Hannah Betts:'How will those poor blighters of Generation Diva cope with recession?'

For Generation X, there is something almost reassuring about recession. For me, spawned in 1971, it's been a case of lack of business as usual, be it 1974-75, 1980-81 or 1991. Indeed, in the manner of professional Northerners, X-ers might boast that "It's All We Had".

Before they mutated into boomers, our parents were weaned in an atmosphere of post-war austerity of a sort to make them insist that we lick the pattern off our plates. Spam fritters were a staple of the school menu (X-ers should be grateful to have been spared snook). In the Seventies, we were so impoverished that someone recently inspecting the Betts family album asked whether we were clad in gypsy fancy-dress (we weren't).

At nine, I remember my father mentioning that we were now in recession and it would be impossible for me ever to find a decent job (how right that proved), prompting a reaction not of "Crikey" but "Great, pressure's off."

When I graduated in 1992, economic gloom once again prevailed. Naturally, I reacted to this by refusing to relinquish the bosom of my alma mater, choosing a swotting rather than an earning life, thus ensuring that I will forever remain one of the renting classes.

Nor do I remember anyone being too troubled by matters economic, or at least not the hot and cold running apocalyptic hysteria that currently has us in its grasp. Perhaps nothing much bothered us before the advent of 24-hour rolling everything. Instead, back in the day, the insouciant yoof could think: "Curious dearth of prospects. Righto, I'll go and invent punk/become a barista rather than a barrister/not wash my T-shirt for a couple of weeks and kick-start grunge."

It's Generation Y I feel sorry for. How are those poor blighters born in the halcyon period between 1982 and 2002 (poster girl, Peaches Geldof) expected to cope with this downturn malarkey – they who have existed in lavishly gadgeted consumer idylls, cosseted by hovering "helicopter" parents whose slogging they, like, totally benefited from but totally don't want to replicate?

Earlier this year, the Association of Graduate Recruiters labelled Generation Y "unrealistic, self-centred, fickle and greedy". Notoriously, these fatted little emperors work to live rather than live to work, but are happier if they can get by without the grind stuff; which is a pity, as those aged 28 and under constitute about a fifth of the workforce. We have all witnessed these divas in action during one of the interminable work-experience stints they slot in. After saluting their line manager with the phrase "Yo, bitch," they proceed to satirising their elders' attire, poking pals on Facebook and reacting to enquiries as to coffee with the riposte: "I'm good, thanks," before hightailing off the premises at 4.45pm.

Of course, every generation looks askance at the highfalutin swank of the one that succeeds it. And it is difficult for a diehard X-er not to contemplate the Y-ers' audio wares, A*s and easy access to hair productry without going a little green. Even September 11 didn't especially rain on their parade, beyond an incredulity that can be summarised as: "Wow, people hate us enough to want to kill us." (In my case, brought up in the wake of the Birmingham bombings, in the dog days of the Cold War, on a diet of Threads, When the Wind Blows and the rehearsing moan of the city's nuclear siren, people liking us enough not to want to kill us seems kind of weird.)

For the paradigmatic Generation Y experience, one need look no further than Big Brother. Like everyone else, I don't actually watch it. (I bet even Davina has to gen up with the telly equivalent of Cliffs notes.) However, I like to catch the post-eviction interviews to enjoy the series' foundational platitudes: namely, that the experience has proved a) "a roller-coaster ride" and b) "a journey".

'The Faerie Queene', 'The Pilgrim's Progress' – these are journeys. Bedraggled juveniles piling on the fat and rubbing themselves up against each other – that's just TV. But we will let that pass.

What is fascinating about the life-as-a-journey principle is that it implies movement, progress, a goal. The grown-up knows that the best trajectory one can aspire to is some sort of ineptly drawn spiral. Moreover, for long stretches one will be forced to endure not motion, but rut, quagmire and light at the end of the tunnel in the form of an oncoming train. Recession's going to be a journey all right, but not as Generation Diva knows it.