In the last two days I’ve been gradually eaten alive by a vicious bug with only the Tory Party Conference for company. This has been of painful detriment to my mental health, let alone my physical wellbeing, as Cameron and his band of thugs find new ways of demonising and stigmatising vulnerable people. I have a high temperature, am under the influence of prescription medication and have not eaten for several days. Within this terrible stupor I start to reflect on the nature of class in the UK today and the awful holiday I had in France several weeks ago.

 

How do we indentify class in the UK today? It’s a tricky one- but can be best understood by recognising it as a form of hierarchy, based less on genetic stock and family background, but more on wealth and consumer power.  In a crude sense, the more bread you make, the less shit you have to eat, as wealth places people in a situation when they can disengage from social obligations, avoid taxes, construct identity with commodity, and for some, just be a jolly bad egg indeed- which brings me to the holiday.  

 

My wife, myself and my two sons were invited to spend a week with my cousin and her wife, in a beautiful house near Toulouse in July. Their names are Jasmine and Mike, but for legal reasons, I’m going to refer to them as Irene and Tony.  Shortly after we arrived, and before offering us refreshment in a temperature that exceeded 90 f, Jasmine took us on a tour of her kingdom. And what a kingdom it was- acres of vineyards, lush pastures, leisure facilities, immaculately renovated out-houses and so on.  Possibly motivated by us being the meek recipients of a free holiday in paradise, she was very keen to repeatedly inform us of her wealth and the “million dollar” view surrounding the house.

Eventually, she became exhausted, and I was despatched to the guest fridge to collect some drinks for everyone. I gave her a bottle of expensive gin and chocolates I’d bought on the plane to express our gratitude, which were tossed into the staff pantry, as they did not reflect her exquisite taste.  Eye contact with her was impossible, and she consistently ignored any of our contributions to the ”conversation”, but as I was whacked out on an industrial strength dose of velum to curb my fear of flying, I probably would have tolerated a diatribe on the merits of Pol Pot.  

 

After describing the extent of her profound wealth, the house rules were discussed, which basically involved staying away from the paying guests and observing “swimming pool” etiquette, assisted by a series a flow charts and power point presentation— observe the house rules, respect me, defer to me, etc, etc.  There was a very real and foreboding sense of hierarchy at play.

 

This part of France we were in was bathed in a left wing and egalitarian tradition, which made the Jasmine/ Irene thing a cultural eyesore. After several days of listening to her self-aggrandising nonsense bordering on sociopathic behaviour, we fled to the modest confines of a local campsite, where we found accommodation in a lovely pine enclosure.  It became apparent that Irene had form, as when we mentioned her name, the site staff adorned Hitler moustaches and assumed fascist salutes- such is the universal language of slapstick.  The children were allowed to swim in the pool and speak at the same time, my wife and I were able to drink wine without an alarm going off, and news from home revealed that Peter Capaldi was to be the new Doctor. A wonderful evening indeed, but alas, we were forced to return to the House of Pain the next day- a term inspired by my favourite Irish/ American rappers of the 90s.

What does all this have to do with class, politics, consumer culture and other important stuff, I hear you say? Well, I don’t know yet, but as soon as my temperature breaks, I’ll join the dots and you’ll be treated to some savage polemic and righteous diatribes. Here is a preview:  I fear that Irene’s culture, values, rituals and beliefs are pervading through society- and that Thatcherite ideology is becoming re-entrenched and culturally normalised through conspicuous consumption, a process in which people create identity by defining themselves by what they consume.   You will also learn of something that will break your heart and make you very cross with Irene indeed.