Hugh Reilly: Today's youngsters need press ganging

Published on Sunday 6 March 2011 17:17

Monarchists with a misguided sense of tradition will be aghast to discover that my Buckingham Palace mole informs me the carriage taking Kate Windsor (née Middleton) back to the honeymoon suite will have a tasteful "Princess on Board" sign daintily hanging from the rear window.

At least, the upwardly mobile daughter of a commoner millionaire is entitled to alert motorists everywhere that the vehicle in front contains a royal personage.

Last week, sitting in a traffic jam on the M8, I stared at a back window card that read "Princesses on board". Both female heirs to the throne were out of their seat belts and, in between gorging on a bag of crisps, made faces at me. Given the appalling lack of security surrounding the regal twosome, I felt comfortable in replying in kind. By their horrified reaction, my party-piece gurning of a malevolent Humpty-Dumpty meets Freddy Krueger traumatically affected their acute sensitivities.

Many households today operate as mini-feudal societies, with the parents acting as vassals to child superiors. The adolescent aristocracy rule the roost, their inflated egos the consequence of the insidious praise culture in schools and in the home, a virus that exaggerates the talents of The Special Ones and eliminates self-awareness of any weaknesses.

Lording over all they survey, the youngsters mock any mum or dad who dares ask them to help with daily chores. Conscious of place in the family hierarchy - and wanting to avoid igniting a temper tantrum in his daughter whom he asked five times to run a vacuum cleaner over the carpets - father gets out the Hoover and tugs his receding forelock in the direction of Her Majesty, who is busy updating her Facebook page.

I recently conducted a wholly unscientific study to find out the kind of life skills modern schoolchildren possess. A thoughtful lad recounted that he had once tried to iron but couldn't do it. (For his sake, I hope his first sexual experience has a more successful outcome.) When I asked him if his bike still had stabilisers, his angry retort suggested that falling off his cycle had not curbed his enthusiasm to learn a new skill. A Jaffa Cake Jezebel (dyed black hair with orange face) happily related that her mother tidies her room. None of the pupils ever prepared their own meals, even those who have been taught to do so by the Home Economics department. Indeed, a brave girl who admitted she could conjure up spaghetti Bolognese instantly acquired domestic goddess status from her microwave-meal peers.

Many children confessed their parents complained about their slothfulness; to be fair, some even expressed a degree of guilt watching mum scurry with her dusters and cleaning agents. The prevalent attitude, however, was that housework was somehow beneath them. "It's embarrassing!" was a common refrain.

I find it sad that young people, showered with material gifts from gushing parents, offer so little in return.When I was a boy, my brother and I almost came to blows for the right to swirl the clothes in the boiler, using a large set of wooden tongs. Like jolly prisoners in a Victorian gaol, we took turns to crank the handle of the mangle, carefully pushing the edges of the dripping clothes into the crushing rollers that threatened to elongate our digits.

Our growing bones opened up a new world of tasks to be done. As soon as our heads were above that of the ironing board, we joined the press gang. Basic skill with a hot iron was honed on straightforward items such as handkerchiefs with an embroidered "S" (my dad's name was Hugh but, because the haberdashery shop had no letter H stock left, mother bought "S" for Shug). Being a quick learner, I was soon on to pillowcases. I never could master the technique to produce a fine, single crease in trousers. To this day, my breeks spookily resemble a plan elevation of the Edinburgh tram line.

Many teenagers puff and blaw when requested to simply put their dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Pre-Teflon grumpy old men, such as yours truly, recall feverishly scouring pots and pans with Brillo pads.

In my opinion, parents who cravenly pay homage to their princely children deserve to be treated like serfs.