Journey of a Gentleman in Search of Culture (The Final Bow)

It's journey's end for the bourgeois gentleman. His desperate (and homicidal) measures to seek out culture have caught up with him, and ultimately look set to lead him to his grave.

Our bourgeois gentleman's life flashes before his eyes as he stares down the cold barrel of the police officer's gun. He thinks of his collection of vintage wines, the holiday he's booked to meditate in the Alaskan wilderness and the Richard Curtis films he is yet to watch.

"I say old chap!" The  bourgeois gentleman (BG) attempts to sound slightly less like a pompous twit, but has great difficulty pulling this off "I'm sure this is just a big misunderstanding. That fellow liked Robin Thicke you know! If I had let him live he would have corrupted the young, and abetted Blighty's current state of moral decay." The police officer simply stares, obviously not in agreement with BG's argument. His finger is hovering dangerously close to the trigger.

"Old sport, you don't understand! We're on the same team! It's you and I against the great unwashed. You see, thanks to me, there's one less of them out to get us!" A solemn silence is maintained. "Come on my man! I'd bet my diamond encrusted tie pin we're both Daily Mail readers, none of that Guardian nonsense, eh!"

BG's impassioned arguments have led to him being labelled criminally insane, with the insidious Middle Class Moron Syndrome. His is certainly a severe case, and this has led to him being confined to the Middle Class Rehabilitation Unit in the heart of Shropshire. BG's days are now spent attending classes on Minimising Boastfulness Relating to One's Offspring, Tolerating Outsiders and Generally Being Less Angry. In the corridors, the bourgeois inmates have impassioned arguments:

"Now The Wasteland is a classic example of the effectiveness of literary allusion in 20th century poetry. The first line's reference to Chaucer is simply divine, and the way the whole thing leads back to the Fischer King..."

"Oh Fitzwilliam, that's nothing compared to Byron's sustained use of romantic irony throughout Don Juan. Besides, I always found Eliot a little chilly for my liking" BG is frustrated, despite having his fair share of middle class prejudices, he lacks the subtleties of literary wit.

"Ooo, well you'd certainly know about chilly wouldn't you Tarquin! Now I've been engaging in increasingly explicit flirtation these last few months..."

This lovers tiff  reminds BG of the cult ITV sitcom Vicious, a programme that has made his stay in the Middle Class Rehabilitation Unit bearable as The Archers is banned, and for a moment BG feels smug about his new found liberal tendencies. But then he remembers the extended conversation he had with one of his gaolers about Romanian immigrants....

"No, no, no, no!" squeals Fitzwilliam. "Darcy would not allow himself to be bossed around by Trevor Eve, and Elizabeth was never this docile!" BG realises it was mistake to suggest watching the Beeb's new adaptation of Death Comes to Pemberly.

"Well, I see where you're coming from Fizz, but you have to admit that Lydia and Mrs Bennet are just as insufferable as Austen imagined them." BG has retreated into a deep sulk. It's like the opera all over again, he believes his middle class credentials are under threat. So he retreats to a happy place, where his younger self is demonstrating some appalling dance moves around the family record player, sweating abominably in his ill advised tank top to Johnny Marr's frantic guitar. Sweetness, sweetness I was only joking when I said, by rights you should be bludgeoned in your be-ed.O the lyrical genius of Morrisey! BG attempted to read Autobiography yesterday and was left utterly confounded after the first page. Death Comes to Pemberly predictably arrives at a saccharine ending and gives way to the Ten O'Clock News. BG's heart skips a beat. The past week's strikes have given way to violent riots. Have the proletariat finally seized their opportunity? Is it all over for Western capitalism? Predictably the reporter has chosen to interview someone who has precisely nothing of note to say.

"Well, it's all a muddle," he whines. This reminds BG of the equally simple Stephen Blackpool. See, Dickens! His literary allusions are improving all the time!

"Do you hear the people sing? Singing the songs of angry men. It is the music

of a people who will not be slaves again!" This ominous chant echoes throughout the Middle Class Rehabilitation Unit, along with the sound of marching feet. The proletariat have manned the barricades, and are currently laying siege. This is the end, my only friend, the end. Shut up Jim! BG stares down at his pocket watch dramatically. It is the eleventh hour. What an antisocial time to invade! Sirens sound as the first grenades smash through the Touchett Wing. Do not ask me for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for me. BG has become saturated by culture to the point that Jim Morrison and John Donne are having a heated debate in his head.

"No man is an island," proclaims Donne.

"Break on through to the other side," insists Morrison.

"The sun shines out of our behinds." Now Morrissey has joined the argument. The Touchett Wing has fallen to the sound of bourgeois screams. The wall that protects BG from the invasion outside suddenly crumbles, revealing the ruins of the Rehabilitation Unit. Out of the burning  rubble stalks a familiar figure: the proletariat sniper from the Stoke Odeon.

"Well look who it is! We didn't get you at the Regent, but there's no escaping now!" The proletariat sniper takes aim. BG is terrified, desperately searching for a brave comeback.

"You-you don't scare me! You're just-just a-a jumped up pantry boy, who never knew his place." Morrissey is on hand to save the day! The proletariat sniper looks baffled.

"The time of bourgeois repression is over!" declares the sniper smugly. "We've taken Parliament. There's no stopping a dictatorship of the working class now."

"Don't get too complacent old sport! Keats and Yeats may be on your side, but Wilde is on mine!" BG soon realises he's championing cheap epigrams over jolly good poetry, but the proletariat sniper mercifully hasn't registered this. Thankfully, before any other Smith's lyrics come to mind, a battle cry can be heard:
"By jingo, we'll give those develish fellows a good seeing too!". The bourgeoisie have come to BG's aid!

The wounded are sprawled amidst the ruins of the Rehabilitation Unit as the bourgeoisies' briefcases collide with the proletariats' faces, sending baseball caps flying into the flames. BG would be joining the fight for Western capitalism, but unfortunately has found some whisky and is now drunkenly arguing with Tarquin.
"I'm sorry, but Macbeth is a ridiculous play. I mean, he's a completely unbelievable character, for starters he-he listens...to his wife...." Both of them giggle at the casual sexism. But BG's intoxicated ramblings are rudely interrupted. Out of the smoke emerges his arch nemesis, the proletariat sniper. BG staggers over the rubble to meet him.
"Now look here you rascal, lets end this here and now." BG believes he sounds menacing, but unfortunately the proletariat sniper does not.
"Fine by me," he retorts, and before BG knows it he is once again looking down the barrel of a gun, and a bloody massive one at that! Before he can stop himself, BG is saying:
"Overcompensating, are we?" The moment this escapes his lips, BG knows he's doomed. The proletariat sniper's face turns a purplish hue in rage as he prepares to pull the trigger. But it

is at this precise moment that a Midsummer Murders boxset collides with the proletarian's head at such velocity as to cause a fatal blow. Fitzwilliam has saved the day.

And so, Fitzwilliam, Tarquin and BG have made a break for it, after filling their hipflasks to the brim with the remainder of BG's whisky. It seems the bourgeois gentleman has dodged all threats, overcome all obstacles, in order to sample the best British culture has to offer. He has seen two Shakespeare plays, an opera, a Danny Boyle film and a comedy gig. BG is rightfully proud of himself. True, the UK has been taken over by the proletariat, private property confiscated and BG's face already appearing on several most wanted lists for bourgeois related crimes. But that's business for another day. Right now BG has whisky and friends and...BG suddenly feels faint and collapses to the ground. Fitzwilliam rushes to his aid. Tarquin delivers a knowing cackle and soon all is clear. The Middle Class Rehabilitation Unit has been infiltrated by a proletariat spy, who has poisoned BG's whisky.
"Tarquin, how could you deceive me?" gasps a horrified Fitzwilliam. Tarquin, whose real name is Tony, born in a council estate in Sheffield, replies in thick Yorkshire tones.
"Mixing with the bourgeoisie was tough I admit, especially self-satisfied idiots like you, but it was all worth it. The infamous bourgeois gentleman is slain." With this, Tarquin/Tony skips into the distance, imagining himself arm in arm with his childhood hero: Julie Andrews. The illusion is so strong that he is completely impervious to the agony of being blown to smithereens as he accidentally steps on a proletarian mine.

Fitwilliam runs for help but it is already too late. BG feels the poison coursing through his veins and the light growing dim. This world, full of cultural promise, has room for the bourgeois gentleman no longer. He remembers wistfully that Hamlet was poisoned, and aims to die with the same grace. Such thoughts are promptly abandoned as BG feels his end encroaching sooner than he'd expected. Last words? Better be something good. No Morrisey this time. He tries to think of some Shakespeare for the occasion, but the appropriate quotation alludes him. Fitzwilliam returns, realising all hope is lost. He has an audience now, he must be eloquent. Even at the very end, the show must go on. Now there's Abba in his head, and death seems infinitely more agreeable. And just like that, the perfect last words plop into BG's head.
"I did it..." he croaks.
"Go on." encourages Fitzwilliam.
"I did it...for the bourgeoisie!" With this BG expires, and Fitzwilliam releases a harrowing wail.

RIP Bourgeois Gentleman 1889-2014