I bought my mother an electronic photo frame for Christmas. She unearthed an avalanche of old photographs. The photo above depicts my brother and I, aged nine and three, in the garden of our grandparents’ council house. The neighbourhood consisted of ‘streets of ugly 1930s red-brick semis‘. And no, it’s not in Dewsbury. They were however similar to the house that my parents spent most of their working lives struggling to buy. Oh, Mrs Thatcher, you never told us that in your utopia, in your ‘home owning democracy’, you would still be despised if you didn’t own the ‘right’ kind of house. Respectable working class people. Respectable but most certainly never respected. Thou shalt not suffer little chav brats to live.
Just an afterthought: the Catholic working classes deter their brats from promiscuity by telling them that God is watching and, if he sees them behaving inappropriately, they’ll roast in the fires of hell for eternity. Of course, in the long term, this tactic results in some seriously fucked up people but, in the short term, it is highly effective.
Say it loud and say it proud: ich bin ein untermensch.
Finally, oops there goes the neighbourhood.
P.S. The times they are a changing: illustrated here and here.