DailyMeander

Is it a bird? A butterfly? A bee? An excrutiating boil on the bottom? A pain in the neck, and a nasty-tasting medicine? Yup. It's an extension of me; warts and all. A third arm if you like. Always handy, if you know what I mean...

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Location: Letchworth, Hertfordshire, United Kingdom

Welcome to Daily Meander Dear Reader... This blog is intended to simply be an online diary. Like my real diary, it will contain political, funny, sexual, thoughtful, sweet and engaging entries. Some will be true, and some will be patently untrue. Imagination is part of life. I use mine. Use yours.

Friday, November 26, 2004

Class Wars

Where exactly does one sit in society? Do you care? Do you want to be pigeon-holed? Most people in the UK would, I suspect, prefer not to be placed into some kind of category, unless it was one which contained Lottery winners.

But we are. Others do. And money, or lack thereof, doesn't alter the process. It appears that only accent, breeding, and grammar seem to be influencing factors. Does it matter? Well, yes, it bloody well does. Actually.

My point is this: in my spare time, I used to deliver parcels for a bit of extra pocket money, in addition to a stable and respectable job in the city it seemed like a bit of fun.

I had to deliver some important papers required for an AGM at the local Golf Club one evening. I arrived early, and rang the bell at the Members Only door, which is where the manifest specified the delivery had to be made to. A rather red-faced gentleman opened the door and inquired unpleasantly what the bloody hell I was doing ringing the doorbell as a non-member. I started to explain that I was making a special delivery for their benefit, but was cut short with a bellow of disapproval from Brick-Face and told that Members were not errand-boys, and should not be treated as such by Tradesmen.

The Club Captain, upon hearing the commotion, asked what the problem was from across the room, where he was busily filling the decanter with Port. 'No problem' answered Brick-Face, 'I'll just get rid of this boy'.

Get Rid of me? Did he mean he was going to shoot me and then bury me under the fairway of the 18th?

I steamed gently, and didn't come off the boil for at least a day and a half.

Approximately a year now after this incident, I have begun to analyse the situation. Apparently, I was not a class of gentleman that warranted polite response. Or even a modicum of civility. Lower-class bounder. I felt humiliated, and angry enough to fight. Of course, this would have landed me in Nick for a night, so was not an option. It did have me wondering though, exactly what the Kett Rebellion meant to the peasants. And why Civil War erupts every now and then across the world.

"Punk is destructive. Society does not need it" was a piece of graffitti recently seen. Some literate wag had added underneath "Oh but it does. Society is made up of minorities".

Is the same true of the class system?

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