Thursday, 20 May 2010

HOW DO YOU DO... the posh

And when they told us we need not fear the zealots nor the terrorists, the army of nilistic asimos or our own genetically modified chickows. The pandemic of Type 3 lethergy or extra terrestrial rapings. But what we shall fear is... the Posh.

Oh Lordy Lordy

If you ever hear any Foreigners say, "You know I thought y’all lived in castles?"

Butt in and tell them. "Hark, the Pepsi book of World History is wrong again. No, we common folk never lived in castles unless as servants to those people who still live in castles and manors, on estates with moats and butlers. Because, money doesn't move if it's recycled. How are the Weinsteins? "

Time has moved on since Little Lord Fauntleroy, yes, he wouldn't be driven in horse and cart, now he'd have a Jag, no top hat, definitely a glided Blackberry and hair plugs, and Little Lord Fauntleroy would be attempting to rebrand himself as height challenged Lorry Roy, it's plays better don’t you know.

Class divide, what a load of piff.

Until recently I never really encountered posh people; except for my Uncle Ken who moved down South a Yorkshire lad, and came back a few years later talking like a Buckinghamshire Basset. One of my teachers spoke Received Pronunciation but she drove a mini metro, even though it was blue, I'm no fool.

Living in London you realise quite soon on, like in about four minutes, that there's a definite gap between proletariat and bourgeoisie, the posh and the commoners. When walking through certain SW1 postcodes you start to feel a similar feeling of unease when cutting through a dodge estate in Bow, eyes on you, looking to see if you have anything valuable, fearful that one will come up and ask if you’re lost. Though I would prefer a look of pity to a look of pity and knife holes.

I think us ‘peasants,’ (well you know that's what they’d call us behind the triple locked gates), are a threat. They think we want to steal their wealth. I think the posh are scared of the increasing uncertainty in being superior and elite. Soon, more and more people will be rich, better educated and looking for somewhere to spend their afternoons. Will Snoots & Co be able to convert them in to card carrying toffs too? Cause it worked so well with Posh and Becks.


Coke and champagne? Coke? Dyou want some coke? I’ve got champers if you like? coke and champs? co and ch? Is that really the pinnacle of living; sitting in old rooms with pandered portraits of your great grandparents glaring down while you snort coke to exert feeling superior and drink champagne cos it’s definitely expensive, long into the draconian night.

Oh and the days, oh the days, well we can take tea, walk around our acres, stop some peasants getting something for free and maybe, more tea?

That's all they do, that's all they have till they get their own embittered portraits commissioned by themselves. I mean, what else is there to do?

(See: Pro-Active Ponce)


They all deny it but the posh have a certain physical look. Either an on-off manic depressive deer or a truffle snuffling boar, depending on sex. Their hair is wiggishly smooth with a flop or carefully pruned quiff while flesh is a mixture between reddened over scrubbed skin or translucent vein viewing opacity. If you notice, there’s a distinct deadening of the eye that appears over time due to ostensibly coercing with one’s own ilk for so long. A kind of inter-thinking occurs, where nothing new is thought and old thoughts are just geographically passed around the manors for centuries to the point that conversation is a pick and mix of randomised statements and questions, that make largely no sense to even the speaker’s ears. “Did you, the new breeds shuttle shite? I’d say, 10,002 bricks a season, that toffee’s Scottish Suffolk yes.”

When on the rare occasion two such thoughts collide in mid mingle, a small but deadly rat appears, bites the recipients, giving said fortunate toffs, the blue death and they die.


Top and cocks

Why do the posh dress so smart? And when they don't, why do they look so shit? Is it:

A. They simply buy the most expensive things and wear them all at once to show their soo so current. Not old antiquated hags at all.

B. Most of the super rich are partially sighted due to an extreme form of homosexualised gout.

C. They have little or no sense of style because they have relied on others (e.g. maids and mothers) to tell them what to wear, where to go and how to use it, all their lives.

D. they’re posh.


Be under no allusions, if you cross a poshy, having a big stick will help, but as soon as they realise it isn't Rosewood but Cricklewood you better hope they mount you favorably cos they've got ‘daddy’s hand.’ Although ‘daddy’s hand’ is as strong as ‘baby’s hand’ so unless they have the hired help at hand someone will be licking your boots clean tonight. Ring, ring!


I don't quite understand the lack of accent. To deliberately remove, blunt, mute a tongue of it's natural leaning to a surgical standard style that makes the BBC seem antiquated, the Queen outmoded and David Attenborough a kind of living verbal statue, make's no sense. It sounds nice enough, it's easy to understand, but it’s just soulless. There's such an echoing hollowness, which engulfs a room when a posh man makes a toast, it's deafening, you kind of try and listen more but even the words are fleeing their maker. You wonder, like the dirty hooligan on a council estate, what life they could have had, but realise, they never had a chance.

Aren’t they just so fuckin’ cool tho, now, all of a sudden.

Every so often some newspaper will print something along the lines of: “posh is the new cool.” Generally this co-insides with a Tory government coming to power. Sometimes it happens when a Royal turns up not doing or saying anything like a dick. Or even when newspapers get so bored of making stories up they just print an old story with a new picture that their posh friend told them to print so they all look a bit more hip and a bit less like pricks when they wear their shirt tails and pinstripes in a street full of beggars, desperation and unemployment.


What's with the horses? They had endless amounts of money, the world’s creatures at their doorstep and they chose horses and bloody clay pigeons, not even real pigeons as breeding partners. Oh yes and sometimes they use them to catch foxes, well they don't but they do, we all know that they do, they just can't say it.

"Oh it’s not a real fox, with any dogs, we don't even ride the horses we just sit on them in our jodhpurs and blazers while people run by us with branches then a man dressed as a fox, he runs up, and, falls down. We all go home, the end, definitely not killing foxes with these dogs who have just been eating pedigree chum fox meat and carrot, hence that explainable bloody tale in Ralphs mouth.”

Porsche Field

Am I supposed to believe they have no idea to the extent they are ridiculed by the larger public? Yes, they live in a ‘porsche field,’ it’s that excessive bumper that protects their Versace dress from cyclist brains when they plow on through us. It’s the red rope or carpet they surround themselves with like colourblind magpies. It’s the gap between posh politicians saying they “understand us” yet not understanding us. It’s the apartments commoners can’t afford to live in anymore because a rich developer scammed the deeds out of their homes or closed down their industry in order to convert it into; exclusive from inclusive, executive from blue collar, suites, or as they are commonly known, flats.

I mean do posh people do anything of use other than provide material in which common people can mock them with. They're one giant comedic faux pas. Everything they're based on was; stolen, coerced, illegally pillaged extorted or generally shafted from other people or nations over the many years Britain became Roman, Anglo, Saxon, Jutes (noone remembers the Jutes) Norman, Christian, Catholic and Christian. While they became land owners, explorers, slavers and reluctant freers.

It's a giant scam that royalty, the divine diviners assisted in it's creating. Royalty was created by the general assumption of a particular person and / or persons being superior to all others, creating a split that has opened into a vessel that people willingly cast themselves into and aspire to be. The people created it, the people don't know shit.

Pro-Active Ponce

It’d be bearable if they just stayed in the countryside or went out to sea looking all self congratulatory, but no. They fancy a bit of a meddle, like Great Granddaddy did to African gene pools. Like Great Uncle did when he built those work homes out of the shared truality of a 14 hour work day, for them. There’s leadership aching to escape from the guts of 2nd cousin Captain Cocksure’s heroic achievement against those mean spear-throwing tribesman against his powerfully confident command in his anti aircraft tank, last Wednesday. But what to be? Please not Prime Minister, please not Prime Minister, not, Please, not Prime Minister.

“I want to be Prime Minister”

“By joe we already have 12 boys who want to be Prime Minister George”

“I’ll take dosh then”

“Anyone for Doctors and Nurses, anyone?”

Of course, of course

They think they are superior in many, if all ways. Undermining our gracious honesty, our limited opportunities, our small achievements, by mostly wielding a verbal checkbook of sly backhanded compliments, obscure Polynesian quotes and clicky situationalism. An accent is a flaw, a hard life is a pity, an education is never as good as Eton, and a back hander is the best you'll get. Move along now, you thought you had your say, now it's our turn to do.

Damn you Dawkins, I need a God right now.


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