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I dined in the same room as working class people, this is what I witnessed

There is nothing I like better than going to my Toby Carvery for lunch on a Sunday. Myself, my wife and our two children (adults) accompany me to the eatery, and enjoy a sumptuous meal cooked to satisfactory levels. This culinary paradise has given us many happy times, but imagine my horror when, this weekend, I noticed some working class people had infiltrated my bistro.

How did I know they were working class? Well, let me start by the way they entered the restaurant. Nothing less than a circus rabble, unfamiliar with the greeter, they had the temerity to try and select their own table! This act of insolence should have been a red flag to start off with, and should they have refused to leave, Police should have been called to extricate them from the premises.

However, the manager was somewhat of a liberal sort, and gave into their churlish demands to sit close to the window at a table with enough chairs. If I were in charge I would surely have lost my composure, but Frank, the amiable host, is much more tolerant than I. They took their seats after some kerfuffle about who sits where. Honestly, what family does not leave the house for such a sacred treat without first confirming to all concerned the seating arrangements for when they arrive at the outlet they can fit in without all this ridiculous ‘I’m not sitting next to Jordan’ nonsense. Especially when you consider the man was not wearing a tie, and the woman had not a delightful summer frock but was sporting jeans and a t-shirt. Imagine!

They then had the nerve, after invading our special place, to ask for drinks while they decided on food. I was pleasantly surprised at their choices, a grapefruit juice, two cokes and a pint of bitter. One would assume, given their position in our society, they would be more likely to order a cold turpentine solution and two packets of glue for the kids. At this point, my wife nudged me and told me to stop staring, but stop I could not. The activities and conversation of these ‘people’ fascinated me. I felt like a scientist watching some primitive tribe gaze in wonder at all that surrounded them. I daresay even the mechanics of a chair was a revelation to these folk.

But the full horror of my situation was to come; anyone with any education to University level knows the menu is what is available fayre, but apparently ‘Jordan’, whose future I fear will be in the janitorial line, could not find a sustenance which he felt would sustain him.

Let me tell you something; if Mama and Poppy had encountered such an attitude from myself at Jordan’s tender age whilst dining out, Poppy would have thought nothing of thrashing me thoroughly and without mercy. Indeed, Mama would also be obliged to put in a few well aimed feminine blows, and should my transgression be of a certain magnitude, staff would be invited to contribute to the beating, and, at the satisfactory time when it is presumed I had learned my lesson, service and dining would continue, other patrons would return to their seats (I could see them despite fading in and out of consciousness) and Mama and Poppy would then continue to enjoy their tiramisu, secure in the knowledge the message has been received by their disappointing son.

But these parents obviously did not follow the wise manner of governing their progeny, and simply told him ‘They’d ask’. Ask indeed! What impertinence!

That is essentially the issue with the working class and why, at all costs, they should be kept in mines or hidden in dark basements until we have use for them. Society made an egregious error in allowing them to roam, unshackled and unfettered around our streets. But worse was yet to come.

When the waitress was taking the order, the man of the house – I assume it was a man, it was difficult to tell what it was under the hair and stubble. Could have been a gibbon. The man ordered for the family, and repeated – no – insisted that calling the Waitress ‘darling’ was somehow okay. This sort of thing infuriates me. Again, my wife told me to stop staring and listening to these foul odour specimens, yet I was transfixed, as they would no doubt be by the sight of a hot bath.

Then, the woman – again I am making assumptions – spoke of her allergies. Allergic to everything, it seems. Or intolerant. One thing I cannot stand is intolerance. I will not put up with it. Jordan and his brother, Lionel (who was wearing a football shirt with a name on it which perfectly described his unkempt hair) could not decide what to have. Eventually, at their Mothers’ suggestion – I am again assuming the woman was their Mother, I cannot imagine someone voluntarily tolerating these ill mannered, loud, malodorous dolts, she said ‘why don’t you two try the all you can eat buffet’.

The horror of it all. These two adolescents, sampling the wares we civilised citizens are expected to select from, no doubt in the process menacing all and sundry with tongs. These wretched spawn made their way to the all you can eat buffet which is around the corner. Just as well they were out of my ocular supervision; I dread to think what culinary faux pas and carnage those two odious oafs would inflict on the denizens of the nook.

At this point my wife became quite agitated, prodding me with a pickle spiker which, for reasons of self defence, she always keeps tucked safely in her corset. “stop staring” she repeated. My son and daughter also remonstrated with me strongly. But I was in too deep. I must see how this strange coterie of life plays out. I imagined writing a column in the Middle Class Times or Posh Utterance Magazine. Never had a civilised man of taste and education been so close to what could easily be termed his distant ancestors.

The adults seem to quiet somewhat now, both of them producing one of those damn telephonic contraptions such people are so fond of. Staring at the bright lights and the blips and blops. It must fascinate them like when their ilk first saw the wheel.

The noise in the nook where the all you can eat was appalling. Apparently the younger one had taken the last potato, although I very much doubt they know what a potato actually is. Probably assume it’s from space.

It’s the education, you see. I was lucky, Mama and Poppy sent me to a public school. There I learned Maths, History, Literature, English, all the sciences and a whopping portion of discipline. If I were to transgress the rules – either written or unwritten – I should receive what we called a severe buttering from Mr Stroud. Manys the errant cove who left his office with sort buttocks, vowing never to disrespect the rules – written or unwritten – of the school. It made men of us. Except Wittering, of course. He could not take the ruthless application of cane to buttock like the rest of us. Blubbed for his Mother for two days. And Hartley. And Miller. And Streatham. Such tragedy made men of us all. These subjects sat adjacent would never benefit from such heartbreak. Closest they come to a emotional tsunami is dropping a chip on the floor.

I was surprised when they let Mr Stroud go after he administrated a caning to Mr Richardson, but Richardson taught art so what do you expect from that sort.

For a moment I am drawn back into the conversation at my own table. My darling wife is chuntering on in her delightful way about what she terms ‘some nosey old bastard’. She does have such eloquence and poise. Even when she is angry, such as now, her warmth and elegance continues to enrich all who know her. How fortunate I am to have her in my life.

The young slobs return. One has a roast dinner on his plate organised in such a way it would make a scrapyard look tidy. If that scrapyard was covered in gravy, that is. The other has an unconscionable amount of mashed potato and a sausage, arranged in such a way it resembles a male appendage, the two sprouts at the base, wedged into the mashed root vegetable leaving little doubt as to their meaning. I whispered to my wife about it but she just looked at me. “Look at the phallus” I said again. The drumming of her delicate digits was all the reply I needed. Similarly the aghast looks on my darling children's’ faces spoke volumes.

The waitress then arrived with their meals, and was greeted with the ‘thanks darlin’’ even from the woman. I suspect their class are closely intertwined with their insatiable sexual appetite, attempting to lure every and all into their web of sexual debauchery. I imagined, for a few minutes, the scene of them satisfying a long line of lovers and partners, their moans of pleasure and the collision of their unwashed, filthy flesh the only sound emanating from their boudoir.

I watched in strange wonderment as they commenced their food, surprised at their familiarity with cutlery. Up until this moment, I had assumed people of their standing in the societal structure would only be used to a trough, but here they were with knives and forks, placing small amounts in their mouths with a delicacy which they evidently learned from constant re-runs of Downton Abbey. There was surprisingly little noise from them as the four of them guzzled and devouring. I watched as morsel after morsel was placed into their disgusting mouths until the plates were cleaned of all debris. Like the whirring motors they scooped up fork full after fork full, the tool overloaded with the pre-masticated nutriment, placing its’ burden into their ever gaping aperture.

I turned to my wife to comment but lo! She appeared to have gone. And likewise my son and daughter. Obviously disgusted by these invading savages, they could take no more and to save their delicate sensitivities had vacated the premises.

The waitress had arrived with the bill for our own table. “Thank you my dear” I said, taking the slip of paper in hand. Tragedy thence struck. My beloved had my cash and cards. I was bereft of funds to settle the enumeration. The waitress, somewhat tersely I thought, brought forth the manager who escorted me to the rear room of the premises where, latterly, a constable came and arrested me. As I was lead away in the crude fashioned hand restrictors, the peons had the nerve to glance over and laugh at my plight.