David Cameron and the new aristocratic takeover

In the midst of the 'David Cameron drugs furore' that never was last week, a frankly hilarious picture emerged of the members of a hitherto little known Oxford university dining society, the Bullingdon Club. Featuring both Cameron and every oh-so-ironic student's favourite Boris Johnson, the photograph of the 'class of 87' shows the group standing imperially on the steps of their college, coolly (or rather not so coolly in the case of that twat at the back in the glasses, who I can only assume was the token 'rebel' of the bunch) surveying the pristine lawn and dreaming spires in front of them.



There is an confidence in their posture and a icy assurance in their eyes that only comes from the knowledge of an irrefutable future, the guarantee of success that was achieved on their behalf before they were even born. And they were right. The papers were full of what became of the likely lads. The boys done good.

Of course, the news that public school plus Oxbridge equals hideous wealth and prosperity is nothing surprising. But to this observer at least, the discovery of what goes on beneath the cover of darkness under which high privilege shrouds its' proteges was something of a shock. Reality does not often supersede prejudice, but the revelation that the 'tradition' of the Bullingdon Club is to hire a room in a restaurant under a false name, smash seven shades of shit out of it and chuck wads of tenners at the owner before skipping away, all giggles and smiles, went far beyond my worst suspicions.

It wasn't the trashing of the room aspect that really got me, but the flinging of the money. It demonstrates that the creed of wealth taking precedence over every other consideration is one instilled in the aristocratic youth from adolescence, if not earlier. There is a sense of self-congratulatory righteousness inherent in the act of behaving as you will safe in the knowledge that no consequence is too damaging that it cannot be solved by a wave of a credit card or a shower of notes. It precipitates a feeling of deserving invincibility, a recognition of and pride in all the advantages and freedom that privilege provides, with not a trace of the guilt or self-doubt that one might assume would accompany the realisation that everything the rest of us spend our lives striving to achieve has not so much fallen into your lap but been gently placed there on a silver platter.

What it basically boils down to is that the upper class, for that is what they are, do not only not care that they were born with everything at their feet, they revel in it. The fact that money they have done nothing to earn gives them carte blanche to behave however they like is not a source of guilt or shame but one of pride and self-justification.

Perhaps this is nothing new. But it's spreading.



It may seem a rather bizarre leap from the youthful antics of the future poster boy of the blue rinse brigade to those of the new indie rock celebrity glitterati, and it is, but there is a valid comparision to be made. The behaviour of those bastions of the London celebindie establishment, those privately educated sons and daughters of aging rock stars, actors and whatever the hell Keith Allen is, the Peaches Geldolfs, the Lily Allens, The Horrors and the Jamie Ts, smacks of the same self-congratulatory valediction of the members of the Bullingdon Club.

Careering around London in vintage day-glo, inflicting their god awful djing, 'chav-lite' ramblings or, in the case of Jamie T, cringeworthy public school patois, upon a public who cannot do a thing about it, there is the same self-assured arrogance in their eyes as they stare out at us from the fashion magazines as there is in Cameron and Johnson's on the Oxford steps. Maybe it's the coke. Maybe it's the knowledge and a celebration of an unassailable future. Whatever. It's there.

Is there any difference between destroying a restaurant and contemptously throwing money at the owner and, like Lily Allen or Jamie T, brazenly mimicking and singing songs about a 'chav' lifestyle you have no experience of in an accent carefully constructed from episodes of Eastenders and overheard snippets on the Tube? I don't think so. Jarvis Cocker had it right - 'everybody hates a tourist/especially one who thinks it's all such a laugh'.

And these indie celebs do. Their money gives them the opportunity to pillage and mock lifestyles and cultures, and to live a life creating 'music' and partying that most of those people they parody can only dream of. But it's not real, there is none of the authenticity or commitment that is found in the music of people who make it despite the circumstances of their lives, not because of them. It is privilege, not talent, opening those doors, pure and simple, and they know it. They just don't care. Like the members of the Bullingdon Club, they deserve it.

Imran Ahmed wrote a much better article than I ever could about the takeover of indie rock by the yah-yah brigade. He's possibly even more angry about it than I am, which is nice to see.