While some people dedicate their lives to escaping their working class backgrounds others have no interest in climbing a class ladder, says Laurie Taylor in his weekly column.
Back in the early 70s, the most played record on the Essex Students' Union juke box was We've Got to Get Out of This Place by The Animals. I remember thinking when I heard this news that there was something wonderfully ironic about so many middle class students being able to enjoy the privilege of higher education while simultaneously protesting about the nature of the institution which sought to provide it.
But I also know that my irritation was strengthened by memories of people who really did feel trapped by their circumstances, who desperately desired to get out of their allocated space.
Nobody fought harder than Tony Williams. We were classmates at secondary school for several years before we became friends (I learned later that he'd been afraid to speak to me because I was what he called "a bit la-de-dah"). But even before we started sharing a social life, before we started hanging around chip shops drinking illegal pints of mild and shouting ourselves hoarse in the Boys Pen at Anfield, I knew that Tony was very different from other boys in the class.
For a start there was his handwriting. When ever I turned around during a particularly boring part of a History or RI lesson, I'd spot Tony writing his name over and over again on a blank page in his exercise book. Tony Williams. Tony Williams. Tony Williams. Tony Williams.
And if that was not strange enough, there was also the peculiar bussiness of his voice. When I first knew Tony he'd had a basic raucous Liverpool accent. But by the time he got to the fifth form, he'd developed a much softer tone and odd way rounding his mouth as he spoke as though he was consciously forming each syllable.
I only discovered what lay behind these peculiar practices when we were firm enough friends to talk about what we might do when we left school. After I'd rather airily talked about the bohemian future I fancied for myself, Tony began, very slowly, to give me a picture of his intended future.
And what a picture! Tony slowly told me that what he wanted most of all in the world was to become middle-class. He wanted to get out of the poor terrace house in Bootle which he shared with his widowed dad and gradually climb the social ladder until finally he could move into his dream, into a large detached old house in a country village in the South of England. He told me that he could see this house with absolute clarity, see the ways in which the shadows of the large trees in the garden fell across the manicured lawn, see the tray of full spirit bottles sitting on the antique dresser in the corner of the oak-beamed living room.
It was the desire, the obsession, to realise this dream which informed almost every aspect of Tony's life. If he was going to escape from working class life then he'd have to learn to pass as middle class. This was the reason behind all those hours of handwriting practise, all those hours he'd devoted to replacing his crude scouse accent with a soft slightly over-articulated whisper.
This was also the reason why Tony was only ever to be found reading good books (Dickens and Austen) rather than the Hank Jansense which circulated in the playground. It was the reason he played Mozart at home on his wind-up gramophone rather than Frankie Laine and Johnny Ray. It was I believe the reason he married a lower middle class girl called Veronica who came from the posh part of crosby.
And it was a success story. If you want to find Tony now, all you need to do is drive to a small village in Cambridgeshire, look out for a large detached country house, and there he'll be, sitting back in a well-upholstered armchair, a large whisky in his hand, Cosi Fan Tutte on the Cd player.
He's very successful solicitor, a man of means, a local figure. He has realised his dream. He's got out of the working class and become so thoroughly middle class that one-one would ever imagine his origins.
But not all working-class children and teenagers ascribe to that dream. Despite being offered a whole set of choice points in their lives where they might leave their proletarian roots behind and take a different track to their parents, they still decide, sometimes unthinkingly, to stay where they feel comfortable, to stay true to their class of origin.
Back in the early 70s, the most played record on the Essex Students' Union juke box was We've Got to Get Out of This Place by The Animals. I remember thinking when I heard this news that there was something wonderfully ironic about so many middle class students being able to enjoy the privilege of higher education while simultaneously protesting about the nature of the institution which sought to provide it.
But I also know that my irritation was strengthened by memories of people who really did feel trapped by their circumstances, who desperately desired to get out of their allocated space.
Nobody fought harder than Tony Williams. We were classmates at secondary school for several years before we became friends (I learned later that he'd been afraid to speak to me because I was what he called "a bit la-de-dah"). But even before we started sharing a social life, before we started hanging around chip shops drinking illegal pints of mild and shouting ourselves hoarse in the Boys Pen at Anfield, I knew that Tony was very different from other boys in the class.
For a start there was his handwriting. When ever I turned around during a particularly boring part of a History or RI lesson, I'd spot Tony writing his name over and over again on a blank page in his exercise book. Tony Williams. Tony Williams. Tony Williams. Tony Williams.
And if that was not strange enough, there was also the peculiar bussiness of his voice. When I first knew Tony he'd had a basic raucous Liverpool accent. But by the time he got to the fifth form, he'd developed a much softer tone and odd way rounding his mouth as he spoke as though he was consciously forming each syllable.
I only discovered what lay behind these peculiar practices when we were firm enough friends to talk about what we might do when we left school. After I'd rather airily talked about the bohemian future I fancied for myself, Tony began, very slowly, to give me a picture of his intended future.
And what a picture! Tony slowly told me that what he wanted most of all in the world was to become middle-class. He wanted to get out of the poor terrace house in Bootle which he shared with his widowed dad and gradually climb the social ladder until finally he could move into his dream, into a large detached old house in a country village in the South of England. He told me that he could see this house with absolute clarity, see the ways in which the shadows of the large trees in the garden fell across the manicured lawn, see the tray of full spirit bottles sitting on the antique dresser in the corner of the oak-beamed living room.
It was the desire, the obsession, to realise this dream which informed almost every aspect of Tony's life. If he was going to escape from working class life then he'd have to learn to pass as middle class. This was the reason behind all those hours of handwriting practise, all those hours he'd devoted to replacing his crude scouse accent with a soft slightly over-articulated whisper.
This was also the reason why Tony was only ever to be found reading good books (Dickens and Austen) rather than the Hank Jansense which circulated in the playground. It was the reason he played Mozart at home on his wind-up gramophone rather than Frankie Laine and Johnny Ray. It was I believe the reason he married a lower middle class girl called Veronica who came from the posh part of crosby.
And it was a success story. If you want to find Tony now, all you need to do is drive to a small village in Cambridgeshire, look out for a large detached country house, and there he'll be, sitting back in a well-upholstered armchair, a large whisky in his hand, Cosi Fan Tutte on the Cd player.
He's very successful solicitor, a man of means, a local figure. He has realised his dream. He's got out of the working class and become so thoroughly middle class that one-one would ever imagine his origins.
But not all working-class children and teenagers ascribe to that dream. Despite being offered a whole set of choice points in their lives where they might leave their proletarian roots behind and take a different track to their parents, they still decide, sometimes unthinkingly, to stay where they feel comfortable, to stay true to their class of origin.
