Journey of a Gentleman in Search of Culture (Part 2)

Time is running out for the bourgeois gentlemen. The proletariat are encroaching as he desperately tries to sample some premium British culture.

Eight months since our pompous protagonist's brush with his own mortality as a result of some impudent snipers outside the Odeon cinema, and the bourgeois gentlemen settles down, surfeited with port and a belated mince pie, to recount nostalgically his latest encounters with culture. Our resident snob nearly didn't make it into 2014, once again risking his life for the sake of culture.

'Twas a cold October night when our bourgeois gentleman went on his first outing with the SixArts society, a cultural entity full of like minded culture vultures. His motives for joining, one must admit, were a little mercenary. If he was surrounded by fellow members of the bourgeoisie and kept a low profile, he deducted that the murderous proletariat would bump off his friends first, allowing him chance for a cowardly getaway. Indeed he should have been somewhat nervous, after choosing his stripy bowtie and Hamlet cuff-links to attend a comedy gig. But fortunately, our bourgeois gentleman was happy to overlook the odd glances in his direction, with no realisation that perhaps he was overdressed.

The comedy soon was underway, with the headline act being Ed Byrne moaning about becoming middle aged. This seemed a well trodden theme, and a depressing one at that. Bourgeois gentlemen don't often like to contemplate the horror of middle age and the pain of having a trendy sports car and spacious house, yet still lacking in hair and youthful vigour. The bourgeois gentleman was beginning to enjoy himself, but, horror of horrors, the comedy was becoming a little...vulgar. Mr Byrne was talking about subjects such as intercourse and coitus interuptus, topics which are prone to upset prudish middle class sensibilities. Horrifyingly, our bourgeois gentleman was unable to contain himself, laughing in an unbecoming fashion at Mr Byrne's scatological humour. Mr Bourgeoisie considered this a serious lapse in character, and went home in shame.

The bourgeois gentleman's next encounter with culture proved to be even more embarrassing. He and his fellow culture vultures were raring to set off for Manchester at the appointed hour to see Richard III, when he unwitting stumbled across a member of the proletariat obnoxiously playing the misogynistic anthem Blurred Lines by the notorious scoundrel Mr Robin Thicke. There was nothing for it but to challenge this ne'er-do-well to a duel, and fortunately his opponent at least had the foresight to carry his sabre with him. After summoning an independent adjudicator, bourgeois and proletariat swords clashed.

Unfortunately, the bourgeois gentleman (who shall now be referred to as BG for short) was a little rusty on his swordsmanship, and was soon wounded by the valiant proletariat. Blood soaked BG's beautiful shirt, and this gave him the sufficient rage to finish his proletariat opponent. Tragically however, this homicide had made BG late, much to the annoyance of his bourgeois friends. After a frantic dash to Manchester, their intrepid driver could not prevent them missing the opening soliloquy. Indeed this was the winter of their discontent, but thankfully the villainous Gloucester had only just begun to argue with the Queen.

When it comes to theatre, BG has discerning tastes, and recollected a previous production of Richard III he had witnessed at The Globe with an all male cast. While obviously BG is not in the slightest bit amused by men wearing dresses, he couldn't help thinking that this modern re-imagining of the Shakespearean classic was somewhat lacking. It seemed the Bard had gone all Nineteen Eighty-Four, the first act closing with huge screens filled with close ups of Gloucester manically laughing. In the end, the balding King was killed by the riot police. If such institutions set up to protect the ruling classes turn on them in real life, then BG fears his days are numbered. BG concluded at the end of the evening that the acting was top notch, but the production seemed a little unsure of itself.

It was time for BG's most perilous outing yet. To the opera...in Stoke. It had been eight months, would the snipers have moved on or kept their bitterness intact? To add to BG's peril. he'd once again made an unwise choice of outfit, wearing a dinner suit and silk scarf so he was easily identifiable as the proletariats' oppressors. BG hurried into the Regent Theatre, where he breathed a sigh of relief as he located the rest of his bourgeois party. He foolishly seated himself next to someone who knew infinitely more about opera than he did, resulting in the lady's informed comments about allusions to other operas and the overuse of cadences going right over BG's head. Due to BG's insufferable laziness, he had neglected to learn Italian before arriving, but thankfully subtitles were on hand to help. On the whole, BG thoroughly enjoyed The Elixir of Love, although he was a little disappointed that the beautiful music and cynical message were undermined by a very simplistic plot.

When BG emerged from the theatre, the proletariat snipers were waiting for him. He had barely registered their shady presence before bullets were hurtling towards him. But BG was resourceful: on becoming aware of the danger he flung his knowledgeable operatic neighbour in front of him. This killed two birds with one stone, saving his beautifully moisturised skin whilst preventing him from feeling inadequate by allowing the operatic lady to take the bullets and so removing her from his life. Unfortunately, the operatic lady disagreed with his conclusions and managed to run to safety. But what is this? The snipers had disappeared! BG was saved! It was at this precise moment that BG became aware of a very loud noise and a wave of heat hurtling towards him. Looking back in surprise, BG discovered the proletariat had planted a bomb in the Regent Theatre to catch him in case the snipers failed. This necessitated a dramatic dive as a fireball surged forward to engulf our intrepid gentlemen.

And so, as BG sits with his port and mince pie in his favourite armchair by the fire, he concludes that the search for culture is more trouble than its worth. His latest encounters with the proletariat had resulted in a ripped and bloodstained shirt and a singed dinner jacket. Perhaps, BG ponders, he should try and be less of a snob, and then the proletariat wouldn't hunt him down with quite the same passion. But BG's reflections are interrupted by the appearance of a  police officer at the door of his mansion. BG naturally invites him in, there is after all an abundance of port remaining so it wouldn't be too much of a sacrifice to share it with an officer of the law. But in spite of BG's hospitality, the rather stern looking police officer ominously withdraws a pair of handcuffs, before announcing that BG is under arrest on the suspicion of the murder of the Robin-Thicke-loving-dueler. BG's thoughts are like lightening, and he quickly realises that he will be in prison with the proletariat, and this time there will be no escape. BG has no choice but to make a hasty escape, and in response the police officer whips out his pistol, and points it in our plucky bourgeois gentleman's direction.....

To be continued in the concluding leg of the Journey of a Gentlemen in Search of Culture!