I’ve nothing against privilege. I really don’t.
I’ve nothing against the upper classes, the landed gentry, Lords and Ladies of the House and sherry addled debutantes. I’ve nothing against the Royal Family either.
Nothing at all, in fact, apart from the huge bank accounts they have chock full of money which allows them to do pretty much whatever the hell they like to without worrying about paying off next month’s mortgage.
Apart from that they’re fine and I’m happy to share the world with them.
But there is a limit to my magnanimity. A limit to my social largesse.
You see, it’s the freebies wot get up my nose, gov’nor. The gifts and the special considerations. The gratuities which, financially speaking, are completely unnecessary.
Take Camilla Peter Bowles the other day. She’s on a jolly in the Netherlands. She’s visiting the set of The Killing. If you haven’t seen The Killing then you’ve missed out. It features the coolest female detective the world has ever seen. Cooler even then Cagney and Lacey. Sarah Lund is the next best thing this side of Morse and The Killing is superlative television of the highest order.
But this is by-the-by.
It seems that Camisole Parker Bowling-green is an avid fan of the show. She is, in her own words (reported in the press this week) “an addict”.
Well fine. I’m technically an addict of the show too. Both me and the wife are. We religiously sat through 30 episodes that spanned series 1 and 2 last month as an example of our highly enflamed addiction.
I bet Camomile PB didn’t do that.
And yet her addiction gets her a genuine, bona fide Sarah Lund jumper presented to her by supercool, supersexy Sarah Lund actress Sofie Gråbøl herself.
Those things cost a bloody fortune! I know ‘cos I’ve looked. €300! Made solely on the Faroe Isles. Not impossibly extortionate I know but I really can’t afford to blow the equivalent of £250 on a jumper right now no matter how much I might be in the throes of addiction.
But Camilla Poker Battleaxe could. She could buy one every month for the next 10 years and not raise a hair on her perfidious little bank manager’s scalp.
So quite frankly gifting her one for free is like giving methadone to someone who is lying on a Las Vegas style water bed bursting at the seams with liquefied heroin.
It's not like she can even wear the ruddy thing in public anyway! It's just going to get mothballed in her cavernous walk-in-wardrobe which is already the size of Denmark...
Suddenly, privilege is leaving a nasty taste in one’s mouth.
Someone is making a real killing and it certainly isn’t me.