THE middle-classes don’t really approve of appearing on television because it’s vulgar and boastful. But they do dream of appearing on these:
You sit, demurely, waiting for the expert to finish rattling on about that porcelain figure from your attic’s history. You get to the money shot: it’s worth £85,000, which you acknowledge without even flinching as that’s nothing. Fiona Bruce congratulates you. You take it as no more than your due.
You dream of flaunting your middle-class affluence by renovating some sprawling ruin while Kevin McCloud applauds your daring architectural vision. But you fear that if you did take the plunge, viewers would instead watch you pissing your savings away on a half-witted plan while your marriage falls apart.
Imagine the jealous looks on your neighbours’ faces as you stand over a trench in your garden, surveying an uncovered Roman mosaic with Tony Robinson. Never mind that in reality the only thing you’ve found in your perennial beds was the skull of a Doberman buried by the previous owner.
Location, Location, Location
The pinnacle of aspirational middle-class living. Your years spent slaving away in management of a regional Barclays office have reached their goal: you’ve pretended to be so naive about property that Kirstie Allsop is showing you around a converted church in Warwickshire. Which you don’t buy because it doesn’t have enough natural light.
Great British Railway Journeys
Any self-respecting secret Tory would give anything for a casual evening with Michael Portillo. You daydream about sharing port in the dining car of the Flying Scotsman as it passes though the Highlands, making pithy jokes about history and discussing the necessity of dismantling the welfare state.