A war with no winners

War is in the air, war between the generations. ‘‘OK Boomer,’’ said the youthful Green MP, dismissing a whole generation as handbrakes on the EV of Woke. And last weekend the students of Harvard and Yale invaded a football pitch chanting the same weary slogan. This isn’t, however, the student revolution of 1968. Half an hour later the game resumed and the students stayed to watch. Nevertheless it seems indicative.

And I have my own example. Last week I wrote an email, checked it for spelling, punctuation and epigrammatic wit, as one does, then pressed send. The email whirred its little wings but failed to fly. By way of explanation a box appeared on my screen. I read it. I read it again. Ah well, I said, some things are like the peace of god.

I wrote another email, a briefer witless one, addressed it to myself so none would know, and again I pressed send. It too went nowhere. I tried all I knew to fix the problem but restarting the computer did nothing. The machine just patted me on the head, said OK Boomer, and suggested I ring my internet service provider.

In a physics class 50 years ago I learned that a matchboxful of atomic nuclei would plunge through the classroom floor and some distance towards the centre of the earth before coming to rest. I stored that nugget of information away, in the belief it might prove useful. That belief has now been vindicated. For as I dialled the number of my internet service provider I could think of no better metaphor for how my heart felt.

But it wasn’t as bad as all that. After a mere 40 minutes the Hawaiian guitar music ceased and a member of the enemy generation came on the line. ‘‘Hello,’’ he said brightly. ‘‘Hello,’’ I said.

‘‘Have you tried restarting the computer?’’ he said.

When I told him my email address, ‘‘Gosh that’s an old one,’’ he said.

Way older than you are, I managed not to say. We boomers are discreet.

‘‘I’d like you to type something into the URL,’’ he said.

‘‘The URL? Upper Right Lobotomy? Urinary Rectal Logjam?’’

‘‘The box in the top left,’’ he said, speaking as to a 5-year-old. ‘‘Type https semicolon.’’ ‘‘Semicolon? Are you sure?’’

‘‘Yeah, the thing with two dots.’’

‘‘You mean a colon.’’

‘‘Whatever.’’

But it didn’t work. Nothing he suggested worked. ‘‘I need to talk to a colleague,’’ he said eventually. ‘‘Please hold the line.’’ I braced for the return of Hawaiian guitar, but it didn’t come. The young person had forgotten to put me on hold and I heard everything he said to his colleague.

Well now, it is always interesting to learn how others see you. Evelyn Waugh once collected his hat from a cloakroom and found a note inside it, written by the attendant to identify the hat’s owner. It consisted of one word: ‘‘florid’’.

The internet service provider youth had more than one word to say about me. I listened for maybe 20 seconds. I wish I’d taken notes, but at the word fossil, I couldn’t resist chiming in. ‘‘Hello,’’ I said.

The youth’s instantaneous silence felt like a minor victory in the war of generations, as did the speed with which he disconnected me. But I realise of course that this war is never won.

It is as old as the species and it will play out as it always has: one army will gradually and quietly leave the battlefield; while the other will just as gradually and just as quietly change sides.