Orange Skin, Blonde Hair, Ugg Boots and Minis

Are you the kind of person who is permatanned beyond the likes of David Dickinson? Do you wear footwear apparently worth hundreds of pounds, but are completely incapable of withstanding rain? Do you spend hours on your bleach blonde hair to make it look like you’ve just woken up? Do you laugh like a horse? If the answer is yes I suggest you fuck off back to Surrey.

Where I have the misfortune to live, there’s a pretty solid rule of thumb – see a new Mini? Tenner says the driver is a 19 year old poncy Hooray Henry. This rule is even more steadfast if you’re dealing with a Mini with a personalised number plate.* When said Hooray clambers out of the car she (because it’s almost always a she) will no doubt be wearing some combination of a very short ripped denim ‘skirt’, massive (I pray to God) fake pearls, some kind of bag (designer, no doubt) hanging from her gaunt elbow, polo shirt, Jack Wills paraphernalia… The uniform is unmistakable, precisely because of its average-ness.

Yes, plenty of other rejects have uniforms – goths, emo kids (do they still exist?), some punks (TRU PUNX! *Ahem*…) etc, but at least they’re trying to stand out. At least they’re somewhat prepared for the oncoming backlash. But these… people… these rahs, these are the true spawns of Satan’s sweaty ballsack. Everything about them grates on me. Not least how they sound. There’s something about an ‘independent’, ‘grown’ woman talking about ‘mummay’ and ‘dadday’ that drives me insane. But of course there is some respite – sometimes you’ll be lucky enough to hear one of their conversations, which will no doubt be about their current crisis (but ‘dadday’ won’t give me the platinum card until I’ve talked to one of the oiks!), and for the briefest of moments you can let out a laugh and realise how petty they are. That is, of course, until you realise you actually do have a few problems that need sorting out, probably to do with something our friend has never had to worry about, and then you’re back in to that spiral of hatred.

Yes, that bit came across as a little bitter. But it’s not. Well, I mean, it is – just not in the way you’re thinking. I wish her all the best for the future, I really do. I hope little Giselle has an exciting life full of adventure and free of worry. But wouldn’t it be nice if they could realise, just for a second, how lucky they are? Well, no. Because then you’d have to deal with little Ms. Cater-Hogg going on about how when they were in Bhutan it just like totally changed their whole perspective on things. It was a real eye opener, you know? In fact, to this day, our friend still makes ‘mummay’ and ‘dadday’ make a little donation to one of the many fine corporately sponsored ‘charities’ out there while on their latest spending spree.

I’m not going to rant about the ‘lads’ for now. I will save that for another time. But I will leave you with this image: Sweat pants and flip flops. In the pouring rain. Wankers.

*Can anyone tell me the point of a personalised number plate? You can’t penetrate women with them, and I didn’t think it was people’s intentions to make themselves look even more like a fucktard.

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