Am I (Turning into) White Trash?

Yesterday evening, as I sat out in the patio of The Shed, listening to my iPod, I realised that I was induging in White-trashery.

No swing seat or dog and unfortunately the icebox isn't 

full of Duff beer or Budweiser, but you get the general

idea.

Sitting there, drinking beer (admittedly from a long-stemmed Judy's glass) and surveying my kingdom of a rusting barbecue, a slowly-collapsing flat-screen TV box and other detritus that should have long been chucked out, listening to Seasick Steve, Lynrd Skynrd,  and other such American Rock and Blues, I suddenly realised that I was enjoying a White-trash moment.

And there is nothing wrong with that. The patio doesn't boast a rusting V8 engine - or even a V6. My gas-guzzling V6 is in full working order and in its corresponding vehicle (pron. vee-hickle). I do however have a half-dismantled motorbike in the front yard while currently the gas tank and other bike bits reside in my bathroom, waiting for me to get round to cleaning the carburettors. Maybe I'll leave that for my highly-skilled motorbike mechanic son. 

All I needed to complete the picture of a Good Ole Boy was to be sitting out in my undies (boxer shorts, preferably), kicking out listlessly at the chickens as they scrabble around the cigarette butts trying to get at the recently-planted donut seeds. I should have been wearing a yellowing halter-neck vest, a bottle of Jack Daniel's within easy reach, and have been smoking one of those matchstick-thin joints so favoured (or should that be favored?) by Americans, instead of the European fat ones. I indulge in neither, I hasten to add. However, I sat out in a jumper and cargo pants, sans joint. A pump-action shotgun held together by duct tape across my knees and a venerable half-blind, toothless, arthritic dog would have completed the picture. If the truth be known, I would have preferred a bottle of pink Champagne, but they don't sell that down at the local Chinese 7-11. Yet.

Still, the principle is what counts. For a while I was living the life of White trash - without the disadvantages of abject poverty and a lack of book-larnin'.

My origins are working-class Liverpudlian, so perhaps such stuff has a sort of atavistic charm. What is even more interesting is that my children are so obviously middle-class in outlook and upbringing - a tribute to the social mobility afforded to people like me thanks to the good State educational system we enjoyed in GB until the politicians started (and haven't yet stopped) tinkering with it in the 1970s.

Note: a Judy's glass is Liverpudlian for a stemmed glass. In my time there, when couples used to go out in the 'Pool, the usual order went something like "A pint of bitter and a half of lager & lime in a Judy's glass" - this latter obviously for the lady. The great advantage of all Judy's glasses is that if held correctly - by the base or stem, the beverage remains colder longer as one's body heat is not transmitted to the liquid 

Note 2: Please watch the donut seeds video. It's a true work of genius.