I’m reading The Road to Wigan Pier and reflecting on the differences between the
working class and the bourgeoisie when my till-now peaceful carriage fills
with a gang of tarts, all caked in warpaint and carrying in their wake their
own micro-climate of asphyxiating perfume.
It’s a hen party. I recognise Irish and Liverpudlian accents. They fall into the three or four rows of seats closest to me and start swearing and cackling.
I tense up. How fortunes can change. No longer the pensive, bookish journeyman; now a cornered, cowering prey. Whatever happens from now on can only be bad. At the very least, they’ll start loudly
debating the size of my cock.
What is it with them? Is it that they don’t know how to behave, or that they don’t care? I think of Andrea Dunbar. How she made art of the squalor, how she must have had a sense of universality an what was essential, and how I am a narcissist with a small prick on a train full of unstoppable life forces. The bottles of Smirnoff Mule and little hand mirrors come out. I feel sick.
It feels like the end of civilisation. But of course it isn’t. They have their own values, they’re just not as delicate as mine. It’s just a group of working-class girls having a laugh.
My sister lives in that world. She could easily be among them, the Lambrini girls with their painted talons, headbutts and accidental pregnancies. Is that what I think of my sister – the end of civilisation? WHO THE FUCK DO I THINK I AM?
What is it with them? Is it that they don’t know how to behave, or that they don’t care? I think of Andrea Dunbar. How she made art of the squalor, how she must have had a sense of universality an what was essential, and how I am a narcissist with a small prick on a train full of unstoppable life forces. The bottles of Smirnoff Mule and little hand mirrors come out. I feel sick.
It feels like the end of civilisation. But of course it isn’t. They have their own values, they’re just not as delicate as mine. It’s just a group of working-class girls having a laugh.
My sister lives in that world. She could easily be among them, the Lambrini girls with their painted talons, headbutts and accidental pregnancies. Is that what I think of my sister – the end of civilisation? WHO THE FUCK DO I THINK I AM?
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