Thatcher Wars Episode V: The Yuppy Strikes Back

Do you remember 'Yuppies'?

I do. They were a new breed of humanoid raised at the height of Margaret Thatcher's 'greed is good' free market capitalist 1980's. These beings were once commonplace in the city with their shiny cufflinks,  brick-sized mobile phones and residual acne scars. Whilst most of Britain got poorer, especially in the north, there were a few who excelled.  These were Thatcher's golden children. Boys and girls fresh out of university, with many from  a comfortable background,  who embraced an ethos of ultra aggressive competition, where the bottom line profit was king and they enjoyed the spoils of this white collar war. Many of them died in their 30's due to stress, drug abuse, strokes, or asphyxiation from having their heads up their own arses.

Marge cancel my 3pm. I've a massive stroke penciled in at 2.30

Well now we are in 2013, I have begun to notice more and more of them. A breed of earthling who had presumably gone the way of the Dodo and Michael Barrymore's career. But now they have returned with the arrival of Thatcher's new bulldog Emperor Cameron. In many ways Maggie's yuppyism is like The Taliban, only more obnoxious. 'The Maggieban', if you will. A mentality which if given proper fertilizer, such as Emperor Cameron's never-ending bullshit machine, will grow back like so much moss.

I met with a young gentleman no older than 23. It was a business meeting along with his fellow acne-ridden alpha male wannabes. My first suspicions about his possible yuppyist nature was when he suggested that we go to Greggs for a quick snack. The kind lady serving us informed him that unfortunately there were no hot sausage rolls. He seemed genuinely offended by this and the little twerp then got ratty, asking if ANYTHING in the store was warm. I almost said 'Yes, everyone else's heart but yours' but stopped myself. This kindly and polite lady was only doing her job and giving the best service she could. And this obnoxious arse of a boy was giving her grief over the temperature of his sausage roll. It ended by me apologising to the lady for him and leaving ashen-faced.

It was clear that this smartarse was a post-Thatcher golden child when in the first 30 minutes of the meeting, he had talked about nothing but his job, his career progression and that he makes X number of pounds per day. I've got bad news for you my acne-ridden friend, I know numerous millionaires, all of whom have more subtlety and manners than you. Come back when you have a Ferrari and an attitude adjustment, you little cum-stain.

So, they have returned and are on the rise. What this country needs a good zombie apocalypse to clear the place up a bit, although on second thoughts, if you've ever been in the city at 8am, you'd be forgiven for thinking that the zombie apocalypse had already begun. Though most of the country waits expectantly for Maggie 'Fuckface' Thatcher to die, it is clear that with Emperor Cameron and Darth Osborne at the nation's helm, her legacy is still very much alive.

So if you see them in the street, don't stare, just let the Maggieban soldiers pass, because there's a decent chance that they too will expire at any moment from rectum-related asphyxiation. And no one wants to be around to witness that.

Kieran x