It’s a Tough Job Being a Snob

Well it is, isn’t it? Carrying around the relentless responsibility of having superior taste and judgement to everyone else really takes it out of you. Whole days have been lost to reminding people that I sleep on Egyptian cotton (that’s cotton from Egypt, people! EGYPT!!), get a rash if I go too near a Primark, and was once sick in someone’s actual face for offering me Tesco’s own Chablis… but the prospect of the alternative, the option of people not knowing these things, practically gives me panic attacks. But it’s okay, I’m with BUPA.

Aside from this exertion, there’s also the never-ending task of meeting people of which I know nothing about but making sure they’re aware that I fully judge them for being so fucking cluelessly poor. No, it’s simply not enough for me to be able to spend more than you, nor is it adequate that I tell you about this bounteously often – more often, in fact, than I refill my nifty little Aeroccino machine, or snatch non-organic foodstuff from my children’s paws screaming “NICE PEOPLE DON’T EAT THAT, PERSEPHONE!”  – because you need to know that your own choices are filthy dirty, or you’ll never learn.

And this takes so much time: being blessed with the ability to sense the horrifying absence of labels – those all important bits-of-fabric-with-posh-names-on-sewn-onto-other-bits-of-fabric-people-put-on-their-bodies – means that I have just a frightful amount of looking down on people to do, and people will insist on having all these ruddy opinions and choices and that. Totes FML. So if people could all just STOP buying clothes at bloody ASDA yet somehow pretending your outfit isn’t probably giving you dysentery or something then you’d save me a whole lot of tutting, thanks.

And of course, I haven’t even begun to tell you about the amount of persecution I suffer for my beliefs. It’s a good job I’ve got these luxury pure cotton designer finest extra-special sniff-the-difference handkerchiefs in which to cry out all my tears for all the flack I get pointing out just how wrong the rest of world has got it. Day in, day out, these silly little people think it’s acceptable to gnash their teeth at me for pointing out where they’re blatantly going wrong in their lives, as if this idea is somehow remotely flawed in any way. Telling me what to do and how to live and presuming they know best?! Who do these idiots think they are?

Maybe if you all just accepted that some expensive things are better than other, less expensive ones, even if they do look identical and perform exactly the same function in every way, and that I’m better than you for pointing it out, then we could all be a lot happier and start tackling more important things like why Ofcom think it’s alright to not ban the things I complain about but didn’t watch, or why all the alleged ‘music’ released since 1892 is JUST NOISE.


3 thoughts on “It’s a Tough Job Being a Snob

  1. I know what you mean darling. I had to ask the person siting next to me on the tube this morning to move because my friend Ophelia actually did catch dysentry off a girl who confessed to wearing an outfit which cost under £20 in its entirety.

  2. I blame the public education system. Equip these people with a few paltry skills and they believe themselves entitled to some consideration. It’s simply not to be tolerated.

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