CLASS
The way I say ‘class’ tells you mine. I am a working class hero.
The easiest answer to anyone who asks me why I often write about class is that it’s just who I am – my class is the heart of me. My background shaped my opinions and my nature. It’s what I sound like and look like and identify as.
But you could point out, ‘Yeah, but you now live in Crouch End down that there London. You left your hometown of Coalville (a now defunct pit town, rather than a metaphor like Coketown in Dickens’ Hard Times) decades ago. You have a Smeg fridge.
I do. It still makes me laugh. I’m immature as well as common.
I was the first in my family to have a flash fridge, the first to have a washing machine, the first to go to University, the first to have a credit card, and the first to date a lord. (I felt like a different species. I couldn’t get my head round how someone didn’t have to have a job!)
Under the heading of why I write about class (and class features in my writing even if I don’t set out with that at the forefront of my mind) are sub-sections—
WHY I CHAMPION THE UNDERDOG – Because I have a natural empathy and identification with those characters. Branded a dirty gyppo at school for living in a caravan, I know what bullying and prejudice feels like.
WHY I HAVE A CHIP ON MY SHOULDER – See above. Also, as John Lennon sang, they hate if you’re clever so I had more than my fair share of fights at school.
As I went on to try and make my way in the world I found that if you’re not a bit bolshy or cheeky, if you sound and look like me, you’re often overlooked and dismissed.
WHY I ONLY WRITE FOR MONEY. The short answer is because I need to. It’s not just professional pride; I fear being poor. If you grew up when jam on bread was sometimes a main meal because we had nothing else, your view of life might be a little mercenary.
In the past, when I was on telly, I earned, according to my dad, a window cleaner, ‘fucking shedloads’ and I also had a time when I only earned £15 a week (from the Islington Gazette, God bless them) struggling with negative equity, the first time my career crashed. When I lose any job, it feels like the end of the world.
I am always worried about money. ALWAYS.
It took me decades to have the courage to give myself the luxury of time to write creatively because it wasn’t ‘earning.’ There were only a couple of working class students on my post-grad Journalism and MA in Creative Writing courses and I wonder if that’s because education costs A LOT and we all know how much the arts are valued in this country.
It was drummed into me from a very young age that I had to work hard. I’ve worked for as long as I can remember. I worked for pocket money— helping my dad on his window cleaning round and with his paperwork; helping my mum clean shop floors; delivering newspapers; babysitting; before getting a Saturday job at Halfords. I worked in a biscuit factory, on the fairground, in a warehouse. This instils a great work ethic, but it was less great when I was persuaded by parents and teachers not to do English but to concentrate on science A Levels which would lead to a ‘good job.’ There was hell to pay when I gave up Chemistry and Engineering Science (I was hopeless) after a term to do what I loved. There was little support for me doing an English degree, but thanks to a full grant and working my way through University my parents didn’t really have a say. (I worked as a life model and promotions girl. I was the only student I knew who paid tax.)
Despite the grind and the hardships, I’m proud of my background, especially working class humour. But I would have loved to have had the sort of childhood where confidence and creativity were encouraged.
The awful ‘Cor Blimey, Mary Poppins’ views of working class characters in some novels set my teeth on edge. But from A Kestrel for a Knave, to Shuggie Bain, via How I Killed Margaret Thatcher there are those magical moments which speak directly to me. My ambition is to add to that body of work.