Avoiding the underclass...

I learned, last night, with thanks to some participants in a writing workshop working under pressure, against the clock and in a room lit with flourescent tubes, the difference between the working class and those that feel they're above it. It is their consumption of meat. Frozen, pre-packaged meat is the preserve of the former, the freshly hacked and often rare-cooked parts of animals - including their innards - belong to the latter. So that's that sorted. All very tidy. Compartmentalised. The have fresh meat and the have-nots. It'll do for me. They didn't mention tinned meat. The Campbell's Meatballs et al. I don't want to use the word underclass. Does this meat - if that stuff contained within actually contains any - of the canned variety belong to the great ignored?

My working class credentials. I was born in a council house. Next door but one to a public baths. Dad was a signwriter, mum worked in a variety of shops and rose to the dizzy ranks of off-licence management, where she ensured that folk with a drink habit got their regular fix. There was always a tin of corned beef in the house. When I became a discerning young chap I would often request a can of Heinz beans & sausages to be placed on the weekly shopping list. I started going to rugby league. I once had a shell suit. I worked in the building trade. Then I became a ponce. Went back into education. Until I devoured them two nights ago we had a can of hot dogs in the cupboard. I once ate steak in The Goring. I'm a mess.