This week I was given the opportunity to see how a different social stratum live, by the accidental procurement of a ticket to Reading Festival. Not a working class congregation exactly – not with tickets at those prices – but perhaps less upper-middle class and more middle-middle class. The bands (nouveau riche) had wonderfully colourful names like Guns N’ Roses and This is Hell, but I soon realised that these names had little to do with the content of their shows, which was probably for the best.
I have a very middle-class friend called Mr. Meyer Spoonbridge who wants to make a habit of visiting working-class establishments. I managed to yoink this from his holdall:
Diary Entry, 14th July 2010
I am still trying to put myself together after a shocking episode at lunchtime today. My colleague Jude Quinn – who is in all truth probably the most working class person I associate with – took me on a field trip of sorts to a place that sits right at the crest of his memory lane. To all those not sharing in his nostalgia, it is known simply as The Pie Shop, and it can be found in the least salubrious quarters of Bexleyheath, to the west, where you are greeted by the grind of restless traffic, the endless rattle of a hundred prams being pushed by 15-year-old mothers serving cigarettes to their babes, and Pizza Hut. Continue reading “Diary Entry of Mr. Meyer Spoonbridge”