I've got the pip. No, really.

It's no good, I've got to get it off my chest. I am reassured by the repetition of what is familiar, I am disconcerted by change, especially by change that is not necessary.
For example, I loved the old red public phoneboxes. Solid, dependable, a good place to get out of the rain or enjoy a quick knee-trembler, so why did British Telecom replace them with flimsy draughty see-thru cloches with a logo reminiscent of a ganymede trying to avoid the attentions of a randy satyr?
I loved the insignia of British Railways, but look at it now. Mind you, it's made no difference to the service, just as random as ever, but that's not the point.
I loved the insignia of British Airways, an honest Union Jack, not that psychodelic fruit macedoine they now have plastered on their tails. Mind you, it's made no difference to the service, just as random as ever, but that's not the point.
Oh, did I say that already? I won't go on, I am sure you can supply examples of your own, what they call re-branding, and what I would call acts of desperation to cover up the fact that they can't solve the REAL problems.
But, decades after the event, I am still irritated by the elongation of the last pip of the Greenwich time signal. Since the time of Alfred the Great, or thereabouts, it had been six equal pips: PIP-PIP-PIP-PIP-PIP-PIP, followed by Stuart Hibbert's baritone, reassuring the country that the end of rationing was in sight. Or whatever.
And then, some tight-arsed nebbish in Whitehall decided to elongate the sixth pip, so ever since, it goes: PIP-PIP-PIP-PIP-PIP-PEEEEP. I bet the bastard got an OBE for that stroke of pointless innovation.
I know what you're thinking: does it matter? The answer is: only if you are trying desperately to keep a grip on reality, which is Mein particular Kampf these days.