Among my generation of middle-class, university-educated male friends, there are countless who can explain the geopolitical significance of Turkey’s recent election, but barely one who could hang a painting straight.
As for changing a fuse, bleeding a radiator or fixing a tap, forget it. You need to get a real man in for that.
Hardly surprising, then, that new figures reveal that electricians, plumbers and plasterers are among the highest-paid workers in the country, with some earning more than £150,000 a year.
New figures reveal that electricians, plumbers and plasterers are among the highest-paid workers, with some earning more than £150,000 a year – hardly surprising says Sarah Vine
All over Britain, skilled tradesmen are now bringing home up to six times the average wage. A junior doctor earns £23,000 a year, working night shifts and long hours. A newly qualified sparky, by contrast, can easily make £1,500 a week.
There was a time, of course, when every home had its own live-in handyman. He was known as ‘the husband’. The quality of the work wasn’t always perfect, and he did require a certain amount of nagging and strong tea; but it at least meant that a blocked sink or a broken Hoover wasn’t the end of the world.
But most modern husbands, mine included, are far more likely to be found building a LEGO Death Star spaceship at the weekend with the children than repointing the garden wall.
Hence the rising salaries in the manual labour market — and the boom in websites such as Task-Rabbit, where helpless wives can find handymen for all sorts of niggling jobs, from fixing a wobbly shelf to sorting out a patch of damp.
Let us not forget the success of the boss of Pimlico Plumbers, Charlie Mullins, testament to the benefits of knowing one end of a stopcock from another. Born in Camden, he grew up in a council flat and left school at 15 to become a plumber’s apprentice. He’s now worth £70 million.
One fellow I employed recently to help with an especially fiendish flat pack came all the way from Canada. He had moved to the UK to work in the banking sector, but had lost his job a few years after the 2008 crash.
Since then he had been making a perfectly good living as a general odd jobber — self-employed and master of his own destiny.
All over Britain, skilled tradesmen are now bringing home up to six times the average wage. A junior doctor earns £23,000 a year, working night shifts and long hours. A newly qualified sparky, by contrast, can easily make £1,500 a week
He much preferred his new life, he said. And there was no shortage of work to be had.
There may be something a little surreal about this army of surrogate husbands filling in for other men’s DIY inadequacies. But what is real is what it tells us about the future of the job market — and the entire post-war theory of education.
Since the Eighties, governments have embraced unquestioningly the notion of expanding university provision. In 2002, Tony Blair promised to get half of all young people into university and numbers have risen steadily ever since.
No one then would have thought to contest his vision of democratising higher education. But perhaps it’s not so straightforward after all.
The problem with flooding a marketplace is that you inevitably devalue the product.
Thus, the more undergraduates who enter the job market, the less their achievements count. And when you think what it costs for a young person to obtain a degree — three to four years of study, potentially £50,000 worth of debt and little guarantee of a well-paid job at the end of it — you do wonder whether it’s worth it.
Perhaps instead of aspiring for our boys to be doctors, lawyers and accountants, we should be encouraging them to be plumbers, builders and electricians.
Could it be that, after years at the top, the age of the middle-class intellectual professional is drawing to a close, driven to extinction not only by the Darwinian march of technology — but his own stubborn refusal to finally get around to changing that damned plug?
Best chums? What a performance!
I must confess I found myself transfixed by this picture of Dame Helen Mirren, Emma Thompson, Dame Kristin Scott Thomas and Nicole Kidman together at a party in Toronto.
First, what is the collective noun for lady luvvies? An air-kiss? A Botox? Also, is it just my imagination or is Nicole Kidman trying to push Helen Mirren out of the shot? Or is that simply Nicole’s way of ensuring she gets maximum exposure?
Never have four women tried so hard to appear the best of friends while, to my cynical mind anyway, clearly loathing every second in each other’s presence. A triumph, darlings!
Never have four women tried so hard to appear the best of friends while, to my cynical mind anyway, clearly loathing every second in each other’s presence. A triumph, darlings!
Comedian Jack Dee laments that Britain has become an irony-free nation and Twitter has turned everyone into humourless, po-faced bores. And then, in the next breath, he takes the obligatory luvvie dig at Brexit, saying: ‘It’s quite hard to find that funny.’ Irony-free, you say . . .
Shameful burden
A few weeks ago, I mentioned the outrageous levels of interest being charged on student loans. Now the subject is shaping up to be a political hot potato.
Currently set at 6.1 per cent, the rate is way over the Bank of England’s base rate, which is bumping along at 0.25 per cent.
Unless the Tories want to risk alienating an entire generation, addressing this injustice should be a priority for the Chancellor.
iPhone Potty
As IF launching a £1,000 phone wasn’t annoying enough (even my teenage daughter thinks that’s a bit pricey), Apple has turned the iWatch into a phone.
Which means that the world will soon be full of people talking to their own wrists.
Clearly, smartphones haven’t made us look stupid enough . . .
I can’t believe people are complaining that Strictly is not gay enough because the producers failed to pair lesbian comic Susan Calman with a woman.
It’s the most gloriously camp show on the planet, for goodness’ sake. Next thing you know, they’ll be suggesting that Craig Revel Horwood is too butch.
The sneers over Jacob Rees-Mogg saying he doesn’t agree with abortion continue. I can’t understand why. After all, he’s a Catholic. We tolerate everyone else’s beliefs in this country: why not his?
Does anyone seriously put genuine Farrow & Ball paint on their walls? Don’t they all, like me, just buy a sample pot then get the nice man at Homebase to copy it on his special scanning machine and make it up in a one-coat el-cheapo emulsion?
Whether you’re Prince Harry or Paul Hollywood, I’m not sure it’s ever a good idea to dress up as a Nazi. But aren’t there enough genuine maniacs in the world to worry about without getting too het up about a rather silly man and a fancy dress costume he wore almost two decades ago?
Who calls a storm Aileen?
Given the devastation caused by these deadly hurricanes, perhaps it’s time for the weather boffins to revisit their naming policy.
‘Irma’ sounds like a nice old lady who knits tea cosies, not the meteorological equivalent of Lord Voldemort.
Likewise, Aileen — a storm which is apparently heading our way — is the name of your favourite dinner lady.
I suggest taking inspiration from the Classics — Medea, Cerberus, Cronus, Clytemnestra, Penthesilea. A truly nasty bunch — and far more suited to the task.
According to Amnesty International, Diane Abbott received ten times as much abuse during the general election as other MPs.
Would it be very wicked to suggest that might be because she’s ten times as annoying?