A call has gone out to take the pasty row to the doors of George Osborne’s family business this Wednesday 11th April. Assorted miscreants will gather outside Osborne & Little on the Kings Road in Chelsea from noon armed only with righteous indignation, and Greggs pasties.
Osborne & Little is Gideon Osborne’s daddy’s posh wallpaper shop. Sir Peter Osborne and his mummy, Felicity Alexandra Loxton-Peacock, both worked very hard to get Gideon where he is today. This paid for the privilege and private education that has allowed their wretched spawn to run rampant with the economy. Like the rest of this toff Government, Gideon Osborne has never had a proper job. All his millions came from mum and dad. If he’d been to a comprehensive school he’d be little more than some creepy shyster trying to flog vacuum cleaners from door to door or working behind the counter of a high street loan shark. Think Ian Beale without the chip shop. The type of person who answers unsolicited emails from African dignitaries or sends off for Get Rich Quick schemes he found in the classifieds of Nuts magazines. Far from his previous cossetted existence of cocaine and high class hookers, he’d be wanking off over phone sex lines he rang whilst round at his mates house and nicking his Nan’s sleeping pills.
Yet the perversity of class hierarchy has long allowed chinless fucking idiots like George Gideon Osborne to achieve political success. You only need to look at the braying mob of public schoolboys in Parliament to see the standards are set pretty low. Osborne is where he is today because of his father’s money. Join the mob at Osborne & Little and demand that they keep their odious and errant offspring under control.
I can’t make it, but would thoroughly recommend it. Whatever happens it’s likely to be a laugh. Last time I went to Chelsea I ended up chucked out of pub after pub, with a companion wearing a nicked ball gown and my over-sized trainers. I was barefoot. I walked into a boutique and nicked some well posh sun glasses, only to lose them within five minutes of leaving. The last thing I remember is standing on a post box shouting whilst my loyal friend scarpered. This seemed somewhat unfair as she had by far been the most responsible for the pub bannings. Acid, neat scotch and sleep deprivation can do funny things*. But everyone was awfully nice. You can get away with fucking anything in places like Chelsea. Everyone assumes you’re just some errant toff slumming it. Should your proletarian status be revealed then you will be met with a mixture of pity, disbelief and terror. They still probably won’t call the filth unless you nick their ipad. It’s a different world but it’s still our world. Take the class war to Chelsea this Wednesday!
The fine animation above is from the Anarchist Media Project.
*I should point out this all happened a long time ago.