Tippy-toeing along the slender viaduct of the class war, I’m mindful that I could be consigning myself here to the abattoir that is assumed social superiority; somewhere I don’t want to be. However, it’s difficult to live and work in any city on Her Majesty’s soil without becoming markedly aware of the fact that a small percentage of the under classes aren’t doing themselves any favours with regards to falling foul of common opinion.
I’m talking of course, about Chavs. A term I’m reluctant to use, because it’s all too easy to become part of the blame culture. This historically dangerous transference of frustration isn’t healthy for a society; it breeds hate, typecasting and segregation.
It’s a cop out.
But allow me to play devil’s advocate, and shed for a moment the constraints of objectivity and empathy normally associated with freelance writings.
I’m sure that like me, you’ve felt uneasy walking through town on a Saturday night, whether you’re a female to be leered at or a bloke to be jeered at. It’s not quite a serene utopia for someone like me - more at home with the musings of Steven Fry than with these gobby creatures from the imaginarium of Steven King. Jager Bomb sinking Neanderthals, all of them blowing steam out of every orifice, spilling their weeks wages for a skin-full are hardly what Henry Ford imagined his consumerist legacy would come to.
But it’s not just the binge drinkers and bar hoppers that are adding crack to the pipe.
They’re forcing their fucking niche’ music on us through the crackling treble driven speakers of their shit Sony Ericsson phones with all the cultural awareness of a solvent abusing Scientologist. Bragging loudly on public transport about their (completely fictional) promising kick-boxing career that was cut short by their personal discovery of skunk, much to the wonderment of the tracksuit clad amoeba sat beside him, nodding as if he’s witnessing the teachings of Friedrich Nietzsche.
Perhaps I’m out of touch with the harsh realities of urban existence – confined to the safe houses of coffee shops, defiantly sipping decaf skinny mochas and talking about how much of a tool Danny Dyer is. I don’t face the trials and tribulations that build the character of the folk under the microscope here, and naturally we fear what we don’t understand. Why then, don’t they fear me? Presumably they’re equally as baffled by my ways as I am theirs; my thirst for melody and detectable substance in music, why my clothes don’t have three stripes down them and why my post code doesn't decide for me whose skull I feel entitled to shatter with a 75cl can of Nurishment. Their lack of understanding about my lifestyle doesn’t stop them shelling hostile glares that seem to warn ‘Look back at me I dare you’, so why are they exempt from the decree?
But the pen is mightier than the sword my friends – although a common sentiment among the skinny writer who can’t fight, you should side with me and consider this at least a small retaliation:
Buy some earphones, pipe the fuck down and read a book you inbred shitcunt.
You never know, you might learn something.
