A little-discussed aspect of the British class system — which, thankfully, everyone has stopped pretending doesn’t still exist — is that one doesn’t have to be pure bred. The categories aren’t as rigid as you think. It’s not just “underclass, working class, middle class, posh”. You can be a hybrid of these classes — like a human cockapoo, or a griffin.
For example: David Beckham. Sir David Beckham now — and, therefore, a member of the most upper. Even without his title, David Beckham’s adult life is like that of a prince or a king. Multiple houses, private yachts and jets, and the financial freedom to do pretty much whatever he wants, whenever he wants. Indeed, Beckham — estimated fortune, together with his wife, £500 million — is much, much richer than either the King of Belgium (€12.4 million, or £10.6 million) or the King of Spain (only €2.6 million, apparently, although he does have access to a lot of palaces, which must be a comfort).
And yet recently, when dining at the Michelin-starred Core by Clare Smyth in Notting Hill, London, Sir David eschewed the seven-course £255 menu and requested a pie — served with Bisto. Made from instant granules. £2.95 from Sainsbury’s.
At this moment, I hope we can all observe that while Beckham isn’t financially or materially working class any more, he is still, in some aspects, culturally working class.
This isn’t a little discussed aspect of class in England. It’s the heart and the core of class in England and always has been. The very centre of most comedies of manners for example.
Sheesh, and in The Times too. Tempora, mores etc etc eheu.
A statement of the bleeding obvious claiming to be a deep and profound insight. I remember that, in the Just William books, Violet Elizabeth’s mother was a rather common woman whose husband had made a fortune by inventing a popular sauce. Lots of malapropisms and misplaced aitches were her style.
If you asked Beckham what a parvenu was he’d probably say that Stamford Bridge was a par venue.
Sheridan, Wilde, Kipling, Wodehouse, EF Benson, Richmal Compton … Not to mention every sitcom on the wireless and telly since 1930…
Cliff Morgan once met Richard Burton in LA. They went out to a posh restaurant and had egg and chips.
What sort of arsehole goes to a 3 Michelin star restaurant and orders a pie with bisto? That is as ridiculous as demanding your local pub serve you a seven course tasting menu.
Dear God but the Times is shit and Caitlin Moron is the worst thing in it.
Surely the editor of the ‘Times’ understands the term ‘nouveau riche’ even if Caitlin doesn’t?
‘private yachts’
You Brits have public yachts?
One of the great things about wealth, and the freedom it brings, is you can eat WTF you want to, not what the Times says you should eat.
I’ve got to agree with you, Gamecock!!!
Beckham is an oik.
You can take the man out of Essex but you can’t take Essex out of the man.
“Dear God but the Times is shit and Caitlin Moron is the worst thing in it.”
I knew it’d be either the Times or the Guardian. Nobody else gives a shit.
Reminded of a story about Michael Caine – offered the ‘special’ of veal brains at Langans, he said not only did he not want brains he didn’t want any table around him to have brains either ‘laddy’. When the waiter tried to object, MC had to point out he owned the restaurant!
Kind of with Marius here – the more graceful approach is to ask the chef to show him what he can do with a basic meat pie, ‘none of this fancy stuff’.
I have held the Queen’s Commission for over 65 years, and by definition A Gentlemen, I have been decorated by the Sultan of Oman (I only got the equivalent of a Crackerjack pencil from her Maj), I hold a Master’s Degree, I’m reasonably couth and civilised. But deep down I’m still a lad born in a Derbyshire mining village, the roots never die.
If you don’t fancy what’s on the menu just ask for an omelette with tarragon and gruyere.
“Certainly, sir, how many eggs?”
“Fourteen.”
There was that famous comedy sketch with the Two Ronnies and John Cleese. A few years ago some guy came up with the notion that there were seven levels of class in Britain, rather than three. There were the elite at one end, the precariat at the other end, and then five levels in between. He came up with a questionnaire which my work mates and I all filled in to work out were we were in the social pecking order, not taking it at all seriously but answering honestly. I recall that liking classical music and live theatre improved your score, your actual wealth was still considered an issue but less so. My family and I were apparently level two, just one below the elite. One colleague remarked that standards must be slipping.
If people liked something when they were young there’s a pretty good chance they’ll still like it as adults.
@TD: as a counterexample I offer Mars bars.
@TD: as a counterexample I offer
Evo stik
Meat pies in W11 eh? Nothing wrong with that. The meat pie is one of the heights of English cuisine. What I always ordered in Julie’s (when Julie was running it), another W11 Michelin starred restaurant. And superb it was. However putting Bisto gravy granules on anything should be a capital crime.
as a counterexample I offer Mars bars.
Deep fried or au naturel?
Beckham probably had a look at what the seven course menu offered and said what I do in too Italian restaurants.
“Rapini again? F*ck that noise, give me a pie. I’m rich enough to eat what I want.”
Je voudrais une caviare et foie gras pastete, svp.
“the British class system — which, thankfully, everyone has stopped pretending doesn’t still exist”
Nope: I doubt that a system exists. Class consciousness exists, especially in England, but “system” – no, I suspect not.
Even odder is the belief that class consciousness doesn’t exist in other countries – anyone who believes that must be startlingly ill travelled and prone not to talk to foreigners.
Marius:
What sort of arsehole goes to a 3 Michelin star restaurant
You could have stopped here.
>Gamecock
August 18, 2025 at 10:16 am
‘private yachts’
You Brits have public yachts?
You have to have money for a public yacht – the private ones are for the commoners;)
Has Beckham ever once said, condesceningly “Call me Dave”? Just a wild guess but I think “Never”.
So definitely not posh…
Marius,
“What sort of arsehole goes to a 3 Michelin star restaurant and orders a pie with bisto? That is as ridiculous as demanding your local pub serve you a seven course tasting menu.”
It’s just about being seen and the chef is probably canny enough to send someone out to the nearest Waitrose, pay £5, stick it in the oven and charge £225.
They strike me as the sort of people whose grandchildren will be back in clogs. Like he has a cellar with various top end clarets, but at this stage, you’re just paying for names. I’ve tasted Mouton-Rothschild (£400+ a bottle) next to Chateau d’Armailhac (£45) and preferred the cheaper wine.