Five places to socialise the middle-classes haven't discovered and ruined yet

THERE are vanishingly few places left to meet that don’t serve chai and falafel. Savour these while you can:


Leased to local residents for growing food, and not yet fully invaded by sanctimonious knobheads with acres of sanitised landscape surrounding their own houses. You can still meet working people cultivating oversized marrows, not twats trying to cut their farmers’ market spend by growing exotic flora to show off on Instagram.

Pre-match pub

Meeting mates in a local boozer is a working-class pre-match ritual which could easily be usurped by moisturised men on their way to hospitality. On match day, life’s problems are ignored for the topics: who’s injured and do we have time for another pint? Not bleating about renovating one’s Welsh farmhouse. Finish your craft gin and f**k off.

The dog track

Greyhound racing is still some way from gentrification. If it succumbed, there would be no winners, only social and cultural losers. The middle-classes would enter their Labradoodles, cut out the barbaric racing and replace the hare with a bone-shaped tofu treat. They’re kept away by the fear poverty is contagious.

Car boot sales

If you’re going to a car boot to pull racks of last season’s gilets out of your Mini Countryman, don’t. Nobody will pay £6 for your homemade chutneys. Nor should you belittle sellers by asking if they take Apple Pay for a ten pence ornament or bully browsers into buying your tat because it’s ethically sourced. Get ripped off or go home.

The darts

A traditional pub sport which rarely features at dinner parties, darts remains working class. Large flamboyant events where shitfaced punters wear fancy dress are not aspirational. As such, it is unfit for annexation by smug twats in witty handmade costumes, sipping Pinot Noir whilst holding a sign to the TV camera reminding husband Simon that ‘Gaston has oboe practice after school tomorrow’. You’ve got Wimbledon, stick to that.

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Teenager stops hating parents for long enough to ask them for money

A TEENAGER has reluctantly ceased loathing his parents for long enough to demand they buy him something.

Fourteen-year-old Oliver O’Connor has called a temporary truce in his ongoing war with his mum and dad for the precise length of time it takes to supply credit card details so he can buy gig tickets.

He said: “The cessation of hostilities is regrettable but unavoidable. Summer is approaching and new festival tickets are released this week.

“So I’ve come to the realisation that mum and dad aren’t that bad really, when they pay for things I actually need instead of dumb shit that doesn’t matter like food, heating or transport.

“First I’ll be nice to them for a whole meal. Then I’ll offer to make them a cup of tea and watch one of their smug dickhead shows like QI. Then, when they’re reeling from my kindness, I’ll ask for £85 and even say please.

“They’ll be so grateful to be treated like humans they’ll gladly fork it over. I’ll feign gratitude until the tickets are secured, after which I’ll tell both of them to f**k off for ruining my life.”

Mother Kelly said: “Obviously we can see right through him. It’s like negotiating with an acne-ridden terrorist. But if it gets us an evening of peace we’ll happily pay.”