Sweary

Here’s something I’ve never come across before.

One of my friends was talking the other day about how posh her upbringing was, and how her mother was recently delighted to come across another Irish person who had a drawing room. Not a “Good Room”, as my friend was keen to point out when I mentioned that so many of us weren’t allowed to use our mammy’s chosen reception room as children. An actual drawing room. Called a drawing room. Not the sitting room which lay covered in dust because all of us plebs were raised in asthma-inducing, Benson-flavoured kitchens. An actual, not-a-sitting-room room within which one could entertain, or do embroidery, or… draw? I dunno. What the fuck do you do in a drawing room anyway?

Bound by the time-honoured traditions of the Irish gossip storyteller, I went home and told Swe.Ge all about my friend’s illustrious snobbery.

“What the devil?” he exclaimed, pushing his monocle firmly back into an eye socket. “My parents had a drawing room! Why, drawing rooms are as plentiful as Mary Coughlan’s prejudices!”

“Really?” says I. “Coz she wasn’t on about a Good Room, like.” A Good Room is something I never had, incidentally, as there were too many of us in the 3-bed terraced to fit in the kitchen; we splayed all over the house like the Chosen on the debris of an exploded bus.

“I declare that we had a drawing room. Now good day to you!” and he continued sipping his port and reading Horse and Hound.

Now. Clearly I am too far gone into the wilds of skangerdom, because while I was aware and had indeed taken part in the onedownmanship of misery confined to our poverty and trackie tops, I had absolutely no idea that Ireland’s middle classes competed to a similar degree. And I don’t mean snobbery, for an Irish person will never be happy that they have/had a drawing room… far from it! They will consider it a shocking burden and a cross to bear, so their onedownmanship is also tied in with misery, the misery of being a posh posh cunt in a country where being a posh posh cunt is associated with being… Protestant. Which is obviously a terrible, terrible thing to be when the local Catholic priests have cold shoulders and fast cars.

So, readers. You can tell me. Which of you lot are middle class, and how absolutely awful was it for you? I have, for your convenience, attached a splendid table below which should help you identify how deeply you were wedged into the gentry, so please take that as a sign of my genuine interest and concern. The last time I was wedged into the gentry was that drunken night out with the Irish rugb… never mind.

Oh, and by the way. Swe.Ge’s mum was here on a visit not so long ago, and told me in no uncertain terms that they never had a drawing room. Make of that what you will. I made tears of derision!

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Sweary