Some blog shite
FinsburyParkCarrots
Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
Message board posts are message board posts and blog shite is blog shite, and never the twain shall meet. Except for this just-onceage of instances.
Lazy Chattering's Blather
Righteously Indignant of Newport Pagnell writes to the editor of the Daily Heil,
“Dear Sir,
I wish to complain in the strongest possible terms about an article in your Thursday morning edition, namely How To Spot a Chav. The said piece exudes petit-bourgeois snobbery from every bully beef clogged pore. I should like to remind you that such stereotypical reductionism is reactionary and insensitive to Burberry cap-wearers and hub-cap stealers in our inner cities, since it flagrantly stigmatises them as a social underclass. These poor unfortunate individuals, having their photographs sprawled across the pages of national tabloids, will suffer from a resultant excess of self-esteem and seek therapeutic holidays in Faliraki and Ibiza, or auditions for next year’s Big Brother. I believe in an inclusive society where thieves and public drunkards have an important part to play in maintaining diversity, and thus I feel it poignant to state that the Chav is a media created myth. It does not exist.”
Righteously Indignant signs his letter, folds it and sticks it in a pre-addressed envelope picked from a box labelled “Complaint Letters”. He realises he has run out of stamps after all the letters sent to Rupert Murdoch and the scriptwriters of Little Britain today, so he heads to the supermarket. Crossing the car park to the supermarket entrance, and muttering as he hears ghettoblasted strains of 50 Cent emerging behind him, he is flattened by a steamroller, pinched from the local cricket grounds and driven by two Kappa-blinging boy racers sharing a plastic two litre bottle of White Lightning.
Such are the dangers of refuting the existence of a subculture (especially one that celebrates its own stereotypicality). However, there’s one social collective that gets mentioned, often derisively, in the Tory press. You know. Clive James coined the catch-all phrase for them, twenty years ago in some paper. The “Chattering Classes.” Nowadays you’ll read, say, in a Daily Essess gossip column: “Junior Cabinet Minister Norman Schnurrbb’s delectable wife Huhaahah has employed Californian lifestyle guru Giganta Swindell to design their luxury Primrose Hill shagpad in the style of that Chinese temple where Steve McGarrett would book the Vietnam Vet poodlesnatcher at the end of every episode of Hawaii Five-O. Huhaahah – eldest daughter of 1970s end of pier saucy revue comic Empher Semier from his marriage to some woman or other with dark hair before he married the blonde – is the envy of the Chattering Classes for her endless good taste. Ahem.” (These columns always say “Ahem” to let you know they’re being sarcastic and that you’re thick.) The tacky judgement and pretentiousness of the Chattering Classes is the only real theme of these sorts of articles.
Who are they then, these Chatterers? Are they like yuppies? No: If you catch a late-night, after-work City of London yuppie boozing in some faux-Manhattan theme bar, they’ve got their head down in their treble, drinking with the silent concentration of a Limburg Brother salivating over a golden B. You won’t get a sound out of them except for “Urrrggghhhh”. By the time they throw themselves on the last train back to their Essex semis, they’re unable to chatter except through alcoholic poisoning.
Er, so they’re more likely to be people with too much time on their hands, who spout endlessly about reiki and feng shui and colonic irrigation, or about what a nice little Garden of Hope the local council just planted over Dossers’ Corner. Ah, I see. Politicians and their groupies. Political journalists who eat canapes instead of food at schmoozing dos with Tony and Cherie, so they can talk without interruption about Alistair Campbell’s next marathon run. Thinktankers. Art critics. Music journalists-turned-popular novelists. Anyone with a fondness for navel-gazing, for yapping, for theorising, for woolly thinking, for airy guff. People who blue sky think about what an awful phrase blue sky thinking is. Panels on current affairs shows. Anyone who isn’t doffing their cap in a field and learning the art of hedging, as Prince Charles would have us doing. Anyone who through a little education no longer knows their place, who talks about art and culture and politics and about talk itself, forever, and never seems to do much else. Ah, that’ll include smartarse bloggers, then. And their readers. Welcome to the Chattering Classes, hypocrite lecteur, mon semblable, mon frere!
Lazy Chattering's Blather
Righteously Indignant of Newport Pagnell writes to the editor of the Daily Heil,
“Dear Sir,
I wish to complain in the strongest possible terms about an article in your Thursday morning edition, namely How To Spot a Chav. The said piece exudes petit-bourgeois snobbery from every bully beef clogged pore. I should like to remind you that such stereotypical reductionism is reactionary and insensitive to Burberry cap-wearers and hub-cap stealers in our inner cities, since it flagrantly stigmatises them as a social underclass. These poor unfortunate individuals, having their photographs sprawled across the pages of national tabloids, will suffer from a resultant excess of self-esteem and seek therapeutic holidays in Faliraki and Ibiza, or auditions for next year’s Big Brother. I believe in an inclusive society where thieves and public drunkards have an important part to play in maintaining diversity, and thus I feel it poignant to state that the Chav is a media created myth. It does not exist.”
Righteously Indignant signs his letter, folds it and sticks it in a pre-addressed envelope picked from a box labelled “Complaint Letters”. He realises he has run out of stamps after all the letters sent to Rupert Murdoch and the scriptwriters of Little Britain today, so he heads to the supermarket. Crossing the car park to the supermarket entrance, and muttering as he hears ghettoblasted strains of 50 Cent emerging behind him, he is flattened by a steamroller, pinched from the local cricket grounds and driven by two Kappa-blinging boy racers sharing a plastic two litre bottle of White Lightning.
Such are the dangers of refuting the existence of a subculture (especially one that celebrates its own stereotypicality). However, there’s one social collective that gets mentioned, often derisively, in the Tory press. You know. Clive James coined the catch-all phrase for them, twenty years ago in some paper. The “Chattering Classes.” Nowadays you’ll read, say, in a Daily Essess gossip column: “Junior Cabinet Minister Norman Schnurrbb’s delectable wife Huhaahah has employed Californian lifestyle guru Giganta Swindell to design their luxury Primrose Hill shagpad in the style of that Chinese temple where Steve McGarrett would book the Vietnam Vet poodlesnatcher at the end of every episode of Hawaii Five-O. Huhaahah – eldest daughter of 1970s end of pier saucy revue comic Empher Semier from his marriage to some woman or other with dark hair before he married the blonde – is the envy of the Chattering Classes for her endless good taste. Ahem.” (These columns always say “Ahem” to let you know they’re being sarcastic and that you’re thick.) The tacky judgement and pretentiousness of the Chattering Classes is the only real theme of these sorts of articles.
Who are they then, these Chatterers? Are they like yuppies? No: If you catch a late-night, after-work City of London yuppie boozing in some faux-Manhattan theme bar, they’ve got their head down in their treble, drinking with the silent concentration of a Limburg Brother salivating over a golden B. You won’t get a sound out of them except for “Urrrggghhhh”. By the time they throw themselves on the last train back to their Essex semis, they’re unable to chatter except through alcoholic poisoning.
Er, so they’re more likely to be people with too much time on their hands, who spout endlessly about reiki and feng shui and colonic irrigation, or about what a nice little Garden of Hope the local council just planted over Dossers’ Corner. Ah, I see. Politicians and their groupies. Political journalists who eat canapes instead of food at schmoozing dos with Tony and Cherie, so they can talk without interruption about Alistair Campbell’s next marathon run. Thinktankers. Art critics. Music journalists-turned-popular novelists. Anyone with a fondness for navel-gazing, for yapping, for theorising, for woolly thinking, for airy guff. People who blue sky think about what an awful phrase blue sky thinking is. Panels on current affairs shows. Anyone who isn’t doffing their cap in a field and learning the art of hedging, as Prince Charles would have us doing. Anyone who through a little education no longer knows their place, who talks about art and culture and politics and about talk itself, forever, and never seems to do much else. Ah, that’ll include smartarse bloggers, then. And their readers. Welcome to the Chattering Classes, hypocrite lecteur, mon semblable, mon frere!
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Comments
http://www.chavscum.co.uk/
for anyone who would like to know more. Is it a uniquely British phenomenon? Or just more apparent due to the condensed nature of our society.
and everyday the bickering and gossip is a little too much to handle;
I think poeple have too much free time and money on their hands instead of divulging their heads and hearts into the stars.
Thats my stance,you two:)
A whisper and a chill
adv2005
"Why do I bother?"
The 11th Commandment.
"Whatever"
PETITION TO STOP THE BAN OF SMOKING IN BARS IN THE UNITED STATES....Anyone?
Love to you!!!!:D
A whisper and a chill
adv2005
"Why do I bother?"
The 11th Commandment.
"Whatever"
PETITION TO STOP THE BAN OF SMOKING IN BARS IN THE UNITED STATES....Anyone?
too*
tooche....