I'm so posh....
Somebody else is writing this for me...
(Bob Catshit, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 14:43, Reply)

long dead people
i remember when i was a kid some great-great auntys or something talking about ancesters and our claim to fame was actually haveing a surname in the 16/17th centuries, there's a grave in northumberland where a long dead wierdo lies, was the gardener to some duke so not posh but had a surname!
( wierdo was bored @, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 14:34, Reply)

Peasants!
I’m so posh I bought one of those giant Landover things. I can’t drive or park it but that doesn’t matter because I am the biggest thing on the road and can squash smaller cars and their occupants like insects leaving me to walk away from any road accident with a big posh fucking smile on my face!

Want to know what the funniest part is? Even though my car does less than 0.4 miles to the gallon and eats up the worlds resources at a disproportionate rate the government only makes me pay the same road tax as that young lad down the road with no money and a dented old Peugeot!

I also wipe my arse with £50 notes and wash my genitals in champagne!
(Minty Hit, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 14:22, Reply)

Ahhhh the countryside
When people ask me where Im from I always say West Sussex, which isn't a lie. However, I hail from the town of Bognor Regis (which, if you havent been there is exactly like it sounds) so I am in fact a posh imposter.

My uncle (who lives in Brighton) can fly planes which is quite posh, though he once got arrested for suspected terrorism in the aftermath of 9/11.

Some builders found his plane flying licence and some newspapers or something from 9/11 in his house and put 2 and 2 together (making 5). The police blocked off part of the seafront one night, kicked his door in, pulled him out of bed (he was naked at the time) and handcuffed him. Classy.
(PAMPAMPAM, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 14:18, Reply)

Misperception
I've often been labelled "posh" because I talk properly, drink wine and adore jazz.

This is complete bollocks, though - I'm from Chesterfield. That being the case, the poshest thing about me is that my mum once met Tony Benn, the famous socialist, lapsed aristocrat, and MP for said hometown.

An ex-girlfriend once said to me that I was "pretentious without being pretentious". I took this to mean that, although it might appear that such pursuits as listening to jazz and drinking wine are carried out merely to give a veneer of sophistication, in my case, I actually have a genuine passion for such things.

I once met a girl whom my fellow housemates and I were interviewing to see whether she'd be OK to live with. By Christ, she was posh. She was a Lancashire lass but had a cut glass, RP accent.

After a few jars, we got on to talking about philosophy (not as Student Grant-esque as it sounds - we were approaching the finals of our psychology degree) and I asked her what she was reading at the moment.

"Kant", she replied.

"Fucking hell, there's no need to be rude", I quipped, with a dashing smile and a raise of the eyebrows.

There was a brief pause, after which she burst into a fit of snorty giggles and said, "Oh, you're so naughty!"
(Nardis, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 14:17, Reply)

Not posh at all
In fact, people only ever call me sir at the end of the sentence "I think you should leave..."

So, it comes as a bit of a shock to find myself working in Japan, where everybody bows at you and treats you like some sort of towering Western god. They bow at you. They bow at your held-together-by-hairy-string luggage, and when the phone rings, they bow at that as well.

So classy was the hotel they put me in (the Westin Tokyo, $200/night), you couldn't do anything without some flunky popping up to do it for you. I drew the line at the toilet attendant, stealing the slippers and "The Teachings of Buddha" (placed by the Japanese version of the Gideons) before fleeing the country.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 14:15, Reply)

Posh? Not we?
In our house (a modest, terraced abode in semi-rural West Yorkshire) our family lived an almost monastic existence. We wore simple clothes, made simple entertainment for ourselves, and Mother cooked simple food and raised simple children. Father had a good job that he took pride in, working as a toad fettler (known as a toad husher in parts of Lancashire) for the local council (although later they moved him on to the considerably less rewarding job of salamander jostling, which, I believe, is ultimately what brought about his premature end - his constant wailing troubled us all a little during his last days).

Father used half of his wage to pay the bills and buy the essentials our family needed; half was saved to spend on religious festivals (Eid was his personal favourite, although he always became excited when approaching Passover); the other half was donated to charities for children, animals and the bald.

Although we had very little, we were always willing to share that which we had. Quite often we would be visited upon by foreigners passing through from places such as Derbyshire and Lincolnshire and we would always invite them in for a bowl of Mother's famous broth.

One evening, father answered a knock at the door to find a little darkie standing there. He was a hungry-looking thing with a youthful face, but his greying wrist hair betrayed his maturity. He began speaking to us, but he was clearly foreign.
"Me is needin food in mi belli," was the first noise he made. "Me is heerin dat ya gat di soop. Pleez mista can ya spare mi di soop. Me is hongri an week."
Father, a perplexed expression on his face, closed the door a moment and turned to face us all sitting in the living room, from where we had been listening intently. We all stared at him blankly. None of us could understand this stranger's primitive language. Father appeared crestfallen, but, being the great and patient man that he was, opened the door once more and persevered with our strange visitor.
"Alas, my friend, black as soot and wiry of hair though thou art in mine eyes, and in mine eyes a curious creature indeed, I am at a loss as to what thine gruntings imply."
The caller did not answer.
"What is this?" bellowed Father. "What kind of heresy doth thou ply that it shalt darken this here door and cast a shadow upon the lives of the collective fruits of my most prolific of loins? Canst thou speaketh no English?"
Still, our visitor did not reply. Father despised ignorance as much as he valued dignity and, in a fit of untold rage he dealt our new acquaintance a shattering blow with his toading candle. The base of the candle struck sweetly upon the black forehead, knocking unconscious he who would mock and goad Father with his silence. Swiftly, Father scooped him up in his bulging arms and carried him indoors.

Upon awakening, our new guest was trained to perform basic household chores such as waxing Mother's spine and acting as a kind of makeshift door to the bathroom whenever one of us received the call of nature. We seemed to get along very well with him, and dubbed him Herman Goatman, on account of him being unable to speak English, rather like a goat. We used the money we had saved for Lent to buy food for him, and we used to howl with laughter when, during the night, he would awake from his slumber in the coal cellar, screeching like a big black man-crow. On stormy nights we would make him dance in the street with a rod of copper between his teeth, and we would chant, "Go, Goatman, Go!" and laugh uncontrollably whenever the sound of approaching thunder rumbled ominously in the near distance. This sound, followed by the desperate, copper-muffled shriek of the dancing Goatman, is something I shall remember with fondness for the rest of my life.

The fun was not to last, however. Some of our neighbours became jealous and began to call us "posh" and started to say that we were getting too big for our boots. Not one to let the good family name be dragged through the mud, Father bound Herman Goatman's hands and feet together and cast him into the river. Our dignity remained intact.
(stusut79, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 14:09, Reply)

The former mrs squirrel...
was very poshe. went to the Royal Agricultural College, and subsequently became a stockbroker (yep, i can see the connection there)

anyways, in the course of our relationship, i ended up at the Henley Regatta, multiple Point to Points (horsey shit for you plebs) and I found myself in amongst the upper classes on many an occasion.

having gone to public school, and then fallen in with the dregs of society in my hometown, i was a bit of a social chameleon.

at the end of the day, the working classes are far more genuine than the toffs.

no stories that are worthy of a mention, but just a mild social commentary. i thank thee.
(squirrelysquirrel, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 14:08, Reply)

Posh?
My fiance Tones actually gets out the bath to have a piss.
(wez, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 14:07, Reply)

Heh
I once went to Dorset (somewhere in England...I'm from Wales) so my friend could visit a guy who lived there and so we could go to Monkey World later (yay monkey's!!)
Anyway, whilst there I met the most posh person ever. This place seemed quite posh anyway, what with its mansion sized houses and sparkly clean pavements... but this guy was stupidly posh. His way of having fun was playing with cards and completing rubix cubes..
Not only was he posh but he was one of those horrid, stuck up English prats that think they're better than the Welsh
But this is one conversation that went on between him and my friend Beale.
Prat: Oh, so you're from Cardiff are you?
Beale: No, we're from Newport..
Prat: Ah well, there's only two places in Wales, Cardiff and the rest of Wales *cue snobbish laugh*
Beale: Well there's only two places in England...the place filled with the c**ts and the place filled with the rest of the c**ts.
*cue laughter from everyone else (even the other english people) and horrified look from prat*
Thankfully he didn't try offending us again.

Note: My hatred towards the english is only to the ones who think they are better than everyone else, I in fact have MANY english friends who I love and my boyfriend is english. I hope I didn't offend anyone with this post.
(mindpoet17, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 13:58, Reply)

I'm quite partial to
a posh wank every 2nd friday of the month.
Does that count?
(zangengeburt, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 13:56, Reply)

My full name is...
Henry Charles Albert David Windsor

but you peasant types can call me Harry.
(mr ruffles, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 13:50, Reply)

the missus
being from llanelli in south wales, when i got together with my missus from surrey I thought she was posh, turns out they just talk proper down there..
( wierdo was bored @, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 13:49, Reply)

Me posh
Educated at Oxford(undergrad) and Cambridge(PhD) universities. Commodore of the sailing club at the latter, played a bit of cricket for college.

Are you picturing deck shoes, chinos, pink shirt and cricket sweater thrown casually around the shoulders? Yes?

However, I'm from a small village near Barnsley, have a yorkshire accent, and am currently wearing my darts team shirt and boardshorts (I surf/windsurf, and have never been in a sailing boat in my life). I don't own any pink shirts or cricketing attire. You can't polish a turd!
(WouldSwapABearForATiger, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 13:44, Reply)

Nice to see you - to see you WIIIIIGGG!!!
Once upon a time, a friend and I rented a place for a year in the self-proclaimed "richest town in Britain", Virginia Water.

Now, the place itself was hardly anything special, a nondescript flat in a small block by the local shops and station, populated mostly by elderly people and a few commuter types. However most of the area (hardly a town, too many trees and gigantic plots of land) was ultra-posh and consisted of huge sprawling mansions and country retreats populated by various Quentins, Ruperts, mega-rich types and the odd celebrity.

One of the latter was a certain veteran family entertainer, game-show presenter, tap-dancer, miss world marrier and all round nice guy. You know the one.

Anyhows, Bru... erm... this fellow used to be a regular sight around the area, could often be found having a curry in the local curryhouse happily sat amongst the "normal" clientele, and would regularly park his jag outside our flats on a saturday and go wandering around the shops.

Now here's the thing. I would never suggest that this distinguished gentleman wears a hairpiece. Except that, viewed from above from out of our kitchen window, his hairline did indeed present a most curious sight, with a clearly visibile bizarre square-ish area looking oddly toupee-like. Only said gentleman's steadfast avoidance of ever admitting to wearing such a thing prevented me from jumping to any wild conclusions.

He became a bit of a novelty if we had friends over at the weekend; we'd wait until his car arrived, call our guests over to the window and let them indulge in a little celeb-spotting. Most of the time all due respect and reverance was shown, however one time a certain mate of mine had been on the piss since about nine that morning (first visit to the country in a long time, and it was xmas time), viewed his Jag down below and quite visibly began to display a sense of clear purpose.

He swung the window open, and just as the poor old fella was getting out of his car, leant out and bellowed "WIIIIGGG!!!" at the top of his lungs.

Not only did the intended recipient clearly hear him (he was only about 30 feet away), but so did every other person in and around the shops peacefully going about their business. The poor felow had to walk off salvaging what little dignity he could whilst my mate hooted, pointed and guffawed drunkenly after him down the street.

He never parked there again.
(Ali Bongo 9000 Ali Bongo 9000, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 13:42, Reply)

my family
as I mentioned are rather posh. I forgot to mention that my great great unc was one of those dignitaries buried in Peterborough cathedral under a lifesize statue of him lying down with arms crossed. And some other ancestor was a previous archbishop of Capetown.

They also like to hobnob with the rich & famous. Hence:

My cousins godfather is Gerry Anderson (of thunderbirds fame).
My Aunt has met the Dalai Lama, as well as had sex with his UK representative, as caught out by my cousin Polly, who was rather young at the time.

And best of all:

Saddam Hussein took my Granny out to dinner once.
(teasus likes tea, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 13:33, Reply)

toff's - nar, nar!
I'm not posh in the slightest, but for some reason alot of people I associate with/been with have been horrifically posh and well off.

2 of many examples:

- I have a mate who's approx 37th in line for the throne (with double barrelled surname to boot) Eton boy to boot.

- Ex-Girf used to live in a fooking huge house/Castle in Boston Spa, Yorkshire. They used to have the hunts people meet on there land - And had a ballroom in there house. A frigging ballroom! Good to slide on in socks though.

Still, like all poshies, she loved taking it up the arse.
( -:Coop:-, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 13:28, Reply)

i was brought up in barrrkshire
and somehow still ended up with a posh accent, which pisses me right off. i've tried to drop it (semi-successfully) but whenever i go back to my folks it comes straight back again.

it does have its advantages though, coppers tend to believe you more, and you do well when interviewing for jobs if the boss is 'educated' (iykwim)..

still, at least i'm not pretending when i go to the 'carsle' after having a 'barth'

meeting posh people? i've not done it tbh, most posh person i've met is probably the chancellor of cardiff uni (who has the numberplate phd1)..

wheres this 'add a comment to a comment' bollox then?


ps. emily. how you doin? i ask cos i've never met an emily who's not fit. fnarr.
(5lab, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 13:26, Reply)

Upper class vomitus
One of the best things about moving to Australia is the lack of so called posh people.
You're considered posh here if you drink your beer out of a glass.

My ambulance was once sent to a very well known member of the UK upper class who was in my city on vacation. He had a bad case of gastroenteritis and believe me, in spite of his breeding his shit and vomit smelled no better than anyone elses.

edit: Just remembered his minder/bodyguard insisted that we not supply oxygen from the same cylinder that we had used for the hoi-polloi. Twat.
(emadex thinks the world will end on, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 13:23, Reply)

bierbelly vs charlemagne
Speaking of being a direct descendant, my dad used to claim that he (and therefore I) was a direct descendant of King Canute.

I used to think that was pretty cool until I did the maths and realised "Hang on... just about EVERYONE is probably a descendant of King Canute!!!"

Don't get me started on how great it is to be related to someone whose name is now spelt Cnut.
(Emily Bruce-Dickinson http://jovialfellow.blogspot.com/, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 13:19, Reply)

How to know if one is truly 'Posh'.
.
Posh? What the hell is that? When I was a little snipe rolling around in the gutter, I used to ponder on what it would be like to be ‘rich’. After much pondering, a bit of glue-sniffing and a shitload of White Lightning I worked out what one would need to escape from the pondlife and become ‘posh’.

Your very own ‘doorbell’; preferably one that played ‘Greensleeves’.
Fitted carpets. None of your lino or clippie matts, Posh people have carpets to keep the toes from freezing to the floor.
Colour television. Or a black & white one that actually worked.
A dad with a job. Or a living male relative who’d ever had paid employment. Or even a dad.

So, my definition of ‘Posh’ is father coming home from work, ringing the doorbell to attract the attention of my happy smiling mum who’s engrossed in watching ‘Crossroads’ on her 26” colour telly, then carefully wiping his workboots on the matt to avoid staining the lovely deep pile cream fitted carpet in the living room.

Posh? Happy as a pig in shit or what?
(Conundrum, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 13:17, Reply)

My Mums and Dads family are genuinely posh
Whenever one of my rellies 'phones, my wife thinks it's someone doing a silly posh voice. She's amost said "OK stop that now - who is it?" many times before realising.

There's all the nasty wierd stuff that goes with inbred poshness in my family - violent suicides, incest, naming your children Zebedee and Octavia, releasing records of you farting the national anthem. The lot. My mums family are called Lamb - descended from Charles Lamb, whoever he was- some kind of Victorian D-lister, probably.

But my parents met at art school, so I guess they're the end of the road for all that stuff.
(teasus likes tea, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 13:16, Reply)

I used to sell cars in Chelsea
And whilst I was there I sold a car to Mrs Schroder (of Schroders investment bank). She's stupidly wealthy and amazingly posh. That said, she was very nice, and her daughter (at least I think it was her daughter) was the spitting image of Princess Di.

Also the bloke that sits behind me at my current job is quite posh. He lives in Tonbridge and has a swimming pool, a ride-on lawnmower and everything.

and he looks like Boris Johnson.

PS I don't sell cars anymore - cos its a horrid job and I got tired of people calling me a cunt.
(Arnolfini wasn't feeling very funny on, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 13:12, Reply)

My Uncle George
My Uncle George used to be a high ranking guard at Buckingham palace, you know those people with the silly hats and everyone tries poking them to make them laugh?
Plus Im sure my other uncle also met a member of royalty at somepoint, but Ive forgot who.
(purplefairy, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 13:02, Reply)

And...
I once met Princess Anne as my parents used to have a agricultural sports business (involving archery and clay pigeon shootingy things) she swore a lot and drank wwaaaaayyy too much whiskey.
(clbray, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 13:00, Reply)

I'm not posh, but my girlfriend is
Parents bought a Freelander for her 21st, have houses in Surrey, Poole and Southampton

She sailed (from a very young age to very high levels) and plays lacrosse, private schooled.

Me? I'm the son of a farmer. Council farm, drive a banged up car, and went to a normal school for poor folks.

However, I do get called posh by chavs etc, just becauses I take the care to pronounce words correctly. How is correct use of the English language in anyway posh?

I do hold a degree and play lacrosse (Mens lacrosse - its for the violence) but thats only thanks to the lovely student loans people.

I get frowned upon by her parents as they're convinced she can do better than this scruff of a boyfriend.

Meh, they're probably right.
( Moonraker isn't the droid you were looking for, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 12:56, Reply)

Bastards!
Someone on my mother's side WAY BACK was an illegitimate lovechild of the Duke of Wellington (he of the boots). Which is great, because technically I'm a posh bastard.
( Irregular Shed is trying to remember what it is he does, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 12:54, Reply)