The British Working Class

Late from last Friday, but now still on track for one a week as I said here.

This week, a poem from the Master. See him perform it here.

‘For many people, life among the working classes is as alien as R2D2, E.T or CP30.

‘Crisps for dinner and a pint of best, our soccer club’s better than the rest.

‘City, United, Albion, Rovers. Cobbled streets that advertise Hovis. 

Knucklebusters, ASBOs, carpark fights. 

Poundland, ASDA, bingo nights.

Match stalk men and match stalk cats

Matchstick dogs and council flats.

‘Community centres and spray-painted swearing, harassed poilcemen and teachers past caring.

Unions, strikes, “everybody out”

“I don’t want to”;

“you’ve got to”

“I won’t earn nowt”.

‘Cotton mills and cooling towers, old tin baths no power showers.

‘ A certain pride, a certain swagger, A fist, a stick, a gun. A dagger.

‘Gyros, glue sniffing, dogs on ropes.

But I see people with dreams, with hopes.’

Credit: Alan Partridge. ❤️