An argument about class

I worked my way through an online application all day today. On and on it went. It was one of those applications which has a character count. I'd write an answer in the box, try to save it, and then be told it was 300 characters too long, regardless of how many characters too long it actually was. I'd cut a few lines, hit save, and then be told what I'd written was 300 characters too long again. Ah!! Periodically, of course, the computer would crash entirely, and then I'd have to reboot and start again. I sort of don't mind: to persist, you've got to be really desperate for funding, and nothing in life should come too easily.

So, Nigel Farage has resigned has he? I'm not sure what he's up to, but it's bound to be something awful. His gurning ecaf will pop up again just when we think it's safe to go back into the water. He'll no doubt take himself on a grand tour of European countries, using his Charisma, Uniqueness Nerve and Talent to encourage crypto fascists to rip the continent apart from the inside. Imagine your SOUL purpose in life being to destroy something? What a hideously negative outlook that silly bastard must have on the world. I have to say, I find it astonishing, but not entirely surprising, that the entire lot of those naughty school boys who instigated this dreadful referendum have scarpered like a bunch of cherry knockers. Lob the hornets nest into the next door neighbours' garden and then blame it on someone else. They'll be forced to clear up the mess up whilst you go to the back of the bus to plan your next practical joke.

To me the bizarre thing is how everything that's happened in the last two weeks seems to have been distilled into an argument about class. How typically British! If one more person accuses me of being a champagne socialist or a bleeding heart liberal from London, I shall have them buttered and set to music! I am bored, bored, bored of people with chips on their shoulders telling me that people like me don't listen to people like them. I'm a comprehensive school boy from a Midlands town. I was hardly born with a silver spoon in my mouth! I can't afford a house. I don't have a pension. All my clothes have holes in them. But did I place my trust in a bunch of public school wankers? No! Johnson and Farage are surely quintessential examples of the people we're accusing of being elitist and disinterested in the plight of the poor. I just don't get it. It's the greatest irony for me in all of this. It's not like the out campaign was led by a gloriously charismatic socialist. It's Nigel Farage, not Keir Hardie! And now he's dicked off and STILL no one seems to want to acknowledge that they were duped. What will it take? These people aren't interested in playing a part in the future of this glorious new post-Brexit Britain. What does that tell you?

I was was at Bank Station earlier on when, yet again, a major tube line went down, leading to a build up of people on the station platform which became so dangerous that I was forced to make a run for it. It was boiling hot and they started making announcements to say that the next train we'd be able to board would be in half an hour. It's at moments like this that all Londoners become aware of how vulnerable we are. One crowd surge. One detonated bomb and we're nothing but a name on a sooty plaque which is taken down when a station gets refurbished and never re-instated. And people say we have it so easy in London. All that money they spend on us just to stuff us into tiny little spaces, trying to remain dignified whilst we sweat the makeup off our faces and the gel out of our hair, the stench of BO and halitosis permanently wafting under our noses. A journey which should have taken half an hour, took 70 minutes. Distance travelled: six miles.