The Etiquette Emergency.

Manners. That quaint old concept, like rationing or dial-up internet, wheeled out whenever someone under 30 forgets how doors work. 

So there I am, holding the door open for a woman with a pram the size of a Ford Mondeo, and does she say thank you? Does she heck. She barrels through like she’s in the Monaco Grand Prix, leaving me standing there like a Victorian butler with a urinary tract infection.

Manners, apparently, are optional nowadays. Like salad at a kebab shop. You say “please” and people look at you like you’ve just recited the Magna Carta. You say “thank you” and they check their pockets to see if you’ve nicked their phone.

And then queueing. The sacred British art of standing in line, now ruined by people who think “Excuse me, I’m just asking a question” is code for “I’m going to skip ahead and buy seventeen scratchcards while you contemplate violence.”

Then there’s the handshake. Once a firm, respectful greeting. Now it’s a limp, moist encounter that feels like shaking hands with a defrosted fish finger. Or worse, the fist bump. What are we, boxers? Am I about to spar with the bloke in the post office queue!?

And table manners? Gone! I saw a lad eat a sausage roll like it owed him money. Elbows on the table, chewing like a cement mixer, and talking with his mouth so full it sounded like a podcast recorded inside a blender.

But the worst offenders? The “I’m just being honest” brigade. No, mate, you’re just being a gobshite. Manners aren’t about lying they’re about not being a complete weapon in public. You can be honest and polite. Like saying, “I disagree with you, but I won’t throw a traffic cone at your nan.”

So here’s to manners: The social lubricant that stops us devolving into feral bin-raiders. Use them. Or next time you forget to say “thank you,” I’ll hold the door open just long enough for it to hit you in the backside.

And remember manners are the invisible force that stops you getting punched in Greggs.