Don’t get me wrong. I’m no snob. No, really. I’m not…but there is just something about the common masses that just doesn’t seem to add up.
I’m sat around the pool in a small family run hotel in Crete. Normally this would be a perfect little haven of tranquility in a fucked up world. Unfortunately, there are people here. People who, to use the topical word of the moment, could best be described as ‘plebs’.
To be frank, I was a little unsure as to what exactly a pleb was – so I’m grateful to Andrew Mitchell for explaining it to me. To illustrate, here comes Mrs. Pleb, characterised by her enormous waistline, a complete lack of dress sense – probably unable to decipher what the strange flat, reflective silvery thing on the wall is – and the ever present fag hanging from the corner of her mouth, bobbing up and down as she speaks.
She plods across the pool area in her diamante studded flip flops and eases her enormous bulk into a a cheap plastic sun lounger that creaks and groans under the strain. Then, just when you thought things couldn’t get worse, she releases the two buckets and a yard rope that pass as her bikini – yes, I did say bikini – top and out flop the biggest pair of greasy tits that you could possibly imagine. I immediately dismiss all thoughts of lunch.
Surely, it can’t get any worse? But yes, it can…
Mrs. Pleb is gregarious. She loves a good chat. especially with Mrs. Pleb2 on the next sun bed. This involves her leaning forwards so that her disgusting breasts are now resting on her huge stomach which in turn sags across her enormous thighs, making it impossible for the casual observer to define where each ends and the next begins. What a vision of loveliness this makes.