The most beautiful woman is burned out and no one is there to help her help herself. Aren’t we supposed to help ourselves in this dog eat dog world?
The foxy bombshell in question
As the luckiest man alive, I will happily tell you I am hopelessly in love with the most beautiful woman in the world. Luscious legs, delicious body and a smile that could launch a thousand ships. A heart of solid oak and a spirit that I can only imagine come from the Celt within. Hard as an Amazon yet in no way hard edged to look at, and mentally quick as a fox. Yes, a foxy bombshell who makes me drool uncontrollably who is madly in love with me too. (Probably going to emasculate me for writing this, but I’ll take the risk…)
Before anyone thinks they can put some moves on and swift her away from me, she’s not interested in cash or flash cars (though I have both). She’s no empty headed hooker, but a lass of deep morals and a class consciousness that would make Marx proud. Yes, working class right to that hard core within.
She lifts me. Makes me smile, takes me out of my frequent forays up my own arse, and keeps me sane and grounded. I venture that she’s so grounded that gravity itself relies on her to keep her council estate on the ground.
Yes, a council estate. She’s no wealthy middle class bint from Poundbury but from a proud working class community somewhere in Weymouth. Has lived in her council house for 20+ years and you will only be able to wrest that home out of her cold, dead hands if one of her children doesn’t manage to inherit the tenancy.
Working class means working your arse off
Successive governments of red, yellow and blue rosettes have repressed the working classes. The idea that the working class must serve and enjoy their lot in life is retrenched as ever—possibly more so under the last 14 or so years of ruling class, yellow/blue rosette rule.
I spent my time as a social affairs journalist looking at the lot of the underclass. Those unable to work due to disability or inability to get off the bottom rung due to factors beyond their control. Over the years I have seen that greasy pole, I have climbed myself, driven deeper into the mire. While I laugh at the invoices I send to my clients out of pure pleasure at my part time job, even my income doesn’t amount to much these days.
As the Unison union letter recently sent to its local authority worker members rightly said, the value of the money they earn has decreased by 25% in recent times. Where four part time local authority jobs may have meant something for many years, it now largely means a comfortable backstop while those with the spirit and strength go off and do a fifth or sixth job to pay for their luxuries.
Why should a job of high community value pay so badly?
Nurses and teachers need healthcare assistants (HCAs) and teaching assistants (TAs) to make their lives possible. A teacher or nurse is in no way middle class these days, even though they are supposedly proud professions. They had prominence on strike last year, and in my role as a trades union official, I proudly supported them. But these guys couldn’t do their jobs without their supporting workers. Nor could doctors without cleaners, and let’s face it, head teachers are largely in an admin role these days.
Ok, so what’s this got to do with the most beautiful woman in the world? She’s one of those. She doesn’t have a degree or a postgraduate diploma, much less a postgraduate degree that has enabled me to slither up the greasy pole.
While I relax, ranting away on my computer, she’s limping in a busy hospitality venue, smiling and serving men their medicine of choice to escape their woes. On a typical Thursday, she will have started work at 04:30, finished NHS/local authority job #4 and be at the hospitality venue until 01:00 the next morning. Yes, up two hours later and thankfully finishing work in NHS/local authority job #3 at lunchtime Friday. She will have walked 15+ miles in that blizzard of service, adding to around another 20 miles from Monday to Wednesday evening. No wonder her legs are so luscious!!! No wonder she’s limping.
Give those clapping politicians a clap around the chops?
Slippery Rishi Sunak has proudly ‘beaten the unions’ through his policy towards the strikers. I bet his cleaners in Downing Street love him. If I were one, earning south of Sweet FA and somehow making it by living in London, I’d be smuggling in shrimp to sew into his curtains every night (yes, he would then be Fishy Rishi, not just Slippery Rishi).
I ask again, why do those who have such societal value get thanked so badly in their remittances? Does the (supposedly) First Among Equals Prime Minister have some sort of higher value than those who aren’t sewing shrimp into his curtains? If they didn’t clean, would his IT heiress wife have a clue what to do? Does he really know how to load a dishwasher?
Moving locally to our own politicians. You know, the aging Tory politicians who have driven Weymouth and Portland to the financial brink while telling us to enjoy the view? Does Richard Drax know how to button his trousers, much less load the dishwasher? What would he do without his kitchen staff or cleaners again, who for some unknown reason, aren’t sewing shrimp into his curtains?
Hopelessness isn’t just a blue rosette and a public school background
It amuses me that with my public school education and military brat background I’m way to the left of 80% of those elected in politics these days. From Little Louie, the working class scab, to Sir Keir, they are all into retrenching the class system and ensuring that the workers know their place. It actually baffles me that any one of them is even allowed to be elected. Perhaps that’s the problem? We’ve been taught to know our place and to elect those who are our ‘betters’?
From sewing shrimp into curtains to asking awkward questions, we need to show them that we aren’t happy with our place. Or what? Another 10 years of misrule under those with red rosettes?
A final note of hope
You might not see the most beautiful woman in the world with me but I will pop by the Revolting Artists Exhibition at St Nicholas Gallery in Weymouth sometime between March 29th and April 1. For those already burning with anger, enjoy the rebellion at what should be a refreshing event in these dark days of hopelessness….
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