In the victimhood Olympics, some ‘privilege’ doesn’t count

The discourse has become warped, as both a handful of trivial examples and the US election help to show

I was in Naples airport recently when I was forced to “check my privilege”. Now, I know there are some who believe this ought to be a regular occurrence, that we should beat ourselves up about the disproportionate comfort of our existence with the same regularity as flossing. However, not being borderline psychotic, I tend to try to avoid forging an existence based on the relative misery of others. 
Naples airport (and there you can see why the Italians believe so fervently in purgatory) provided the exception. It was hot, no doubt, and even I was uncomfortable as we sat on the hard, chairless floor for the second hour of our delay, but the man opposite me was more than uncomfortable; he was positively drenched. Brow sodden, shirt looking like he’d done four rounds on the Thorpe Park log-flume. He wasn’t overweight or in a warmer part of the room than I was: he was simply sweaty. My privilege meant I sat there mildly annoyed while this poor man, by nothing more than the bad luck of genes or nature, was soaked in gloop. 
Another underrated privilege is proper eyesight. It was only when I began dating my husband-to-be that I realised the nightmare of contact lenses. His existence revolves around tracking down saline solution in the middle of nowhere. I have seen espresso cups pressed into service as containers in the small hours of the morning. It is something that many of us simply never think about but, for those it affects, it can be all-consuming. 
However, while I may enjoy sweating and eyesight privilege, I can still claim victimhood elsewhere – and what else is privilege discourse but a massive game of trumps? My friend and I have a term, “moron tax”, for the additional payments accrued by being feckless. Things like being fined for failing to check into a flight in advance, forgetting to cancel subscriptions, or simply having to replace things you’ve lost or left. Many of us not over-endowed in the organisational department pay some version of a “moron tax” most months. 
It got me thinking about other types of overlooked privilege. Of course, the above are necessarily stupid and trivial. While there probably is some maniac in California who believes they are oppressed because they wear contacts, most people are sane enough not to view Specsavers as some great engine of neo-colonialism. However, in the midst of the silliness that “privilege” discourse brings, it is worth digging a little deeper. 
Many qualities identified by the grievance-mongers as “privilege” are simply things which we have known for centuries are better for people, and result in a healthier society. Perhaps the most salient example of this is the greatest privilege of all – that which so often dares not speak its name – of having both parents at home. 
The collapse of marriage rates, particularly within lower-income groups, has clearly entrenched poverty and disadvantage. Yet society has remarkably little to say about family breakdown; let alone address it in policy terms. Absentee fathers rarely figure in public discussions of criminality and gang violence. 
Coverage of such incidents often majors on youth clubs and local spending cuts rather than the great fatherlessness elephant in the room. This is not to disparage single mothers, who often hold things together in impossible circumstances, but deadbeat dads don’t carry half the social stigma they should. 
As always, America is further ahead of us in the distance-from-reality stakes. Expect the entries of both Kamala Harris and Trump’s VP pick JD Vance to further ignite privilege discourse – and its paradoxes. Harris, though explicitly chosen by Biden for her diversity credentials, grew up in comfort as the daughter of two academics. 
Then there is Vance, whose rags-to-riches story ought to embody the self-made American dream, yet might not score so highly in the DEI Olympics. 
Inevitably, what happens stateside will affect the UK eventually. The new Labour Government seems likely to move Britain even further in America’s direction. Let’s hope, in the middle of it, there is room for the sweaty and short-sighted.
Putting aside the purgatory of Naples airport, Italy remains my favourite country to visit. 
The reasons are endless; culture, cuisine, the charmingly indiscriminate nature of Italian flirting. Best of all is Italians’ joy towards the most minimal effort at speaking their language. 
A smattering of half-remembered AS-Level pidgin – acquired when Tony Blair was still in No 10 – and they react as if you’ve successfully translated Boccaccio from the original. “Brava!” exclaimed an elderly Italian lady as we exchanged a few pleasantries. An air steward congratulated me on correctly requesting a bottle of water. 
Not so in France – and especially Paris – where any attempt at speaking the local tongue is invariably rebuffed. Even 24-carat Francophiles experience this. 
My brother speaks fluent French, yet his efforts are often met with (sometimes quite slow and laboured) English; “ow ahr yeu, Sir” etc. Still, you have to admire French pride in their language and culture. To misquote Churchill’s words about Attlee, France may be an immodest country but it has much to be immodest about. 
As the world descends on Paris for the Olympics, I hope that this rudeness – so often directed at us Brits – might prove to be an equal opportunity offensiveness towards the whole globe.