The mindlessness of it all

The boys in the city. It’s always them. Politician, Banker, Wanker. The newest statistic to emerge from the city, research to prove the existence of seven social classes in modern England.

It’s always a new from the boys. Hair always slicked back. Creaseless, seamless designer suits in black or blue. Brilliant white shits and always the old school tie. Always some blue, Oxford Blue, Cambridge Blue, Eton Blue. 

The blue boys of London. Previously, now and traditionally the boys in the corridors of advertising and banking wore the old school tie. Enter now the latest, the boys in the corridors of power. Grandiose theories concocted over the old mans cigars and scotch liberated and gifted by mumsy on her last visit. With the amply bosomed, slightly stinking of a mix of old sweat and urine, all in vain fighting with the scent of the soap your nanny used village girls hanging in awe of their words. Secretly wishing the boys would get on with it and take her to bed where she can show them how knowledgeable she is in the art of fornicating for pleasure. 

Who really cares about seven social structures? Most of Europe is going down and England seems to slowly but surely following them in a gloomy path to bankruptcy. Everyone’s speechlessly weak and disabled, other than of course the powerful politicians who will retain that power any which way they can.

The boys in the city they all come and eventually disappear to Totteridge. Soon to be seen in their black shiny range rover jeeps at the now fabulously famous ex-local pub, The Orange Tree. The colours on the ties remain. Later on in life, when the boys finally become old men the colours still live on. Now mostly to bowties. The shirts are still starched and brilliant white, but now the suits are grey.

Mindless grey.

Politician, Banker, Wanker, Twat.

Mindless.

But her.