** I had a brilliant beginning to the blog, comparing Dave and I to Romeo and Juliet, saying we are the Scottish version, although I would be less keen to die for him, if he pops it I get the house paid for. However, when Dave read it, he pointed out that I had Romeo and Juliet mixed up with Titanic! Easy mistake to make I guess….**
Gutted. I was going to look all literature knowledgeable n that. Sakes.
Titanic it is then.
So, there’s this guy, his name is Dav(e)id. He’s been my partner in crime for over 11 years now, we get along swimmingly for the majority of the time, except from when I’m moody (Mon-Sun) and when hers hangry. However, there is one thing about David that makes me roll my eyes and sigh in complete dismay – he likes to think of himself as something of a working class hero.
Here’s the funny Romeo reference that I had to delete and switch for Titanic. Titanic’s still a literary masterpiece right?
The quickest way to sum us up is by thinking of The Titanic – the film obviously. I’m not suggesting we are on a sinking vessel called life and will sink before our time. Sheeesht, no. That kind of deep thought is for another blog. Anyways, I digress… I’m Jack and David is Rose. He’s fancy, I’m not. Geographically our families are no more than 20 minutes drive away, but they are very different families indeed – okay, that might not be strictly true there are huge similarities but for the sake of arguing lets focus on how much lobster steaks are in the freezers of each family – is lobster steak a thing? I think we can all guess what side of the class divide I’m on.
I’m a working class gal through and through, born and raised in an area of Glasgow that may have had some bad press and it may be place you tell someone and they reply ‘ohhh, you’ll know your way around a knife then?’ – this has been said to me, in jest. Little did he know I am proficient in stabbin a punk! Dave comes from one of the most desirable post codes in Scotland (insert relevant google reference here). A village that’s home to a fair share of celebrities and footballers, a nice, quite, elder run community for those with enough spare cash to fund the fuel needed to commute to and fro the city on a daily basis – that’s me out then.
There’s this thing about David, he really wants to be part of the awesome working class gang. He tell’s me on a daily basis that he is a working class hero…he’s not. Despite his best efforts he, just really is not working class. Bless.
It does ruffle my feather’s though. I have no problem with where you are from, what you do, who you love, but if you’re gonna try be a pauper like the best of us then you better get it right! Don’t be embarrassing me! You need to commit to the cause and you need to know your working class basics.
Poor Dave, middle class oozes out his pores, despite his best efforts to slum it. It’s the little things that slip him up, little things that are huge class alarm bells.
Dave’s accent is soooo not working class Glasweigan, that when he was in a ‘road altercation’ (arguing in the car park with a grumpy idiot of a man) the guy actually called Dave an ‘English prick’. Glaswegian accent and English accent are not alike, at all. So apparently Dave sounds more like the Queen than he does Rab C Nesbit. I’v never been mistaken for anything other than Scottish…just saying pal.
Dave calls the ceiling light the ‘main light’ – a HUGE no no, working class people all know it as the ‘big’ light. Coz it’s the big light. Main light? As opposed to the other lights? What other lights? You’re lucky the big light has a bulb never mind other lights.
In the area I grew up, every one had a ‘veranda’ which Dave calls a ‘balcony’. Technically speaking he’s right, but no one round my bit calls it a balcony! After 11 years he still calls it a balcony and after 11 years my family still slag (Scottish for tease) him rotten.
For a snack he eats prawns and marirose sauce – enough said here really.
Dave calls everything a sandwich. Working class people know a sandwich as a ‘piece’ as in a piece n ham, a piece n jam or a piece n bacon, if you are feeling flush.
On more than one (two or three) occasions David has completely lost track of what my family are saying. He doesn’t understand quintessential working class words such as havering (faffing about, talking shite). I think he understands us a bit better but there are still members of the family he just nods and smiles at.
My favourite time he exposed his classy roots is when having a bowl of soup at my parent’s house, he riffled through the cutlery drawer confused, eventually asking my mum where she kept the soup spoons. Erm that would be in the downstairs quarters. Beat it posh boy, pick up a bloody spoon. They all do the same thing.
He frequently refers to the bedside cabinet as a side table. I’m just going to pass on this one as I really don’t get it. A side table? What? I don’t think I have ever uttered those words other than pointing at one whilst touring a castle.
When David says curry he means Indian food, when I hear curry I think of luminescent yellow chicken curry from the Chinese take away. If we are in a group deciding what to eat and someone says curry he will need to clarify what type of curry they mean. The rest of the group already know it’s a Chinese curry.
The dressing gown, house coat debate is strong in our house. I know a few people on the dressing gown camp, but if you want to be working class it’s a house coat. Jessica calls it a house coat, which annoys Dave – calling it a house coat only annoys the middle class among us.
Dave doesn’t like trifle, rice pudding, semolina, angel delight, All working class delicacies, staples of our diets.
David ‘doesn’t do’ anything less than a 4 star (by British Standards by the way) accommodation. True working class people holiday in a tent, caravan or a cheap apartment abroad.
Everything Dave likes is ALWAYS the most expensive (myself excluded) in the shop. I wont tell you how many shirts (3-4) he has that individually cost more than my entire outfit. His justification is ‘they are nice shirts and all the others look crap’. That’s not the philosophy I adopt, I more a ‘it fits, it’s cheap, I’m buying it, job done’.
He looks on in amazement and wonder when walking through an indoor market, absolutely thrilled at all the delights. To us working class fellows its just simply a place one can buy a new outfit, get a haircut and buy a new hoover belt all under one roof.
Bless his pure 100% cotton Hugo Boss socks, one cannot simply choose to be working class. It’s a life long trait you are born with, Irn Bru really is in our working class blood. I admire his tenacity and dedication to the cause, but I’m not sure he will ever be able to successfully pass as a working class hero. Honestly, it’s a wee shame. He does try but his fanciness is too ingrown. Yea cani be proclaiming your a working class hero and then be waltzing about in an Italian fabric (or whatever the fancy pants it is) shirt, Ted Baker slippers, booking up 5 star holidays! Naw mate! That’s just no how it goes!
Gies peace! Even if he did cut all that out, he still wouldn’t make the grade. His sweet smelling Clarins moisturiser will always give him away.