Woodbines and Dripping

What is it to be working class? Is there such a thing as working class culture? What makes a person or group of people working class and is it possible to break free from this classification?

As a naive youngster I used financial standing in order to segregate the working class from 'other people'. If there was a gleaming jag on the driveway of a smart detached house then they couldn't possibly be working class. If the bloke from the little terraced house left at 6:30 a.m. for work, wearing a donkey jacket and carrying his 'dinner' in a duffel bag, well then yes, definitely working class, without a shadow of doubt. Not so black and white these days. There are many working class lads and lasses who have made fortunes from their own sweat and ingenuity and how many of the so-called middle-classes of today cycle to work or use public transport carrying a 'lunch' of tuna-pasta and Mediterranean salad in their designer holdall.

Is it how we talk? Perhaps we're getting warmer now. I love my blunt northern accent. It allows me to rip off sentences and express myself as I see fit. Not particularly eloquent nor articulate, but it works for me. Another thing about the way 'we' talk is that kids nowadays don't seem to have a particular 'rough' accent like 'we' did, no raw turn of phrase. Sure they have a northern twang but they appear to speak much 'nicer' than we ever did. It must be a generational thing as I've never consciously tried to impress this upon my own flock. Nor do they speak with a passive aggressive tone, which is perhaps another feature of how some of the working classes express themselves, (certainly amongst the circles I mix in). As an example of this take the reaction of one of my own children on overhearing me refer to one of the cats as a 'little bastard' as I innocently bounced down the stairs the other morning. 'Now then you little bastard,' I said, 'what you up to?' It was said with love and endearment, but that was lost on my daughter who fiercely derided me for using such low-grade, 'course' language towards one of her beloved cats. (The moggie in question couldn't have given a cat's cock-hair one way or the other! You know what cats are like, if they're hungry they're all over you like a cheap overcoat. If there's nowt in it for them the mercenary little bastards look at you as if they've never seen you before taking their immediate hook and react to your attempts at stroking them as if you have the Black Death!). Of course, had I known my daughter was lurking behind the kitchen door I'd have never used the term in the first place. However it was uttered in all innocence, and without a hint of aggression or malice, but I was still admonished and made to feel guilty at my natural choice of words. I inwardly shook my head and rolled my eyes.

I think perhaps the answer to the question of what makes one 'working class' is subjective and varies from person to person. Of course they'll be the academics and politicians whose job it is to pigeon-hole members of society. For me, I think of the working classes of possessing a strong moral fibre (most of 'em anyway, discounting the likes of Fred West and Jimmy Saville!), of being family orientated, physically strong and resourceful. My working-class background took in sports, football, rugby, cricket, drinking, partying. Having a raucous laugh with your school-mates and nudging each other with the elbows when each saw the funny side of an unfunny situation. Strong-willed women pulling the strings in the background, a slap from your mother for insubordination (or being a cheeky little twat, as it was termed in those days), communities and families pulling together in times of need. Hand-me-downs, drunken fights and gentlemanly handshakes, chumping and bogeys, black-bright tidemarks on the back of our necks to match those around the watermark of the bath, and the once-a-year Whitsuntide whites charade. Conning your mother with a feigned illness to sly an odd day off school and sneaking to your Nana and Granddad's 'cos you knew you'd always get a nice feed there. Aunties, Uncles, cousins, mates and neighbours, all as one. Caravans in the summer, Swag-bags and balaclavas in the winter. Making your feet watertight in the snow by stuffing plastic carrier bags inside your shoes to cover the holes in the sole, tip-toeing around the house in winter on the freezing cold oil-cloth and sitting in front of the blazing coal fire after a bath whilst downing a bowl of sugared milk-pobs for supper. Standing at the bustop with your mother spitting on her hankie and rubbing your face with it whilst muttering that she'd kill you if you didn't stay still (Coronavirus hadn't been invented!). Markets and butchers, errands and loyalties. Liver and onions. Woodbines and dripping.

Wholesome working-class existence.

Of course, I have no right to describe Lonely Ballerina as a book about working-class folk. Who am I to make that statement? My perspective of what it takes to be working class may differ considerably from the next person, but that's my take on it. Am I proud to be working class? Well, I don't go around with my chest stuck out calling folk twats and telling them to feck off just because I'm working class! I'm certainly not ashamed of my background, my heritage or my social class, though there are those who find it necessary to occasionally allude to fellow self-styled superiors, the humble beginnings of others. Perhaps to keep them in check, to keep them down where they belong. What some of us working classes lack in material wealth we make up for in character, we don't have to argue our corner. Money cannot buy class.

Perhaps it isn't the story, but the way in which it is told, that defines Lonely Ballerina as a piece about the working classes. This way of life is being eroded (perhaps for the better) and is misunderstood. The dynamics of my perception of working-class is not limited to social security, council housing and poverty. We enjoy a much richer culture than we are credited for, and one that the prosperity of our nation was built upon. Lest there are those that cannot see this through the mists of moddycoddlment and cushioned moderate existences.

Woodbines and Dripping indeed.

By naughty architect - https://www.flickr.com/photos/james_lumb/3214791711/, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=7341624