No. 16 The Working Classes and their Like

We here at Not What it Used to Be are fortunate enough to be graced by the presence of the incorrigible Lord Thackery Fotheringay-Fanshawe, who has so generously agreed to give up a portion of his valuable time to speak at us all on a subject he nurtures close to his own good heart.

By Jove! Whatever happened to the working classes?

There was a time when a chap of certain breeding could lay back in his favourite chaise lounge, take in the summer air, and dwell on a fine summer’s afternoon in the safe knowledge that his income was being maintained by the lower orders doing what it was they were born to do.

A Lord, like one’s self, was kept in the manner with which he was accustomed by the legions of drones that were ready and willing to forfeit their free time in the pursuit of contributing to the upkeep of what is the divine right of all members of the higher orders, one’s self in particular.

But by the gads! They suddenly stopped working.

The oiks that frequented the factories, mills, and offices that I - and likeminded fellows - had so generously provided for them as an alternative to gaol or the workhouse, saw fit to desist in punching their cards and instead chose to sit at home watching their colour televisions and pilfering Her Majesty’s own pockets by claiming something that I believe to be termed ‘the dole’.

The dole, by thunder! A word that by definition means ‘free handout’.  In the name of Simon MacCorkindale, what was Her Majesty thinking the day she implemented such a scheme? Rewarding those not born into wealth? Whatever next?

It seems that a chap born into poverty no longer has to pick their worthless self up by the bootstraps to provide the proverbial bacon – and in doing so keep fine, upstanding fellows such as one’s good self in champagne and high-class rentboys –for this thing they call the ’state’ now does it for him!!!

What fresh hell is this? Are we living in Soviet Russia? Does the commoner and peasant have counsel with the upper echelons of power? What’s next? Granting the lower orders the vote?

Damnation and thunder! It’s madness, I tell you. I will see the return of hanging before such a day arises.

Upstanding chaps such as one’s self have already had to close many of the places of work we laid on for the ingrates; to see them also given a say in who governs their pitiful souls would be the final nail in an already deeply interned coffin.

Which brings one conveniently to the reason for this anarchy. What I lay firmly at the door of the repealing of the death sentence from this good nation’s statute books.

Stuff and nonsense! Whoever thought it was a jolly good idea to cease hanging the working classes of this country put on a very poor show indeed. Which foul despot had the good Queen’s ear on the day that one was suggested?

There was a time, in this once fine autocracy, when a chap could whip, beat, or vociferously harangue a servant, or a passing member of the lower classes in the safe knowledge that not a single eyebrow would be raised by those we’d so generously placed in the positions of power. Namely Her Majesty’s police force, the court system, and the governing bodies.

Now before I elaborate, allow me to make it clear that I do not discriminate on the grounds of race, sex, or ability when it comes to this. Henley Regatta! I would happily beat a black, a brown, a yellow, and particularly a red, with the same amount of intensity I’d put into beating a white. I would whip one of those women things with the same gusto I would a young man at the peak of his athletic and sexual prowess…

I was the first to shed a tear of joy the day we hung the simpleton, Derek Bentley, for it proved we were truly a nation committed to upholding an ethic of universal equality when it came to the calibre of oik we chose to put to the rope. An ethic that should be applauded heartily by all right-thinking gentlemen, one might add.

But then, for some unfathomable reason unknown to not only one’s good self but the rest of the venerable chaps down at the Direjeans club, they decided that taking the life of another human being via hanging was no longer cricket.

And that was when the rot set in.

Suddenly the working classes felt it was their divine right to cease production and go on strike, for they no longer had the shadow of a noose both metaphorically and realistically hanging over them.

Take a sly gander back at the 70s and you will see a wasteland of proles plotting to overthrow their masters under the collective banner of something they referred to as their ‘rights’.

No more was a chap able to use the likes of Wat Tyler or the Tolpuddle Marchers [sic] as an example as to what happens to those who get ideas above their station. All we had left was Her Majesty’s constabulary, ever ready to protect our substantial investment in them.

And by buggery, we used them to their fullest extent. We smashed any thoughts of uprising these nanty-banks and ne’er-do-wells might’ve once harboured with an iron lady and leather-gloved fist! Fine times.

But, in retrospect, I fear we might have used them a little too often and in effect broken the working classes.

As I stated at the forefront of this column hoo-hah, the working classes have stopped working.

It is a desperate day when a chap has to open up one of his stately homes to the very same plebs he once beat with sticks and dashed the hopes and dreams of on a daily basis with the click of a finger, just so that he can make ends meet. A desperate day indeed.

So you may ask one’s self, how one proposes to counter this unfortunate tide of accumulative laxidasical apathy and downright bone-idleness displayed by the factions that have seen fit to grant their selves a choice in how their lives will be mapped out.

Well it’s simple. We must reinstate hanging; preferably public to truly hammer the nail home. Revoke state handouts; get the idle buggers back making us chaps a decent living. And ensure that all the lower orders are instilled with an allegiance to their betters and masters, particularly Her Majesty and her sterling family whose work ethic is a shining example of daily sacrifice despite themselves, that we should all adhere to. A credit to us all.

And so to end this column/weblog doo-dah in the manner of the prize idiot and individual with ideas far beyond his station that administers it… Consider one’s self warned. By Jove!

The views expressed by the author of this article are solely theirs and theirs alone, and should not be seen as an indictment on Not What it Used to Be or in any way reflective of the views of that solid fellow, Jeffman.

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