The aspidistra, in Orwell’s novel, is an icon for lower middle-class values, as well as representing the surrender of the pathetic and unlikeable pseudo-Marxist protagonist to those values.
In our Barnet garden we have lemon trees and chilli bushes and geraniums and broad beans, but (metaphorically) towering above them all is the aspidistra. Nice people live here, our aspidistra signals. Yes, they do, our neighbour’s plant replies. Could you keep your voices down? comes the murmur from next-door-but-one.
Nice people live here. Quiet, suburban nice people, who don’t spit on the street, sodcast on buses, or require access to illegal drugs. Who give up their seats on the tube, and frown at loud and public swearing. Nice people who are disgusted at Cambridge students’ rejection of Remembrance Day, who are reflexively but unshowily patriotic, who wouldn’t dream of having a tea-towel with the Queen Mum’s face on it, but who are able to enjoy a Royal wedding without the need to simulate irony. Whose lips curl in distaste when yet another Left-wing comedian signals his horror at finding himself in a cab driven by a Brexit voter.
https://twitter.com/RealMattLucas/status/1051997548196564993
The lower middle-class aren’t the sole guardians of public civility and private decency, of course; we’re the close comrades of the ‘respectable working classes’, since most of us have parents or grandparents who originated there. My grandmother was in service. My parents worked shifts and open-before-dawn shops, so that I could have the luxury of university.
From birth, these people inhale the aspidistra law: you’re not fashionable. You are the butt of the joke. Oh, and you pay for everything that the oligarch spivs slide out from funding, either through your income tax or through corporation tax, whose bounty for the Exchequer is financed by your labour.
While the country depends on you, its elite will deride you: seared in my mind is Jonathan Miller’s hatred of Thatcher, her “odious suburban gentility and sentimental, saccharine patriotism, catering to the worst elements of commuter idiocy”. Those idiot commuters, those suburban patriots – that’s my class Dr Miller was sneering at; I’ll take our values over his any day.
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