Report by Little Jim Ladd (our countrywide reporter of the nation’s underbelly)
Here I am in Belittlehampton, a place where there is a very distinct attitude of superiority which makes visiting the place extremely uncomfortable. Some recent visitors have written on the website that they were constantly subjected to aloofness, snide comments which they could see on all signs around the town. Even their morning wake-up call said, ‘get up you feckless sloven’ and had some tourists in tears.
I asked the town’s mayor, Hugh Briss, why the town looks down on others, “Well, it’s the blue blood, don’t you know. Also, we have many collectors of Royal Doulton miniature toilets that take a real antique eye to identify as inflatedly expensive; no-one of the lower-classes can spot the quality of such ephemera.”
The belief of the members of this, thankfully, little village is one of rank superiority and misguided meritocratic nepotism. Their Croquet teams are made up of only two family names but it is thought that one person later flogged in the square for being outside the clique, was lying about his ancestry. The fact that he was the best croquet player in the village’s history didn’t save him once his deception was blown open when he dropped his guard, it was actually his trousers, in making love to someone not his cousin in the high-treed border of the croquet lawn. There’s also severe irony in this elitist enclave in their once snubbing of national royalty because, the mayor was reported as saying, the national family’s roots were not altogether British.
When there was a national proposal to run a road through the village, the village committee, all named Grindley-Major, insisted on a tunnel so that the villagers could look down on all who used the road. Critics of the village, some of them people who braved, or were ignorant of, the biting opprobrium whilst paying excessive Bed & Breakfast prices, have said that the village still made plenty of cash from the project that was eventually shelved due to rising heckles.
Even the London based executives who tried to broker the deal were made to feel inferior as the village council insisted on negotiations being conducted through a mediator who was, in fact, one of their butlers, Master Mister. Mister’s family were not allowed to live in the village because they were, according to councillors, new money.
The local councillors wear stack heels so they can look down on whoever they encounter, and on an occasion called Foolish Apperception, selected members of the upper middle classes can wear the shoes and be served by their social betters on the council. My visit coincided with the preparations for this annual event and everyone was buzzing with anticipation and, as is their wont, they totally ignored me and our crew as if we were a subclass of human beings. Even the village idiot turned his nose up at us when we approached his semi-thatched cottage for interview.
All villagers practised a callous door-snobbery which was written large on so many signs in the village advising, nay insisting that we as common workers, must use the tradesmen’s entrance, even when accessing the hotel in which we were staying.