How to know if one is truly 'Posh'.
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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)