I met Desmond via my in-laws, who lived in a classic and very respectable English market town. A tubby, bustling, jovial fellow, Desmond was well known to all in the Rotary / Conservatives / Probus circles (Freemasons too, I'm guessing). He had been brewery manager at a well-known county firm, and was now comfortably retired with his wife in a smart bungalow, very much playing the latter-day country squire. When he wasn't out shooting, he attended every good lunch and dinner going - and that's quite a lot in a town of that sort. He was easy to like, but behind his back there was a lot of cheery laughter at his expense, because at every meal, his roving eyes were on the lookout for extra helpings: "... If you're not going to eat those parsnips ...", and he would brazenly help himself to his neighbours' (plural) unwanted scoff. This is not at all the done thing in these circles, but Desmond was shameless. And tubby.
The other aspect of note was that Desmond plus Mrs were always off shopping in the smart stores in the bigger county towns, and would invariably lunch there too. This small-scale but relentless extravagance was also widely commented upon - even well-off county folk tend to abstain from conspicuous over-consumption - and one day it came to a juddering halt. The consumerist couple had, it transpired, taken out all the equity from the bungalow, spent themselves into the ground, handed the keys back to the bank and, accurately presenting as homeless and penniless, threw themselves on the mercy of the local authority.
By some miracle, they were immediately found a small but comfortable flat at minimal rent in a sheltered housing complex based around a smart 18th century town house in pleasant grounds, not two miles from where they lived before. Doubtless, several other welfare benefits flowed: if means-testing was involved, they qualified! After the immediate disbelief had worn off, the reactions of their many acquaintances were critical, but by no means terminally outraged: nor were Desmond & Mrs shunned from polite society. Somehow in all this they had managed to keep the shotguns & car - and proceeded to continue with life much as before, less the shopping and lunching expeditions. Well, there was nowhere to put new purchases any longer. Amazing stuff. Over time, the commentary perceptibly shifted from "feckless bugger" to "not sure why we don't do that, too!" As periodic visitors to this saga of everyday county life, Mrs Drew and I were possibly even more surprised by the widespread eventual acceptance of Desmond's dissolute doings than we were by the deed itself. We even half-wondered if we were detecting a faint new hint of "oh well, eat, drink and be merry, eh?" in the general attitude of Desmond's circles.
Anyhow, notwithstanding his shameless insouciance there was probably some stress involved in all this for the portly Desmond, and some months later he suffered a heart attack. He lasted but a few days in hospital and suffered a fatal relapse after lunch one day. Fittingly, his last words were reliably said to have been: "I never did get my pudding..." Middle-class entitlement, eh?
He would have wanted to go that way, everyone agreed.
ND
9 comments:
Why have assets the government can plunder when you can instead live off the state teat?
Don’t fully approve but actually rather like it.
Can’t take it with you, and don’t leave it for Rachel from Accounts.
I sorta get it.
What became of Mrs Desmond, ND?
Guess it all depends on who you know in Social Services/council.
These days some blue-hair might have put them in a one-bed flat on the roughest estate in town, the sort of place where a trip to the local chippie after dark has to be planned like a rendition mission in Pakistan.
Anon 12:51: Mrs Desmond did just fine. She, too, was likeable (I sat next to her at a lengthy lunch once and can testify to her good conversation). She was also extremely fussy & picky, though it was waiters, shop staff and Desmond that mostly suffered. And of course extravagant - before The Fall.
She didn't drive or shoot, so would have cashed in the guns and car. And he must have left her a decent pension from the brewery. The (social) rent was trivial & her outgoings collapsed; so she was easily able to keep up the lunches etc.
Don't be giving us ideas Mr Drew. Oh how the Gin & Jaguar Set has fallen.
Back just before council houses were flogged off I knew our local councillor and the council house process divided applicants into the sheep and the goats. There was the nasty end of the local council estate where the troublemakers were put - along with the odd burned out car etc. Then there was the respectable end where nice working families were placed. Then in between the mentally impaired or ill, the unmarried mothers and the widows etc. Room could be found and 'care in the community' actually existed and was sort of funded.
If you didn't behave you got a place at the nasty end. A word from my councillor friend (a decent sort) decided where you went.
A bit later on a neighbour got the papers offering their house for sale. Asked me what to do - grab with both hands mate. Roll on a few years and they moved to a nice bungalow on the edge of local commuter town. Their £10k purchase is now worth £500k+. Brown ale is replaced by Glenmorangie.
Firmly in the “never openly acknowledged but stuff which everyone knows” — problem individuals and families are now not just moved into the “troubled” end of the local authority or housing association estate, they’re increasingly moved out of area into entire districts or even whole towns (with large tracts of social housing) where they are, for the most part, abandoned and left to go feral, sinking or swimming. It’s usually the former.
While this sounds — and even is — terrible — the flip side is that there is, for some, simply no intervention or state programs which can help. The severely mentally ill who won’t take their meds. The chemically dependent who won’t cooperate with treatment programs. The persistent petty criminal. The incurable feckless. In short, the deserving poor.
It is somewhat logical, then, that rather blighting a particular estate or district, the blight is concentrated in crap towns the likes of which several enterprising YouTube’rs document to the horror and vicarious delight of their subscribers. Not to mention provide material for Grauniad hand-wringing.
"Brown ale is replaced by Glenmorangie." We've just finished a bottle of the G (it takes us ages because we drink whisky only when we have haggis for dinner, plus a toast on Hogmanay). Anyway, if you want to appreciate how good Glenmorangie is, just try following it with a bottle of Highland Park. Oh dearie me.
@Clive.
The estate was home to a family of mental defectives, 2 girls, one boy. They grew up, mother kept the girls on the pill till 18 and the inevitable happened. By way of arrangement with Social Services mother 'kicked girl out' and she was found a new place. Time passed along with a rainbow assortment of babies until number 8 when even Social Services said enough was enough - snip time. By this time girl was a worn out lump and her village bike days were over.
As for the cost - horrendous but she did more or less keep a whole department of Social Services going all by herself. Good for headcount in more ways than one. Such is reality.
@dearieme
An elderly friend used to spend Friday afternoons sipping whisky. The G was much appreciated though at the upper end of our price and headache range. We found some Indian whisky £6 from a Goan bottle shop to be very good. Looks like Highland Park might have been over our limit. Lidl's own brand single malt is not too bad.
A rich friend died and his wife passed us the unused bottles. TBH I think he was robbed - or his wife was watering the product.
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