Sometimes it's hard to know where I fit into the class system. By some measures I'm working class: I go out to work every day to pay my own bills. I swear freely and expressively, and I like pubs and beer. I might equally be upper class: My surname is ancient, regal, and all over Shakespeare. I use the verb "take" rather than "subscribe" when talking about newspapers, and I wear handmade leather boots.
The truth however is much less interesting. I was at the Cherry Tree this weekend [note1], and the singer in the band told a story about a rowdy member of the audience pushing his mic. It hit him in the face and he cut the inside of his mouth against his teeth. When I was little something similar happened to me. I used to take clarinet lessons and when I was practicing somebody pushed the end [note 2] of the clarinet so that the mouthpiece hit me in the teeth. There can surely be no more middle class an injury than nearly having your front teeth knocked out with your own clarinet.
[note1: This time nobody recognised me, threatened me, or called me a cunt.]
[note2: Yes that would be the bell end. Stop sniggering at the back.]
Richard "I know my place" B
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