19 things middle-class twats always have in their houses

ARE you a middle-class ponce with a property portfolio? Check off this list of things you undoubtedly already own: 

An Aga, and the exorbitant bills that go with it

A Smeg refridgerator

A collection of fridge magnets subtly showing off all the countries you’ve visited and bought fridge magnets from

A cupboard of Emma Bridgewater mugs

Six different kinds of pesto

The complete works of Shakespeare, untouched

The complete works of Stephen Fry, heavily thumbed

A tote bag from an obscure literary festival where you wore wellies but didn’t need them

A waxed brown hunting jacket that smells of your Labradoodle, Watson

A Labradoodle called Watson

A sheaf of Grade 6 piano books

An upright piano that hasn’t been played since 2013

A box room for the miserable German au pair

No miserable German au pair ‘because of bloody Brexit’ and definitely not because of the poor accommodation, working conditions and pay you offered

Four pairs of matching salopettes

A whole school photograph from your son’s time at an overpriced private school, with useful contacts mentally circled

An overwhelming feeling that others are constantly judging you and looking down on you, when this only actually applies to close friends and family

Discreet alcoholism

A Lakeland voucher

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Child's baking project 90 per cent spit

ANYTHING baked by small children is largely composed of human saliva and other bodily secretions, test results have confirmed. 

As young children offer around plates of buns and biscuits at family gatherings, adults are warned that they are basically stuck together with spit, snot and even earwax.

Helen Archer of Congleton said: “When my niece Lottie offered round a plate of small, flat cakes I could tell she’d made them from the other end of the patio. The consistency of the icing was too runny. The bubbles were suspicious.

“It’s cute and everything, but don’t get me involved. I’d already seen her scratch her arse with the same hand she plunged into the communal crisp bowl. Food hygiene inspectors would have something to say.

“But the junior spittle-pusher wouldn’t take no for an answer. Didn’t buy my whole ‘hold it near your mouth and make chewing noises’ act either. Made me take a bite, with her mother cheering her on.

“As soon as she wasn’t looking, I spat my mouthful into the freesias. What’s the big deal? They’re only sodding fairy cakes. I brought homemade couscous I’d managed not to gob in and no one clapped for me.”

Six-year-old Lottie Phelps said: “Eat my spit. Eat it.”