for sniggers of approval from the class. All right, a few nervous twitchings here and there from the goody-goodies at the front - but that was it. Sorry about this, Slime. Nought out of ten again. Don’t see me after school.

Meanwhile, the Brian Jones-influenced blond helmet look stayed firmly put as I peered with all the truculence that could be mustered from beneath that carefully manicured hedge of a fringe. Arch tormentor Skeet’s comments made absolutely no difference. Whatsoever.

Back in the 1960s, many adults had become totally perplexed by the attitudes of the ‘boomer’ children they had so eagerly produced in the wake of the Second World War. Prime Minister Harold Macmillan’s earlier prophecy that ‘Britain has never had it so good’ had come true.

But not necessarily for the generation that had fought and suffered for six long years, rather their sons and daughters.

Looking back, I now heartily sympathise with those who had lived through the appalling conflicts of the 20^th century. They’d had all the misery, and we were having all the fun. It’s only human nature, after all. Who wouldn’t feel miffed about missing the endless party?

The same forces of tight-lipped resentment came into play when I started work on the Rugby Advertiser as a trainee reporter.

The Benn Memorial Hall was geographically perfectly placed, being on the gigging circuit of most of the major rock acts of the day. So, it wasn’t long before I asked chief reporter Len Archer if I could interview some of these acts, and then do write-ups for the paper.

Talk about an uphill battle. “Why do you want to talk to those long-haired layabouts? All right, if you must – but you’re also down to cover Rugby and District Angling Association’s annual general meeting on Saturday night. And make sure you don’t leave before the meeting’s over, boy!”

I didn’t. And echoing the sentiments of Sir Francis Drake’s famous Spanish Armada bowls match, I still had time to meet the Small Faces, just a stone’s throw from the Peacock Inn in Newbold Road.

Only minutes before, the conversation had been about the rights or wrongs of fishing for roach and bream in the Oxford Canal using coloured maggots. Now it was the rock 'n' roll Gospel according to St Steve Marriott.

Then there was the relentless parental disapproval of the Il Cadore café in Chapel Street. The haunt of any in-crowd teenager who was anybody – or indeed nobody - the great concern among mothers and fathers was that this was a place where drugs could be bought and sold.

It was. Oh yes, they were right about that. For on a Saturday night, the ‘Ilk’ was the launch pad for those planning to visit nightclubs in Birmingham, Coventry, Leicester and Banbury.

The only way to stay awake at these all-nighters was to swallow a few black bombers or purple hearts. Apparently, the comedown was worse than an alcohol hangover. So I’ve read.

And that’s why the police made several raids on the premises. However, most of youngsters to be found in the ‘Ilk’ would nurse their espresso or ‘tinzano’ – a strange, sugary and heated-up fruit juice concoction – for a few hours, catch the last bus home, and probably be tucked up in bed by eleven clutching their hedgehogs pattern hot water bottle.

Before that, they’d probably have lied to their parents about where they’d been. “Had a nice evening, dear – where did you go?” Oh, only round to Bob’s house, mum. Just listened to a few records. Nothing much. Night mum. Night dear.

I feel sorry for today’s youngsters. Rock and roll may not have completely died, but it’s certainly on life support. Meanwhile, the twin horsemen of the Apocalypse, Trump and Putin, are between them competing to destroy any optimism remaining among the young that they will inherit a safe, secure and harmonious world.

Then there’s AI, which has the potential to eventually eliminate most, if not all, creative endeavour other than live performance. And even that’s not safe, as anyone who witnessed the London Abba show reincarnation will confirm.

But as far as mobile phones and social media are concerned, young people will always find a way to get round any future ban, just as they have ever since the first adult said: “Oi - you’re too young to smoke, son!”.

The thing is that human nature stays the same, regardless. Banning social media for the under 16s is doomed to failure, just as all politicians and their desperate sound bite gimmicks will ultimately get dumped on history’s ever-expanding scrapheap of stupid ideas.

• Like that blog? You can see many more of my musings in Go and Make the Tea, Boy! an account of life on a provincial newspaper during the 1960s. It can bought by messaging me on Facebook, from bookshops, online or by contacting the publishers, Brewin Books, Enfield Industrial Estate, 19, Redditch B97 6BY email admin@brewinbooks.com