The Trade Union Congress is a fairly glaring waste of space, isn’t it? The worst recession in half a century, rising unemployment, savage cuts in public services on the horizon, and how does it spend its time? Why, by debating the ethics of an irrelevant war that happened 3,000 miles away and half a year ago, obviously. How else?

I’ve no idea exactly what aspects of Israeli produce the TUC was or is no longer planning to boycott, and I’m frankly losing interest, but there was something deeply depressing even about the position of those at the TUC conference who argued against a boycott. We should not be doing this, said some, “because it will hurt Palestinian labourers”. Erm, OK. But how about “. . . because we are trade unions”? What’s it got to do with them, anyway?

I’m not just being facetious. Genuinely. I’m totally baffled by this. Who gives a damn what the Fire Brigades Union thinks about Gaza? Why does the Fire Brigades Union think anything about Gaza? It’s a bloody fire brigades union.

Maybe I’m missing something glaringly obvious here, but I just don’t get the connection between what somebody else’s army might or might not have done in a war zone half a world away, and an organisation conceived to make sure that lads on a fire engine can get their helmets on and off without snagging their ears. It’s bizarre. It’s like your electrician telling the French what to feed their dogs. It makes no sense at all.

The National Union of Journalists briefly resolved to boycott Israel in 2007. That was when I resigned. It wasn’t so much that I disagreed with its stance on the Middle East. It was more the fact that it had one. I was paying it £15 a month to look after the interests of journalists, and it was spending it on indulging their adolescent fantasies about being a bit like Che Guevara. Honestly, what is wrong with these people? And they wonder why the Left is in crisis. Grow up.

A friend calls, late in the evening, from Edinburgh airport. He used to work as a banker, and now he doesn’t, and he’s just followed Sir Fred Goodwin out of the terminal building and across the dark, deserted car park. He hid behind a pillar, and watched him get into his car. It was only after he’d driven off he tells me, sounding annoyed, that he realised what he should have said.

Hindsight, eh?

“Fred!” he should have said. “Can I call you Fred? Welcome back. Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve got a wee question. It’s just that after working for the Royal Bank of Scotland for 14 years — pretty much my whole adult life — and amassing a host of apparently useful accreditations, I now don’t work for anybody at all.

“My wife isn’t working either. It’s tricky because we’ve got a baby. And a mortgage. And, well, while we did have some savings, unfortunately most of them were tied up in RBS shares. That’s a hoot, isn’t it?

“So anyway, bearing all that in mind, and bearing in mind that there’s just the two of us here, two men, in this fairly empty car park which probably doesn’t even have CCTV, and what with me being quite a lot bigger and younger and stronger than you are, well, I was just wondering. Did you have a good holiday?”

Crazy Swayze

Genuine sadness this week at the passing of Patrick Swayze. Bit of a hero of mine. But I’m afraid that the world will remember him as a bit of a pansy. In the collective memory, he’s either prancing about in Dirty Dancing, or spattered with the detritus of Demi Moore’s (initially quite promising) pot from Ghost. It’s not fair. This, remember, is the guy from Point Break. This is the guy from Road House.

Did you ever see Road House? No, probably not. Hardly anybody did. Swayze plays a bouncer drafted in to help to clear out a troubled booze house. Which is next to a road. It’s so bad that I think it might be my favourite film ever. It’s the fighting that makes it. It’s vicious and cartoonish, and the baddies always cheat and the goodies always win. In fact, I might watch it again tonight in tribute. That’s how Swayze ought to be remembered — rugged, noble, and kick-ass. Quite tight jeans, though.

Grit your teeth

Now I think of it, if the TUC did want to boycott all things Israeli, well, good luck to it. They make a lot of good stuff out there, particularly for hospitals. My heart goes out to those loyal trade unionists, lying face down on hospital tables, having turned down treatment with a new and apparently painless colonoscopy camera pill, recently developed in a small town near Haifa. Just eat plenty of prunes the night before, comrades, and make sure you have something to bite.

Times Recommends

• Resist urge to throw voters red meat
• Slay sacred cows and be candid
• We cannot let these 100 deaths deflect us