My hopes to become a high-status cultural Omnivore melt with ‘The Snowman’
More bad news for the ‘Hons’. According to a sociological survey funded by the Economic and Social Research Council, class doesn’t necessarily guarantee status. On the contrary, the two are barely even connected in today’s Britain. So the fact that my father was ennobled for, among other things, founding the Economic and Social Research Council has no bearing on my status. An unemployed ‘Hon’, such as myself, may possess class, but when it comes to my ranking in society I score lower than a ‘works manager’ (whatever that is).
Much though I’d like to dismiss this, I suspect it is true. I have long wondered why my tweed jacket and green cords have failed to secure an upgrade at the Virgin Atlantic check-in desk, while shiny-suited salesmen are fast-tracked into ‘Upper Class’, and now I know. All the years I’ve spent campaigning to get into the Garrick have been in vain. My time would have been better spent trying to secure membership of the Guild of Builders and Contractors.
In the place of the old class-based taxonomy, the sociologists behind the new survey have suggested we classify ourselves according to ‘cultural consumption’. Thus, at the bottom of the ladder are the Inactives — people who would never go into an art gallery or stop to look at a sculpture. One rung above them are the Paucivores -— those who enjoy a limited range of cultural pursuits, and above them are the Univores — avid consumers of popular culture.
You would think that at the very top of the ladder would be those who limit themselves to high culture, but that isn’t the case. ‘The elite consumer does, we would suppose, exist but is so minoritarian as not to show up in any national survey of normal size,’ claim the authors of the report. No, the people who enjoy the highest status are the Omnivores — those who indiscriminately lap up culture in all its forms, from greyhound racing to opera.
Naturally, as soon as I read this I conducted an audit of my own cultural consumption and swiftly came to the conclusion that I’m an Inactive (watching television doesn’t count.) I vowed to do something about this, but since my wife forbids me to leave the house without carrying at least one small child, my options were limited. After a brief scan of the Arts section of the Daily Telegraph, I elected to take my four-year-old daughter to a performance of The Snowman at the Peacock Children’s Theatre in Bloomsbury. Admittedly, it is not particularly highbrow, but that isn’t the point. The important thing is get out of the house and devour some culture.
ging from the scenes outside the theatre, n’t the only person in London to be aware link between culture and status. The streets were mobbed by pushy parents trying to squeeze their reluctant offspring through the lobby doors. They probably hoped that this early exposure to the joys of theatregoing would lead to a lifetime of cultural consumption, thereby transforming their sedentary little couch potatoes into Omnivores. Or perhaps, like me, they just wanted to be seen engaging in a high-status pursuit.
I have actually taken Sasha to see plays twice before — once to Mary Poppins and once to The Gruffalo — and I was hoping to score some points with my neighbours when she displayed her intimate knowledge of theatre etiquette. While the other tykes sat in their seats loudly munching crisps, she waited quietly for the play to begin.
‘Daddy?’ she said at the top of her voice, five minutes after the curtain had gone up. ‘How long does this film go on for?’ ‘It’s not a film, darling,’ I whispered. ‘It’s a play.’ Beat. ‘Daddy?’ ‘Whisper, darling, whisper.’ ‘What’s a play?’ Clearly, our previous trips to the theatre had been forgotten. Sasha didn’t stop talking throughout the first half — never once lowering her voice — and when the lights came back up several people gave me dirty looks. In order to get through the second half without interruption I had to buy her an enormous bag of crisps. At least in one respect, she proved herself to be an Omnivore.
I fear that until my children are older, we’re doomed to be a family of Inactives — the chavs of the new status-sphere.
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