For years, politicians and commentators have been ringing the bell for the end of class. A decade ago, Tony Blair announced that we were all middle-class now, though I had already suspected something was afoot when my Nanna upgraded from Spam to wafer-thin ham.
Since then, the consensus has been that the old delineations of upper, middle and lower are dead. This, though, is far from the case. In the last few weeks, I have become aware of a class that is as likely to shop in Waitrose as it is Farmfoods. It likes Jedward but it listens to Verdi too. It has a place in Provence, but also a fortnight’s all-inclusive in Benidorm. And I am part of it.
We are the Daytime Class. We are mothers with prams who are thinking of white wine and wondering if they’ll ever go to the cinema again. We are pocked-up heroine wallahs in every shade of sallow. We are doughty pensioners chatting in the rain. We are unemployed twenty-seven year-old men who put on their wives’ shoes to watch Loose Women.
While you’re all at work or serving your sentences, we come out. Droves of us. You should see the streets, teeming, brimming with people who serve about as much purpose as this board I took a picture of in Cowdenbeath:
Nothing to see here. No, seriously, there's nothing to see here
We have strength in pointless, café-dwelling unity. We know what time the post is delivered, and that Fat Sandra is having a lesbian affair ‘just because she got bored’. We are the people that go into Poundland and use libraries. We have favourite coffee beans and drug dealers.
It’s high time we mobilised as a political force. Led by somebody suitably pointless like Sue Perkins, The Daytime Class Party would advocate a complete ban of the question ‘what time did you get up today?’ The class war is on, but only once Doctors has finished.
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