'Tales Of Misanthropy II: The Class Divide'

by Andy Carrington.

I'm a part-disabled, single white male in my mid-twenties, with a degree in the Creative arts; I also have tattoos and a tendency to drink a lot. I'm hardly what you would call the most trustworthy human being in the employment world.

So having recently referred back to my pre-University experience as a barman and settled for a job in the same field because I just couldn't seem to find anything better to do at the time, I am now officially a peasant to the upper-class.

My dress code is smart shirt and tie. When the Masonic audience requests me to fetch them an alcoholic beverage I must also obey this rule, otherwise the month's rent and bill money on my flat will not be getting paid.

I do not hate this job -- in fact, I rather enjoy it in most places -- but it hardly alters my opinion that the human majority are money-driven bigots who like to drink shit beer and have the cheek to complain at the price by saying "HOW MUCH?" at the top of their voice, and then grin in hope of some approval from their Versace-wearing-motherfucker-of-a-mate standing to the side of them in the queue for the bar.

I need money, yes, but not to the extent that I require wiping my anus with it every time I go for a Crohn's-inflicted dump in the common man's poop station. I sacrifice my freedom of speech by remaining silent in my line of work and supplying these toffee-nosed twats with what they need at the time of asking. Hell, if one even requested for me to beat their phallus to the point of an erection I would probably do it for a few pound coins in my tip jar -- I am that pathetic.

On the contrary, the only sacrifice that each of these Hugh Grants has to make is to liaison with me for the few moments of the evening that they have to get another round in at the bar. How unfortunate for them -- I wouldn't like to socialise with such a human-hating individual, such as myself, either.

(C) Andy Carrington, 2009.