I was irritated by the recent flurry of headlines announcing that the Government wants to outlaw “bad” careers advice that results in girls drifting into stereotypically girly professions such as hairdressing and boys into traditionally macho spheres such as engineering.

How predictable. Attacking careers advisers has, like flooding, become something we Brits do at least twice a year: the Lords Select Committee on Economic Affairs and Girlguiding UK had a pop at them in 2007; the CBI and Tony Blair had a go in 2006; and the Equal Opportunities Commission was among the bodies that slagged them off in 2005.

Also, how utterly misguided. Such pronouncements demonstrate how little politicians understand about how normal people make career decisions. Which is not surprising, I suppose, given that politicians are not normal. Anyone who could recite, verbatim, the speeches of Michael Foot by the age of 10 is going to struggle with the notion that other people might not be so sure about what they want to do.

Indeed, one of the reasons why careers advisers shouldn't be blamed for poor career decisions is that, in general, most people don't actually make career decisions. The majority of us drift unthinkingly into jobs before eventually realising, usually at the age of 40, that we have little aptitude for what we do, don't enjoy it and want to die.

If you think I exaggerate the randomness of it all, I suggest reading a recent paper published in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology entitled “Why Susie Sells Seashells by the Seashore: Implicit Egotism and Major Life Decisions”, which concludes that people are “disproportionately likely to choose careers whose labels resemble their names”.

Apparently, such “nominative determinism” is the reason why people named Dennis or Denise are over-represented among dentists, why I once had a science teacher called Dr Rocket and why Scott Speed became a Formula One driver. And yes, when I first read about the paper in New Scientist magazine, I thought it was a joke, too, and expected to discover that the author was one Richard Head. But the bland monickers attached to the research — Brett Pelham, Matthew Mirenberg and John Jones — suggest that it is deadly serious.

The second thing politicians need to understand about career choices is that the few of us who do have the wherewithal to make them don't do so on the basis of what careers advisers say. And the reason we don't is perhaps best illustrated by a passage from Bill Bryson's memoir, The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid, in which he describes an encounter with a careers counsellor who hated him, he says, with a loathing that was “slightly beyond bottomless”.

“Well, frankly, William,' she said with a look of undisguised disdain one day after we had worked our way through a long list of possible careers, including vacuum cleaner repair and selling things door to door, and established to her absolute satisfaction that I lacked the moral fibre, academic credentials, intellectual rigour and basic grooming skills for any of them, it doesn't appear that you are qualified to do much of anything.'

“I guess I'll have to be a high school careers counsellor then!' I quipped.”

I wouldn't want to suggest they are losers, but it is true that no one has ever uttered the words: “When I grow up I want to be careers adviser.” The kind of person who becomes one is by nature directionless and taking job advice from one is as ridiculous as taking hairstyle tips from Donald Trump, or investment tips from Jérôme Kerviel.

Kids understand this. A recent report by the Inspiring Futures Foundation found that only 1per cent of state school students between 14 and 18 were influenced by the advice of a careers adviser. In fact, according to the survey, fictional characters are three times more influential. So, if the Government really wants to tackle the problem of bad career choices, it should be having a word with the likes of Bob the Builder and Postman Pat.

Which brings me to the third and final reason why politicians should leave careers advisers alone: of the very few youngsters who actually make career decisions, and of the tiny proportion of those who listen to what careers advisers say, most do not necessarily follow the advice. I've spent a morning trying to find illustrations and come up with an eclectic mix of examples.

Apparently, when Jo Malone left school at 15, her careers teacher remarked: “You'll never make anything of your life.” She is now responsible for a successful beauty brand.

When Gemma O'Neill was 11 she was a member of Gary Numan's fan club and told her bemused careers teacher that she was going to marry him. She did so in 1997 and now has three children with him.

When Darren Matthews told his careers adviser he wanted to be a wrestler, he was booted out of the office. He subsequently adopted the stage name William Regal and became a four-time WCW World Television Champion, a four-time WWE European Champion, a five-time WWE Hardcore Champion, a one-time Intercontinental Champion and a four-time World Tag Team Champion.

Of course, for every person who proves a careers adviser wrong, there are probably ten thousand that fail to. I was rightly laughed out of an office for telling one at the age of 14 that I wanted to be director-general of the BBC, and my brother, who now works in finance, had a similar experience when he declared that he wanted to be a member of Miami Vice. Nevertheless, sometimes there's nothing more motivating than being told you can't do something and most children are so away with the fairies that even “bad” careers advice is valuable if it means they start thinking about their future in vaguely realistic terms.

sathnam@thetimes.co.uk

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