There were just things that drove me mad.
It was the posh boys that did it. You see, they had failed at school and all of their rich mates had gone on to study in the 18th Century at Oxford and Cambridge. Coprolite Studies in city’s trapped inside their own indifference; twas ever thus. Playing ‘Upper Class Twit of the Year’ with our lives.
“We’re all failures”, they would say.
Yet us working class boys did not quite get it.
WHen you scrape a few A level passes at a snobbish elite school then you get the label ‘could-have-done-better’. When you scrape a few grades as you crawl out of the sink schools that invest the Town Planners wet dreams, that is a remarkable success.
No support. No mentors. No expectations. No chance.
Yet here we are, sitting in the Union Bar, imbibing unknown beers.
“Top 4%!” they would cry.
Of course we had the guy who somehow got into one of those Oxford Colleges and spent three years lost in the morass of parasitic spoilt bastards. For most of us, The Poly was the pinnacle of achievement.
Top 4% at the time.
Then on Saturday the homo-erotic Rugby club would infect the Top Bar with their anger. They ruined my cap by adopting it as their symbol, meaning my admirers assumed I was one of those knobheads.
The Bar would empty out as these public school retards began their drinking games. The bar staff were happy as the cretins would pour beer over each other then buy more. I don’t know why but watching single brain celled creatures dropping their trousers was never something I found amusing. Brian Rix in multitude; middle class pornography, hiding the dark desires of lying moral leaders.
I hated them.