Although a working-class lad – my father a Derbyshire glue-miner, mother a sock fitter – I rose to prominence at Oxford, eventually joining the Bullingdon Club.
I was merciless in my exploits.
My inner knowledge allowed me to sniff-out members of the lower orders – many were exterminated in gravel pits, at Radley.
You may think this tasteless, but my intentions were hilarity.
Especially beloved were newly-opened restaurants, where pitiful owners “sunk life-savings” into dreams of regeneration with food fit for The Guardian.
We’d dress as Congolese nuns, enquiring if an annual prayer meeting could be held there – offering extraordinary largesse.
Needless to say, the place would be obliterated.
People are extraordinarily tolerant of privilege – many thanked us for utterly destroying their dreams.
Have you ever been in a housing estate, on Christmas Eve?
The lights twinkling and the sound of broken bones?
If you have, such frippery can be excused.
You see, there must be a moral.
In many ways, I regret those days.
I see a huge metaphor working its way outwards.
Now I plan caravans and stress-free retreats.
Weep at road-kills, horses in winter coats.
Please remember, everyone gets hurt.
Illustration Nick Victor