Who doesn’t love a good rant to oppose the lifestyles of the bourgeoisie? Given our primal state is that of a ‘for or against’ attitude, and not one I recommend delving in to too often given its closed-mindedness, I’m going to break the rules and succumb to my instincts for the following few lines, entertaining you with excerpts of my observations of the upper class detritus known as the rich housewife.
Second on the list of Ghandi’s 7 social sins is ‘Wealth without Work’. Who embodies this principle better than the rich housewife, I ask you? Over the last four months, I have been apprenticing in a niche form of carpentry, primarily learning how to build bespoke wardrobes for rich, bored, unambitious women.
Sitting at her granite kitchen island, apple products plugged in, mainstream radio bubbling certain shit pop in the background, the smell of filter coffee lingering, the rich housewife begins her day. Nothing will really change within her environment for the next 7 hours or so. The husband, never seen. Up at the most unholy of hours, commuting into London’s financial sector, he is her piggy bank. Armed with his debit card and a list of house improvements to be made to a house that needs no improving, her day begins. If a man’s frustration from having no sex can be channeled into lifting weights, breaking the law or punching someone in the face, then the rich housewife can release her tension with spending. Because she’s definitely getting no sex.
We get the call. She’s not quite sure on the design, colouring or measurements of her new clothes coffin. And she daren’t get it wrong incase husband returns with a ‘What the F*** is that?’ look on his face, removing said spending privileges in an instant. Fortunately for her, we offer a service, one that includes a design we can adapt to any wag’s abode, removing the stress of thinking from her shoulders. We don’t paint it, we build it from carcinogenic, compressed sawdust, and we add a styled edge to each of the pieces to ensure we can whack on an extra zero to the quote.
The stupid questions are inevitable. ‘Will you leave that gap there?’ is the most common, usually asked with 3 or 4 days of building still to go. Followed by ‘When will you be finished so I can call in the decorator?’.
I have often thought of bringing along an empty sports duffel bag to fill with upper class goodies. A swift swipe of her dresser table would enable me 4 figures of freedom, in principle. Except her neighbour has the same jewellery, the same handbags, the same kitchen just in eggshell and not white, and even the same patio doors. Suddenly the array of goods I could pawn are worth nothing, as everyone has one.
Let me dispel a couple of jewels for you. I live in an area with the highest concentration of millionaires per square foot than anywhere in the UK. I can also tell you, from visiting a wide selection of houses priced at 7 figures, that these people struggle in taste, originality and not copying their neighbour. If you’re familiar with the principal of ‘keeping up appearances’ then these are the racing rats on the treadmill of keeping up.
Housewives are very much a thriving breed. This idea that in the 21 century, both parties earn the cash is a lie. In the upper classes are split in two, the earners and the cash burners, and believe me, there are plenty of women around that aspire to dig for gold and secure their place on the platform of kept-ness. Oh, and they can’t cook or clean because the maid does that.
Don’t ever aspire to be a rich housewife. They have no ambition. Their day consists of sweet f*** all. A highlight would be deciding which handle to put on which new, MDF drawer. Being a kept woman is not an ideal. It is boring, comfortable and deadly.
The depressing application of smudged make-up, to mask the ever-decaying skin of a soul deadened by the clutches of gold-fingered apathy is not something to look up to. And if you’re a male of the species reading this, and think that you would like to be the breadwinner and sponsor the slow death of your housewife, you’re equally to blame.
The rich housewife is desperate. But now she doesn’t know what for. Like the rat with a poison-loaded water feed, she will slowly drip herself to death of her own accord, leaving behind two shipping containers of wardrobe contents, an illusory kitchen, and that f****** radio.
Harry Cloudfoot is a backflipping chinchilla in the corner of his cage, just because it’s more fun that sitting still and getting fed.
You can follow his conquest to burn the rich for fuel on Twitter.