Underdogs have all the power nowadays. Even the ones with blue hair

If I were to tell you that a little old lady had been run over by a powerful BMW, you’d know in your head exactly what had happened. The old dear had been struggling to cross the road with her tartan shopping trolley full of jam and Werther’s Originals when she’d been hit by a swaggering and possibly drunk Premier League footballer doing 150mph.

But hang on. What if I were to tell you that the old lady was that God-bothering Vennells woman who ran the Post Office, and that the powerful BMW was being driven by David Attenborough? That changes everything, doesn’t it? Because now, in your head, you’re on Sir Attenborough’s side. Silly old bat. Had it coming. Same story. Different viewpoint entirely.

In this country we have always had a love affair with the underdog. If Plymouth Argyle were to meet Arsenal in an FA Cup football match, everyone in the country — apart from Piers Morgan and Colin Firth — would be cheering for the Devonists. It’s the same story at Wimbledon, where the crowd invariably supports whoever happens to be losing. And be honest: there’s a small part of you that wants Italy to win a Six Nations grand slam.

I think it’s different in America. They like winners over there. But here we like the plucky Brit who came in second. That’s why we adored Nigel Mansell and Tim Henman and Andy Murray. Until they started filling their trophy cabinets. Then we weren’t so sure. And in sport this is fine. It’s endearing, even. But we’ve now started to apply the same logic to absolutely everything else.

If you are rich and powerful, you are wrong. And if you are a lollipop lady, you are right. Politicians are all wrong. International businessmen too. But hard-working families in the community are all right. This is how we now sort out neighbourly hedge disputes. The one with the crap car on the drive wins. The one with the Audi loses.

I’m not going to trouble anyone this morning with the whole transgender issue and how we must all now fall into line with whatever they want. That’s a job for Lee Anderson and GB News. Instead, I’ll move on to India, where the road network has always worked on the very simple premise that “might is right”. The pedestrian gives way to the bicycle, which gives way in turn to the tuk-tuk. Then you have the car, the bus, the lorry and, at the top of the food chain, the elephant. This makes sense, obviously. But over here in Britain we’ve now got it into our “small is beautiful” heads that the lorry, the bus, the car and the van must all give way to the bicycle. It is our elephant in the room, and we must all defer to its needs.

We are even applying this logic to wars. When Russia invaded Ukraine, the total number of people in Britain who went, “I wonder why,” was about nought. Ukraine was Plymouth Argyle, and Russia was Arsenal, so we cheered for Ukraine. And now, of course, we are seeing the same thing happening in Gaza. Israel has a lot of fighter jets, so it is Max Verstappen. And Gaza doesn’t have any maize, so it is Lando Norris.

I hear the same sort of thing is happening in the workplace. You have the boss. Well educated, well travelled and well read. He started the company and, through hard work and long hours, he made it successful. So in every meeting he knows what he wants to do and when and where. But current thinking dictates that first of all he must waste half an hour listening to some drooling teenage halfwit with blue hair and a bone in its nose, and then actively praise him/them for its insight.

There’s more too. I was speaking to the boss of a multinational company last week and he said that he gets a complaint from a junior member of staff pretty much every week. Usually these complaints are complete nonsense, but in a world where the little person is always right, the reputational damage caused by such an accusation getting out would be so great that it’s easier to write a cheque, type up a nice reference and send the complainant on their way.

Apparently, there’s a group of people who make a very nice living doing this. Get a job. After a month say: “My boss looked at me funny.” Trouser ten grand and move on.

In the olden days a woman couldn’t realistically complain about her boss’s wandering hands because she’d be ignored or demoted or told to stop wearing trousers. Obviously, that was stupid and wrong. But now the pendulum has swung so far the other way that she is always believed, and that’s stupid and wrong as well.

Many bosses in the UK are now advised to never be alone with a junior member of staff. If the post boy or a secretary gets in a lift, get out. Because if there were to be an accusation and an inquiry, the boss is Arsenal, so he’s wrong. And I’m sorry but if you were running a Chinese company and needed to set up an office in Europe somewhere, you’d take one look at this state of affairs and settle on Rome.

All of this brings me on to half a dozen angry young ladies who decided to stage a protest at my farm last week. God knows what they were complaining about. Their beavers, I think. Or was it badgers? Whatever, they used their extensive knowledge of the countryside and how it works to arrive at my … brewery. Where they stood in the rain for a little while, shouting and waving placards, before realising that the manufacture of lager doesn’t affect the beaver one way or the other, really. Or the badger.

Should this story ever become tabloid fodder, I know exactly how it will play out. This tiny group of young ladies will receive a huge tidal wave of public support because they are the underdog, and I will have my trousers taken down because I’m Farmer Palmer.