Sign language: health and safety uber alles!

Monday March 17, 2008

If a country treats its citizens like naughty schoolchildren, that is exactly how they will behave, says Joe Jackson

My current concert tour began in the UK and, coming from my recently adopted home of Berlin, one of the things that struck me first about the land of my birth is the overwhelming, and maddening, prevalence of signs.

Foremost among these are NO SMOKING signs, of which there is a deluge. Placed at eye level right on the door of a pub, literally ‘in my face’, they’re an invitation not to “Come on in!” but to “Fuck off!”. Inside are dozens more, the idea, apparently, being that if I do a 360-degree turn, I should never lose sight of one.

Not happy with taking away my last refuge, however, the antismoking bullies hector me from every door, wall and window they can find, even in places where no one would ever expect to smoke (health food shops, for instance).

In my hometown, Portsmouth, I saw NO SMOKING signs in bus stops and car parks, and even no less than five signs in a phone box. Leaving aside for the moment my own conviction, based on years of research, that the dangers of smoking are greatly exagerrated and the dangers of ‘passive smoke’ non-existent, I imagine that even nonsmokers must feel oppressed by so much meanness and so much sheer visual ugliness.

Screamed

It was the same story in the rehearsal room just outside town where we prepared for the tour. The signage screamed at us even in the toilets. DO NOT THROW PAPER INTO THE URINALS. I wonder how many people go into a cubicle to get some paper, use it for God knows what, and then try to stuff it down a hole into which it obviously cannot fit. Meanwhile, in the cubicle: PLEASE FLUSH THE TOILET BEFORE LEAVING. Now, I’ve known to do this since I was maybe three, but perhaps I’m unusual.

And so, through a gauntlet of speed cameras, to Cardiff, whose waterfront redevelopment and shops and restaurants and signs and more signs look exactly like … Portsmouth. And for those of you who’ve always wondered what the artists’ dressing rooms are like, I can tell you: they are plastered with signs. In this case, the NO SMOKING signs are supplemented by directions to the ARTISTS’ DESIGNATED SMOKING AREA, which turns out to be a tiny outside enclosure where the garbage bins are kept and rats scurry underfoot.

But enough about smoking. There are also, since the dressing rooms are on two levels, signs both at the bottom and top of the stairs: PLEASE MIND THE STAIRS. Thank God, otherwise I might have just walked up and down them without a care in the world.

Warning

Thank God, too, for that close cousin of the sign: the warning label. Here’s one informing me that my 330ml bottle of beer comprises 1.7 UK ALCOHOL UNITS and that RESPONSIBLE DRINKERS DON’T EXCEED 4 DAILY UNITS (MEN) 3 DAILY UNITS (WOMEN). But apart from the fact that I’ve met men who are reduced to giggling ninnies after a half of lager and women who could drink me under the table, my poor brain can’t quite seem to make sense of 330 ml divided by 1.7×4, or whatever the calculation has to be.

Back at our hotel, my bedside lights have notices above them saying CAUTION: HOT SURFACE! I touched one of them. It was quite warm, but not enough to burn me. What was the problem? Were they afraid of being sued by someone outraged just by the possibility that they could have been hotter?

This line of thinking resurfaced the next morning when I went down to the lobby and saw that a lady had apparently slipped and fallen on the stairs. Members of staff were buzzing around her like flies, jabbering into mobile phones and walkie-talkies, applying icepacks to her ankle, and offering her a free glass of politically-correct non-alcoholic juice which she refused, saying, “For Christ’s sake, I’m alright, it’s not like I fell on my head or anything!”

Then, in the hotel gym: more signs. Health and Safety Uber Alles! In the free-weights area were three signs (why is one never enough?) reading DO NOT DROP THE WEIGHTS AFTER USE. To prevent noise and/or damage? But the weights were rubber-covered dumbells and the floor covered with thick rubber matting. As an experiment, I dropped a 12kg dumbell from a height of about 18 inches. It barely made a sound.

Insulted

I could go on, but you probably get the point. I suppose I should do the only thing one can do about Screaming Signs, which is to ignore them, but I can’t help feeling insulted and oppressed by them, and wondering: why? Are we such a nation of abysmal fools and miscreants? Or is the constant nagging actually dumbing us down, and making us less responsible? Or making us sullen, resentful, and more and more likely to smash a CCTV camera after a couple of units of alcohol too many?

In debates about the ridiculous UK licensing laws (which, for all the Daily Mail scaremongering, mostly haven’t changed much) there has always been a side which maintains that the British are so inherently bestial that without an ever-growing mass of restrictions and regulations, things would be even worse. Personally, I think that if a country persists in treating its citizens like naughty schoolchildren, then that is how they will tend to behave.

I also think that authority in the UK – from the bottom to the top – is in the hands of an even worse bunch of self-righteous busybodies than usual. The question is, how can we stop it from getting worse and worse?

Joe Jackson is a writer and musician
www.joejackson.com