Viewpoint: PC puritans who whine and dine
Politically correct computer corporations are the bane of every pint-swilling hack?s life, says freelansh writer Dave Evans
OK, so I like a drink. No that?s a lie. I like a lot of drink, and if I could funnel it down my throat in the best traditions of making foie gras, then so much the better. To admit this, of course, invites at best a sympathetic understanding that you must be a grievous alcoholic. This is usually in the guise of a Margaret Thatcher sort of condolence, of the kind the PM once reserved for people who?d lost their dog or had their family wiped out by an axe-wielding psychopath.
The other kind of response borders on moral outrage, in which the unabashed imbiber is deemed on a social par with wife beaters, sufferers of industrial-strength flatulence and fans of Barry Manilow. Either way, the adjectives ?pathetic?, ?disgusting? or ?irresponsible? usually figure in the vocabulary. Smokers and omnivores have to endure much the same, and doubtless in time those who enjoy boiled sweets will be meted similar judgement.
The first kind of puritan I can live with. But it?s the second type, especially the politically correct corporate puritan, that gets my gout. Unfortunately, the whole IT industry seems to be moving in this direction. If you?re working for a reseller stuck out on some God-forsaken trading estate in Berkshire and need to drive a car, then that?s one thing. But if you are proscribed from having a lunchtime dram merely because it?s deemed synonymous with sloppy working, then that?s something else.
What?s often at stake here is not that workers can?t function adequately after a few pints, but that the bosses can?t abide the idea that their enterprise isn?t the military precision engine they kid themselves into believing it is. Sadly for them, not all staff are teetotal automatons.
I can already hear the objections. ?What if everyone indulged in your kind of antics?? I can hear Mr Crispin Smart, headperson of Nondescript Human Resource Dept, argue. In reply, I would merely point to all the deals that are struck over a pint or two, especially around the drinks bars of Olympia and the NEC. And besides, if everyone was knocking back the amber nectar, I?d be a fool not to follow suit.
?But what if you?re writing software? That needs a clear head,? protests Mr A N O?rak of Neasden. Maybe. But then Hemmingway wrote some of his best stuff sozzled, and software writers might be even more creative with a beer or two inside them. Besides, consider the mess caused by Bill Gates, doubtless while sober.
You may have already gleaned that my views are coloured by personal experience. You?re right. Many a happy time have I spent in the company of drunks at the Coach and Horses, Soho, whose most famous habitue Jeffrey Bernard famously declared that the reason he drank so much was to stop him jogging. In my case, drink occludes having accidental conversations with the temperate, especially if they want to talk IT.
One of my worst recollections is of being invited to preview a PC company?s new bit of messaging software at their offices near Reading. I should have known better. The parent company was American, and it was at the height of US political correctness vis-a-vis personal health, underscored by Harvard-like notions of corporate dynamism. No lunchtime alcohol was served to the assembly of thirsty hacks, while the ?meal? consisted largely of bean shoots, carrots, soya curd and wholemeal bread. I?m pleased to report the company didn?t get much of a write-up. In fact, it has since vanished without trace. Had the management not been so anally retentive (by the way, beer is a proven laxative) things might have been different.
In the meantime, with my back against the pub wall, I?m fighting a rear-guard action. My own contribution is to pen as many articles as possible while knocking back a pint. This piece has been written in the comfort of a bar opposite London?s Covent Garden tube. As for my health, despite my proclivity for dissolution, I?ve never had a day in hospital, nor have I been out of work, and my domestic life isn?t in ruins. If ever I do need NHS treatment, I will insist ? like Dean Martin ? that all I seek is an alcoholic rub from the inside.
When the Great Brewer finally deems my time has come, though, I hope I?ll get enough forewarning to denote my liver to my most ardent detractor. It should be the perfect murder if he ever needs a transplant. Otherwise, I shall strive to ensure that all the other politically correct folk I know are invited to my cremation, but only as a separate group and only after the real mourners have departed. Then, when the flames reach the coffin, hopefully there will be enough ethanol still in my constitution to blow the pious gits to kingdom come. And please God, ban them eternally from the Pearly Gates Tavern.