Hard Working Class 

I was born with a coffee spoon in my mouth 

belonging to T.S. Eliot, 

mewling in perfect trochees. 

When I was pulled to my mother’s bosom, 

I said: “Mine’s a schooner of soya milk, please”. 

I got into espresso when I was about eight. 

I was up all night, eyes like satellites, 

but how else are you meant to get Dostoevsky? 

When I earned my first pocket money, 

I bought The Guardian for a treat, 

and a Mirror and a Bounty for my Mum –  

while she stabbed at the Arrowword and watched Corrie, 

I compared and contrasted passages for fun. 

When I got my English SATs result 

(I’d discussed Dickens and Milton), 

my Mum said she’d buy us a Maccies, 

I said: “Are you mad? 

Crack open some stilton”.  

So I arrived on this earth with extravagant tastes 

but I carried myself like I was poor. 

I was bent over too soon, 

weighed by childish things 

like lice 

and police, 

and I don’t mean the weekly bath before Heartbeat 

(ba da ba ba da). 

The pests had more security of tenure than we did. 

Reading was my drumbeat out 

and I struck and I struck and I struck at it. 

I became officially Working Class 

when I applied for a part-time job at college 

and was handed a form for equal opportunity: 

“What profession did your breadwinner parent 

do when you were about 14?”.  

Well, my Mum was a teaching assistant by then 

and my stepdad was a stonemason 

and I think he earned more actually 

although there was a recession on. 

But, what about when I was 4, 

and my Mum was… having a breakdown 

and my real Dad was… a criminal? 

And, if you fast forward to 24, 

my Mum will qualify to be a teacher (fucking hero) 

and my Dad’ll be dead (less so). 

“Just tick a box, love”,  

the working class lady on reception said. 

So “Working Class” I picked with my pen, 

till the revolution do us part. 

“Ey up,” I immediately thought to myself, 

“As a budding writer, I best make working class art”. 

I kept trying to write novels 

to capture how working people flow. 

State of the nation. A fucking mess. 

They say write who you know. 

At Uni, I learned I was also Northern 

and that was a thing 

so I spooned on my accent 

cos southerners 

like to lay geography thick.  

When I graduated   

(1st working class)   

I settled into the chips in my identity, 

determined to work in the world of the real: 

cafes, bars, shops, data entry… 

The pride of my life 

was walking miles as a postman –  

getting bad joints for the queen. 

I even became a Communication Workers Union Learning Rep (me!)  

and gave a speech at conference about housing 

(I’d been a homeless volunteer). 

Well, I accidentally campaigned right into a bloody career! 

It started as banners in basements with mates, 

statements of solidarity, 

but it soon seemed as if the housing crisis 

might be as much about maths as sociology. 

So I followed the money 

with my English Lit degree. 

Today, I help to build Council homes for a living, 

by doing the boring reckoning behind the scenes. 

My day-to-day’s all legalese and viabilities 

(turns out, nothing’s viable, 

not even those luxury skyscrapers 

they’re building –  

we’re gonna need a bigger calculator).  

These days, I live in a working class semi 

in a working class suburb – there’s leaves! 

I work as a working class chartered surveyor. 

I go to working class poetry eves. 

I have working class kids called Sylvia and Lorca. 

I have working class aliens called Sylvia and Lorca –  

a confiscated ipad’s traumatic, they grieve. 

Meanwhile, my working class brother’s long-term unemployed, 

my working class comrade’s off sick. 

My working class cousin’s doing a PhD in socialism. 

Apparently, they’re “capitalist pacifists”. 

My working class auntie’s retired in the sun. 

My working class granddad’s industry’s long-gone. 

His son’s reduced to doing this and that for cash, 

like the super-rich, except he has none. 

Our havens, and hells, have become  

islands of one. 

God, I have a confession 

(for shame, don’t tell my family): 

if I were middle class… 

(massive if) 

I would fucking love it. 

I’d avocado with abandon 

and still manage a mortgage. 

I’d watch Sunday breakfast politics with a glass of vino 

(it’s not alcoholic if you’re middle class) 

while scrolling Rightmove with my hand down my chinos.  

I’d run. Up hills. For pleasure! 

I’d wear a ladder like a necklace so I could measure 

everyone and everything I meet 

and always know where I am: centre. 

Alas! I’m fated forever to be… 

Ee, I need a breather, 

some picky bits and plonk 

(to translate: tapas and a bottle of Shiraz). 

I tell you, you lot don’t know you’re born –  

it’s hard work keeping this working class.