By Leppy Pardalis
“I don’t know how I can live with myself,” said an anguished Martin Dripps-Knightly earlier today.
“After all these years insisting I was an egalitarian to the very core of my being I must come to terms with the fact that I am nothing but a snob.”
Mr Dripps-Knightley, 42, is a modern studies lecturer at a college of higher education, and is the son of a provincial solicitor and a doctor.
He is still in shock following a cataclysmic self-revelatory moment during a wander down his local high street.
“I just thought I’d pop out for a pair of the skinny jeans which I like to think make me down with the kids but in fact make them laugh at me behind my back.
“Then it happened. I was passing Primark and there was a queue of people outside because of the covid restrictions, and before I could stop myself I found myself thinking, ‘The lumpenproletariat is alive, well, and as depressingly eager to get its hands on cheap tat as ever.’
“I tried to stop myself but then the mental floodgates opened, and I was unable to prevent my consciousness from being invaded by a slew of vicious, mean-spirited meditations on subjects including man-made fibres, Greggs Stake Bakes, Majorca, Hollyoaks, Take A Break Magazine, Lambert and Butler cigarettes, pitbull terriers called Tyson and naming babies after alcopops.
“Most shameful of all, I remembered a time when I was off work sick a couple of years ago, happened to catch the Jeremy Kyle show and found myself suddenly convinced that I was watching the emergence of a new species, a bit like the Morlocks in The Time Machine by HG Wells.
“I’m utterly ashamed and don’t know what’s happened to me. I’ve been politically correct since the days when being politically correct was called being ideologically sound. I always vote Labour and I know several working class people.
“Well, I think the man who services my boiler is working class, at least. He talks about Manchester United.”