Thus spoke Jamie Oliver

It’s okay. Everyone relax. We’re not just a mob of hoodie-wearing, knife-weilding, drug-snorting delinquents after all. No, no. Far from being menacing and violent misanthropes, we are in fact merely apathetic drips, indulged by our doting mummies.

Jamie Oliver has spoken. And when Jamie speaks, Jamie speaks sense. Yes, in an interview with the Observer earlier this month, Oliver said: “I’ve never experienced such a wet generation. I’m embarrassed to look at British kids. You get their mummies phoning up and saying: ‘He’s too tired, you’re working him too hard’ – even the butch ones.”

To a certain extent I agree with Oliver. His description of foreigners who come to work in Britain is definitely a valid one. There’s a certain robustness and dogged rigour to mainland Europeans. Theirs is a steadfast resolve which they apply to all aspects of life. It’s why Europeans seem to be able to speak four languages by the time we’ve got to grips with our mother tongue. It’s why French people as diverse as Arsenal’s manager Arsène Wenger and France’s current Minister of Economic Affairs, Finances and Industry Christine Lagarde, say, speak English more eloquently than someone like, well, Jamie Oliver.

As a languages student, I lament the fact that I’m still bumbling around in the French language even at degree level. Why didn’t I learn to speak it when I was six, when my Swedish and Dutch contemporaries were reciting Chaucer by heart? Instead I’ll be 23 by the time I acquire a proficiency in French equal to the proficiency my European counterparts had in English at the age of twelve.

That said, the extent of Oliver’s generalising is derisory. Only a few months ago, thousands of articulate, engaged students took to the streets to protest against the rise in tuition fees. These students exhibited a passion and drive far removed from the ‘generational wetness’ of today’s youth by which Oliver claims to be so embarrassed. Sure, these protesters were among the academic elite of the supposed “wet generation”, but nevertheless, they are an example to challenge outright Oliver’s sweeping generalisation.

With the classiness we’ve come to expect from our multimillionaire chef, Jamie ruminates: “You need to be able to knock out seven 18-hour days in a row – you need to know what real fucking work is… I had that experience. By 13, I’d done 15-hour days in my dad’s pub.”

Sure, Jamie. But the difference between your situation with that of young people today is that you were working “15-hour days” in your dad’s pub, doing a job you absolutely adored. Today you can count yourself lucky if you manage to secure a work experience placement in your local Spar. Unpaid. Obviously.