Only the privileged few can go on strike

What about the rights of suffering commuters who don’t see their kids?

Ts the traditional Christmas carol we all know and love goes: Tis the season to go on strike, fa la la la, la la la la. Deck the halls with pictures of Mick Whelan, fa la la la, la la la la. Don we now our signs and placards, fa la la la, la la la la. Troll the ancient yuletide commuter, fa la la la, la la la la. See the blazing brazier before us, fa la la la, la la la la. Strike the harp and join the picket line, fa la la la, la la la la. And so on and so on. I don’t know about you, but there’s nothing like a spot of industrial action to get me in the festive mood. Nothing quite says

Joyeux Noel like a two-hour round trip taking 14 hours on a variety of planes, trains and automobiles, or the prospect of being struck off everyone’s Christmas card list because your post office has failed to deliver your festive missives. What’s that warm fuzzy feeling you get when your other half has to spend a small fortune on staying in a hotel in central London for several nights at the height of the Yuletide season because there are no trains back to the family home? Is it wondrous joy, or is it... festive rage?

It’s difficult to have much sympathy for striking rail workers at Christmas, especially when you’ve spent a year being messed around by a rail company that seems intent on transporting paying passengers to the brink of madness, as opposed to, say, their office. I use Southern rail to get to work – though thankfully only a few stops that I can override on foot, bus or bicycle – and not once have I boarded a train that has left on time or had space available anywhere other than in a stranger’s armpit. Last-minute cancellations are routine, as are platform changes for the only trains that actually manage to leave in vaguely good time. If you thought using public transport has all the cheeriness of attending a wake, then travelling on Southern is about as fun as having to sit through a murder trial. Even the Dalai Lama would have trouble keeping his cool on the 17.47 to Three Bridges. We have all heard of people turned down for jobs because they live on a line into Victoria, of parents having to resign from gainful employment because the tortuous commute was stopping them from ever seeing their children. Whither the rights of these workers?

And yet the thing that worries me more about this latest wave of strikes – from the Royal Mail to British Airways to the threat from Argos drivers and airport checkin staff – is that to so many of us they seem like a luxury. Industrial action, once a tool to bring revolutionary change for the working classes, is now seen as the preserve of the privileged. If you have the option to go on strike in the 21st century and hold huge swathes of the population to ransom, you’re in a lucky position. You have a level of job security an Uber driver would kill for, not to mention a Deliveroo ‘‘rider’’. Some people can go on strike – others get three strikes and they’re out, as was revealed this week in an undercover investigation for Channel 4

Dispatches, which found that JD Sports sacked workers for daring to sit down. The programme found that employees in a warehouse in Rochdale experienced ‘‘prison conditions’’.

Then there was the report from the Scottish newspaper The

Courier that revealed Amazon workers were camping in freezing woodland outside the retail giant’s base in Dunfermline, because they couldn’t afford to commute from homes in Perth. Local activists claimed that agency staff are working up to 60 hours a week for little more than the minimum wage, and are badly treated.

The chefs who work for Michel Roux Jr (below) earning less than the minimum wage do not have the joy of being able to go on strike – nor do the serving staff at his restaurant who, as he admitted this week, do not receive the service charge added to customers’ bills. Cleaners cannot go on strike. They would just get the sack. Good luck to anyone at Sports Direct standing up to the likes of Mike Ashley. Zero hours contracts are no longer unusual. According to the Institute for Fiscal Studies, two thirds of children growing up in poverty live in a household where at least one parent works. A job does not mean an escape from hardship. In Welfare Britain, the opposite is often true.

So this December, it is not the rail workers I feel sorry for, nor Royal Mail employees. It is the voiceless men and women serving our on-demand culture who toil away on little more than hope and a promise (and are probably trying to get into work). They are the ones I want to wish a merry Christmas to – but, most of all, a more prosperous new year.