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.




Paul Sutton
Illustration Nick Victor

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