You are adept with technology, as comfortable with a digital camcorder
as you are with compressed-air nailgun. You buy an awful lot rugs, and
more tarp. You remain emotionally detached and in the course of your
work routinely ruin people's lives. The only time you allow an
outpouring of emotion is when a former Conservative Prime Minister or
major Royal dies.
You are the least likely social class in Britain to stop if they ran
someone over, and the class most people wish they were. The gap between
rich and poor being what it is, you also have less in common with
average people than any other class in Britain. That is, with the
exception of the Urban Marauder, with whom you share a penchant for
setting fire to tramps.
Congratulations, you are a member of Britain's shrinking middle class.
This means you must shoulder the burden of paying for both the wily
Plutocrats and the workshy poor. Don't worry, though! It's almost
impossible that you will get through your life without having some form
of breakdown, as corporate cost cutting trims your coworkers down to the
point where you are effectively doing six people's jobs for one salary.
You commute so much you effectively live in your car. You spend little
time at home, and all of that is spent sleeping. Honestly, you might as
well live in a shed. You'd never know the difference. But where would
you keep your family? Oh, you have a family? I didn't know. But do you
really? When was the last time you saw them? I probably know them better
than you do. Take a look at your daughter's brazen Facebook selfies! Do you think she's sexually active? Here's a clue: she is.
You will live out your life with a feeling of ennui that no holiday, big
ticket electronics purchase or new car can ever erase. You will always
feel you're being taken advantage of, always feel you're being laughed
at. Well, you are.
All of your hopes will turn to ash and your brain will seize up and
explode on the day you retire. Your daughter will use your savings for a
Everything about you is bland. Your interests are pedestrian and your
opinions barely formed. You probably like TV or a sport. Chart music is
aimed at you, and you buy a CD once a year from Asda - this business
model only works because there are so many of you.You probably haven't given it much thought, but your only purpose is to consume goods to keep Britain's stumbling retail and service sector afloat. You are the kind of person who eats at TGI Friday's and likes movies with Sam Worthington.
You are the happiest social class. Here is a tax rebate. Go and spend it
on a G-Star Raw t-shirt and another meaningless tattoo of a star.
You want to be famous, but you aren't. At least, not yet. Frustratingly, you might already actually be a "media personality" except no one knows who you are. Perhaps you've appeared in Essex Girls in the Jungle or Fuck Up My House Please, but it isn't delivering the level of super-stardom you expected. There are only three ways to fix this: getting horrendous plastic surgery, a sex tape or killing someone more famous than you.
It would be a mistake to think you're not creative, though. Could a mediocre mind come up with taping a Stanley knife to the head of a hammer?
Essentially, you are living the life of a post-apocalyptic land pirate now, and for that you should be admired, if not applauded. Please don't kill me.