The Mail yesterday pretended there was class war afoot: Evil NuLab were supposedly chewing up middle-class babies by the atrocity of trying to make less good schools as good as good schools.
But today, in the Mail, comes evidence - if evidence were needed - that some form of class war wouldn't be an entirely bad thing. Read this, if you can, from start to finish, and tell me that it wouldn't be so much of a crime if this woman were to be drowned in a washing-up bowl of boiling dogshit, with her corpse tarred and feathered and hung from a gibbet on Westminster Bridge as a warning to others. Tell me that would be wrong. Go on, tell me. I know you can't.
What is a girl like me doing in a shop like this? It was once said that I wore a Christian Dior suit to work. This was a lie. The suit was Giorgio Armani.
My idea of a bargain has always been the Harvey Nichols sale, while my food has been sourced locally from Waitrose.
Lately, in the light, or rather dark, of the credit crunch I have tried to curb my spendthrift ways. Over Christmas, I went as far as to visit the cut-price shop TK Maxx in Kensington, where I bought a dress for £249.
Oh, you poor cunt. Imagine the shame and degradation of having to buy a dress for such a disgracefully awful cut-price markdown. Two hundred and forty-nine pounds! Why, I can find such a pathetically small amount of money just fishing around in my pocket looking for a Chewit, can't I? Isn't it abominable having to eschew the delights of Harvey Nicks for shops where - gasp - people who didn't go to quite the same schools as we did might be allowed through the doors?
Yes, it's Petronella Wyatt, being made to shop in Poundland! Guffaw! Let's have a fucking laugh-and-point at how the poor people, often *whispers* black don't you know, do their shopping! Isn't it a hoot! See, it's the credit crunch and some people who are really rich might have to look down the bargain aisle in Waitrose rather than having an F&M hamper for that Glyndebourne picnic! Oh the delight of it all! Isn't it simply hilarious?!
Er, no. You try shopping in shitholes for weeks on end and you see what a fucking treat it is. You see if you're still laughing as you force down the mystery meat in your 900th Farm Foods ready meal in a row, Petronella. Mind you, you don't need to, you get paid a fucking fortune because you're already rich to write articles at 'let's pretend we're poor because isn't it funny?'. Fuck off. If someone blew up your Range Rover with you inside it, I wouldn't shed a tear - unless an innocent person got slightly injured by the shrapnel or a fragment of your skull whizzing through the air, obviously.
I wouldn't mind if she'd managed to write anything remotely funny, self-deprecating or insightful. But no. It's a clusterfuck of crapness, overwhelmingly smug and depressingly dismal.