Do You Know Who I Am…

And Should You Give a Shit?

Not long ago I watched another one of those familiar exchanges unfold.

Someone questioned a decision. Someone else challenged an opinion. Within moments, the conversation had stopped being about the issue entirely.

Instead, it became…

“Who are you?”

“What qualifies you?”

“How many followers have you got?”

“Why should anyone listen to you?”

It made me smile.

Not because I had a clever answer waiting in the wings, but because I realised my honest response would probably disappoint everyone.

Do you know who I am?

Probably not.

Should you give a shit?

Probably not.

In the grand scheme of things, I’m nobody.

I’m not famous. I don’t have a blue tick. I haven’t appeared on breakfast television to explain the state of the world in three-minute soundbites between the weather and the latest celebrity scandal.

I haven’t built a personal brand around telling people how extraordinary I am.

I’m just another bloke who’s been around for a while.

But here’s the thing.

I’ve also been around for quite a while.

Over six decades, I’ve watched governments promise certainty before discovering reality had other ideas. I’ve seen technology transform society more times than I can count. I’ve watched industries disappear, jobs evolve beyond recognition, communities strengthen, communities fracture, and fashions return dressed as something entirely new.

I’ve served in uniform. I’ve built businesses. I’ve succeeded. I’ve failed. I’ve lived in more than one country. I’ve navigated bureaucracy that could test the patience of a saint and met people whose quiet decency restored my faith in humanity just when I thought it was slipping away.

None of that makes me an expert.

It certainly doesn’t make me right.

Experience is not a substitute for evidence, and age doesn’t magically confer wisdom. Anyone who claims otherwise probably hasn’t learned very much at all.

But experience does provide something increasingly undervalued.

Context.

That word seems to have gone out of fashion.

Today we’re encouraged to see every issue in isolation. Every headline is treated as unprecedented. Every disagreement becomes a crisis. Every problem is the worst we’ve ever faced.

Spend long enough on social media and you’d think civilisation restarts every Monday morning.

Yet those of us who’ve been paying attention for a few decades know differently.

We’ve seen economic booms and recessions.

We’ve seen moral panics come and go.

We’ve watched miracle technologies arrive, disappoint everyone, then quietly become indispensable.

We’ve seen people declare the end of newspapers, radio, books, television, websites and common sense…yet somehow the world keeps turning.

That doesn’t mean history repeats itself exactly.

It means human nature repeats itself remarkably often.

Perhaps that’s why I’m less interested these days in credentials than character.

Some of the wisest conversations I’ve ever had weren’t with professors, politicians or influencers.

They were with farmers.

Mechanics.

Soldiers.

Teachers.

Builders.

Retired neighbours leaning on a gate with a mug of tea.

People who had spent decades solving actual problems instead of arguing about hypothetical ones.

They rarely began a sentence with, “As an expert…”

More often it was simply…

“I’ve seen this before.”

Those five words carry more weight than many academic papers.

Not because they’re infallible.

Because they’re honest.

Somewhere along the line we’ve confused popularity with credibility.

A million followers doesn’t make an opinion true.

A verified account doesn’t make an argument logical.

Being unknown doesn’t make someone wrong.

Ideas don’t become more accurate because they’re delivered under studio lighting.

If what I write has any value at all, it shouldn’t be because of who I am.

It should stand or fall on its own merits.

Challenge my conclusions.

Question my assumptions.

Tell me where I’ve overlooked something.

Good.

That’s how conversations work.

What has never impressed me is dismissing an argument simply because the person making it lacks status.

History has an awkward habit of reminding us that important truths often begin in unfashionable places.

Most progress starts with somebody saying something uncomfortable while everyone else explains why they should keep quiet.

I’m long past the age where applause matters very much.

One of the unexpected freedoms that comes with getting older is discovering that approval is an exhausting thing to chase.

You spend years worrying about fitting in, being accepted, choosing the right words and avoiding offending people.

Then one day you realise something wonderfully liberating.

People will misunderstand you anyway.

Someone will assume the worst.

Someone else will invent motives you never had.

Another will decide your entire character based on a paragraph they’ve skimmed while waiting for the kettle to boil.

So you might as well write honestly.

That doesn’t mean becoming rude for the sake of it.

It doesn’t mean mistaking bluntness for wisdom.

It simply means saying what you genuinely believe, accepting you could be wrong, and remaining willing to change your mind when better evidence comes along.

I’ve changed mine plenty of times.

I’d worry far more if I hadn’t.

The older I become, the less interested I am in winning arguments.

I’m far more interested in asking better questions.

Perhaps that’s all any of us can really offer.

Not certainty.

Not perfection.

Just perspective.

So…

Do you know who I am?

No.

Should you give a shit?