I am writing today about class and, as a result, the temptation is strong to
reach for The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations. It’s the first port of call
for any best man or public speaker and contains, I’m sure, many pithy
observations on the subject.
I would dearly love to begin by saying: “As GK Chesterton once said . . .” Or,
failing that, it would be nice to bring Kafka into it. But you’ve seen the
photograph on this page. You know that eventually this will be about a
Skoda. So . . .
While interviewing Melanie C the other night Jonathan Ross said she was
common. She disagreed, saying she preferred to be called working class, and
because this was going nowhere the interview moved on.
Not in my head it didn’t. Mrs Thatcher argued, after five years of hammering a
square-pegged meritocracy into the British class system’s round hole, that
the amount of money you have, not how you hold your knife and fork, was the
pointer. And on that basis the working class was gone.
American though this view may be, her argument held water. I mean, by the time
she’d finished plumbers were earning more than barristers. Because of her
half the aristocracy now have to eke out a living spinning wool.
The trouble is that things are still a little confused. Think about it. You’ve
got the dusty old aristocrat roasting his dog on the fire to keep warm,
having sold his children for medical experiments, watching a former Spice
Girl who’s on television claiming to be working class. Really? Her shoes
were worth more than his house.
I had dinner the other night in the Ivy with a girl who claimed to be working
class. But I know for a fact she owns her own jet.
Why people still think it important to be working class I have no idea. If I
told you that my dad left school at 14 and was a butcher’s boy would you
think any better of me? Does it give me extra bonus points, more street
cred? Maybe it’s an Aldous Huxley thing. In his Brave New World the epsilons
are pleased to be epsilons and have menial jobs because they don’t want the
responsibility that goes with being an alpha or a beta. We never find out
what happens after the system breaks down but we can be sure the epsilons
will continue to feel the same way.
Maybe because Ms C’s mother used to clean the front step every day with a
brush made out of old bed springs she cannot shake off the notion that she’s
poor and that poorness lets her lick at the salt of the earth.
That’s going to make life difficult for her children. “You’re working class,”
she’ll bark as they traipse up and down Sloane Street looking for an Armani
carrycot.
I call it the Cilla Black syndrome. The ginger crone passes up no opportunity
to remind the world that she’s from the arse end of Liverpool. But where
does she live now? I have no idea but I’ll bet everything I own that it’s
not the arse end of Liverpool.
However, despite the confusion and the blurred edges, back in February a judge
decided that the working class does exist.
A property company had bought some rundown old houses from Kensington and
Chelsea borough council and had received permission to convert them into
four luxury homes. But the Earl of Cadogan argued that when his family had
sold the properties to the council back in 1929, it had been with the
condition that they be used “for the benefit of the working classes”.
Why Cadogan should be so worried about such a thing is unclear. Maybe he fears
that without a working class there would be no upper class. Maybe he wanted
some low-cost housing in Chelsea to maintain a steady supply of cleaners and
odd-jobmen. Or maybe he genuinely cares for the plight of the poor. He lost
the action but the judge, Mr Justice Etherton, agreed with the earl that the
working class does still exist.
Of course it does. But now it doesn’t matter. The working classes are not made
to sail to America in the bowels of ships. In fact, since it’s always the
tail of an aeroplane that remains intact in a crash, it could be argued that
in the age of flight you’re safer in steerage.
Working class people no longer have to stand aside for the gentry on
pavements, nor do they have to doff their caps. They live where they’ve
always lived, but now they have central heating. They drink where they’ve
always drunk, but now they can have bottled lager. And they drive what
they’ve always driven, which means a Skoda.
It’s not that long ago that this was a bad thing. A Skoda had its engine at
the back and a swing axle that would steer you into the nearest tree if you
even so much as thought about going round a corner.
Now, though, things are different. I’ve just spent the week with an Octavia
vRS estate which, on the face of it, is a Golf with the Volkswagen badges
ripped off and some Skoda badges nailed on instead.
It’s actually not as simple as that. Its engine may be the ubiquitous
turbocharged 1.8 litre four — the diesel soundalike that you get in the VW
Beetle, Golf and Passat, the Seat Leon and a whole range of Audis, including
the A3, the A4, the TT and the A6.
The Skoda, however, gets a mildly tickled version that produces 180bhp. The
Octavia is therefore quite fast. It’ll never rip up the tarmac or vacuum
passing cyclists into the air intake but you can make progress.
Then there’s the price. Not only does it have more power than some Golfs
wearing a GTi badge it seems to be more substantial inside and out. Despite
this, however, it only costs £15,800. You get more for your money on the
other side of the tracks.
My favourite thing about it, though, was the ride. With its deep front airdam,
fat alloy wheels, vivid green brake calipers and a significant roof spoiler,
it looks like it’s going to be a ramrod-hard GTi. But the country that gave
the world a velvet revolution has now given us velvet engineering. There’s
grip and handling, but there’s a smoothness too, over even the most vicious
bumps.
Inside it’s like all the best working class homes. Lots and lots of electrical
appliances and some garish furniture. My test car came with black and white
seats but left a few days later, after a few school runs, with black, white,
orange, brown and green seats. White upholstery? In a family car? What were
they thinking of for God’s sake? In lesser models you can specify a luxury
trim called Laurin and Klement, which sounds like some kind of god-awful
clothing range from Man at Asda. Or perhaps a watch with delusions of
grandeur, but it seems Laurin and Klement were in fact the entrepreneurs who
started the company back in 1895.
In terms of practicality, well, let me put it like this: most cameramen I work
with use people carriers, vans or enormous 4x4s to cart around their kit.
They need something big to carry the lenses, the tripods, the track, the
lights and all the other gubbins.
But the cameraman who seems to carry more stuff than all the others rocks up
on shoots in his Octavia estate. It really does have a vast boot.
Of course when all is said and done it’s a Skoda, which is fine for the
working class, who don’t care what people think. And the upper class, who
also don’t care what people think.
That’s the worst thing about being middle class. The snobbery. The need to
come across as being cleverer and richer than you really are.
I think William Makepeace Thackeray had some things to say on the subject. But
if you don’t mind I’ll spare myself the embarrassment of telling you what
they were.
VITAL STATISTICS
Model Skoda Octavia vRS estate
Engine type Four cylinders, 1781cc
Power 180bhp @ 5500rpm
Torque 173 lb ft @ 1950rpm
Transmission Five-speed manual
Suspension (front) MacPherson struts, coil springs, anti-roll
bar; (rear) torsion beam, coil springs, anti-roll bar
Tyres 205/55 R16
Dimensions 4513mm length; 1731mm width; 1457mm height
C02 192g/km
Fuel 35.3mpg (combined)
Top speed 143mph
Acceleration 0 to 62mph: 8secs
Price £15,805
Verdict Great ride and handling, fast, excellent value and
gigantic boot. Just avoid the crazy white seats
