Six things to be staggered at the f**king cost of

EVERYTHING costs more than previously, but these six items cost more than you are capable of comprehending. Reel at the sheer cost of these: 

A 2012 Nissan Micra: £7,500

Ten years old, 50,000 miles on the clock, a 1.2 litre engine: you f**king what? It can’t be that much. You only paid three grand more for your current car which is bigger and newer and superior in every way, and that’s shit. Though from now on you’ll be driving it like it’s made of glass.

A quote from a builder: £3,200

It’s not major work. You’re not getting a pissing extension. Just a garden wall and fixing the paving and sorting out that gutter that came off in Storm Eunice, and he’s quoting that? While telling you it could be a lot higher by May, which is the soonest he’s got a gap in the diary?

A two-bedroom flat in Manchester: £1,200 a month

No, the Manchester up North, not a fancy district of London calling itself Manchester. The actual Manchester – what? Seriously? For a flat where the living area’s basically the hall and the bedroom’s a corridor? That you couldn’t get three mates in without one of them sitting in the kitchen? In a shithole like Manchester?

Cooking a roast dinner: £2.12 an hour

The Sunday roast’s on, you’re slicing carrots, you’ve poured yourself a glass of wine, then you catch sight of the smart meter. That much an hour? To roast a chicken? Can you serve it undercooked? How much is it going to cost by Christmas dinner? No question, you’ll have to go your mum’s.

A Billy bookcase: £70

You’ve abandoned all illusions. You no longer believe that you can do better than IKEA, the same place you bought furniture when you were a f**king student. You just want somewhere to put your books, even if it is cheap, shit chipboard that’ll collapse when a butterfly alights on it. It used to be like £22. Now it’s £70.

A bag of Tyrrells: £2.30

Everything’s too much, so you’re going to sit at home on the settee and eat crisps while watching telly. It’s the British way. Except even at a big supermarket they’re charging the kind of price you only used to see on a bloody train. You can’t even afford to kill yourself slowly by blocking your arteries. That’s what we’ve come to.

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A middle class holiday itinerary vs a working class holiday itinerary

AFTER a year of work, you’ll want to spend your holiday doing f**k all. Unless you’re middle class, in which case you’ll want to use it to tediously better yourself. But which is more fun?


Middle class: You booked this villa specifically because it has a luxury outdoor kitchen. This means you can break up trips to darling little local restaurants by slaving in it for hours to produce elaborate dishes of fish purchased fresh from the harbour and mushrooms you foraged this morning.

Working class: No cooking. Cafe or takeaway, don’t care. Lots of it.


Middle class: While the kids are having private one-to-one paddle boarding lessons, you go on a wine tasting trip to select several expensive bottles to sip appreciatively throughout your holiday. It’s about improving your palette, not getting pissed for the sake of it.

Working class: Local beers or amazingly cheap local wine. All delicious, lots of it.


Middle class: The villa needs to be far enough from a town to be considered rural, but near enough that the cleaner can still come and you can have fresh bread and vegetables delivered daily, ideally by a charmingly ugly old man who you photograph yourselves with for Instagram.

Working class: All-inclusive hotel with a big bed, curtains that shut properly, a telly and a pool with a bar.


Middle class: Cathedrals, monasteries and nunneries are a must. You’d also like a genuine Perugian nonna to teach you how to make pasta, which you will begrudgingly part with money for on realising she doesn’t just do it out of the kindness of her big Italian heart.

Working class: Hire mopeds to zip around the local beaches, then go to a club that plays Europop until 3am and is only 20 metres from the hotel.


Middle class: Sunrise yoga session in geodesic dome in local olive grove, before dressing the kids in hundreds of pounds-worth of hiking gear and forcing them to walk up a mountain.

Working class: Lying down. Drinking. Sleeping. Loads of it.