In the Land of Political Correctness

Due to a heavy combination of Soluble Panadol Max and Sudafed (remember, Just Say No kids), I am feeling somewhat better today. The grotesque throat pain I feared would turn into full blown pharyngitis has dissipated and my snot filled head is able to think with a little more clarity than yesterday. Thus, I now feel fit enough to complain about something.

If you, unlike me, have been watching Coronation Street recently you will be familiar with the dastardly Scot, Tony. You may even have chuckled quietly into your semi-warm beverage when he made a comment about the football team Rangers a couple of weeks ago. What you may not have noticed was the dodgy voice over edit job last week to get rid of a second Rangers joke due to the very small volume of complaints ITV received from Rangers fans over the first joke.
What an earth does it say about society that ITV felt the need to do that? I mean, aside from anything else, disliking Rangers is part of the character of Tony. Knowing that he supports Celtic gives us an insight into his background that we would otherwise not get. Are we suddenly not allowed to dislike anything in case there are people who are going to complain about it?

He Who Knows Everything tells the story of an occasion many years ago when he was writing the instruction manual for a computer program. The program in question transferred data but in order to not tie up the receiving computer, it would break the information down into chunks and send them one at a time so the receiving computer could still be used. To explain this in a way everybody could understand, the manual likened it to a grandmother taking her 18 grandchildren to the bank to make a deposit of their pocket money and the bank manager ordering them all to sit in the corner and approach one at a time so the other customers could also be served.
Following a single complaint that the example was sexist, it was changed to a monster taking children to the bank.
HWKE, in a move that proves him to be the genetic source of my own extreme pedantry, complains that it wasn’t sexist in the least because women live longer than men so it is far more likely a grandmother would take her grandchildren to the bank than a grandfather would.

How have we got to the point where we feel obliged to back down over every complaint? Where we can no longer say things in case somebody out there doesn’t like it? Why do we feel we have to take this seriously?

The way I look at it is this; somebody somewhere is feeling offended by something you have or have not said or done. Live with it.