IF there is one certain fact about life in the UK, particularly our involvement, it has to be the inevitability. Just about everything that happens is inevitable, so much so that we could manage without a number of professional people who earn a decent living, simply by telling us what is going to happen. We already know. It’s inevitable. I will give you some examples.

On Monday of this week I had an appointment at a conference centre adjacent to East Midlands Airport, which is near Castle Donnington, just off exit 24 of the M1. A friend obtained a route map for me from her computer. It indicated using the M62 and M1, with a distance scale of 120.3 miles and predicted journey time of one hour, 51 minutes.

Whoever compiles these travel charts needs to amend their information, because there is no way that anyone could cover the 120.3 miles between Bolton and East Midlands Airport in one hour, 51 minutes, unless they drove a Ferrari, chose to travel in the early hours, with little else on the road, and were prepared to exceed legal speed limits en route.

My appointment was for noon, so I gave myself four hours, double what I had been told by the computer. I knew it would rain. It did. In torrents. I knew there would be traffic jams and delays. There were. And I knew it would take me much longer than two hours. It did. I left Bolton at 8.15am and arrived at 11.35am. The inevitability had kicked in, big time.

There are other examples, which, if you are of a certain age, say in your seventies, will be greeted with an air of resignation, because they are inevitable. These will include almost continuous rain, or 12 months of bad weather, with the odd bright day to fool us into thinking global warming really is inevitable. Others are litter; graffiti; dog muck; late, cancelled or packed trains; fares price rises; soaring domestic bills; increased council taxes; successive chancellors hoisting the price of booze, fags and fuel; aggression and violence, which has become endemic in our society; military and civilian deaths in the continuing hell holes of Iraq and Afghanistan; drug related crime; cannabis farms in Bolton’s domestic properties; rubbish on the telly dominated by soaps, cooking, talent contests and appalling “reality” shows; Man U winning the Premiership and BWFC managing yet again to hang on to their membership of it, along with other cash-strapped clubs, who, year on year, struggle to survive in a league dominated by billionaire owners and football mercenaries from every corner of the globe.

It wasn’t always like this. I can remember when we had definite seasons, with bitterly cold winters, snow and ice, but hot summers when, as kids, we popped tar bubbles in the road. You could enjoy a night out in Bolton without wearing body armour or running the risk of having your features rearranged. The Wanderers meant something among soccer’s hierarchy and you could name their players’ origins and those of every other team in the old First Division without resorting to an Atlas.

Do I sound a tad jaundiced? Sorry. It’s inevitable.