My first real experience of the British class system came in my mid-teens when a buddy and I relieved a Harrow boy of the contents of his pockets while he was in a phone booth outside his school. It was a very sedate mugging: no threats, no violence, just a request that he give us what he had. I only remember getting some cigarettes. It was a dumb thing my friend and I did for nothing but amusement, rooted in resentment at his privilege and an instinct to bully the posh.
Before then I’d never thought about class. Growing up, everyone I knew was from a blue-collar family and most of them were Asian. I was far more aware of race: despite the huge differences class makes, it seemed that white people had far more in common with each other than they ever would with me.
When I left high school — where almost all the pupils were the children of immigrants — I did my A-levels at a tertiary college in Harrow and for the first time came across kids from public school, who all seemed to dress like hippies and do a lot of acid.
The college was a stone’s throw from the famous school that Churchill attended. Going to and from college every day I went past the ancient building and saw the boys in their immaculate, nerdy-looking outfits. It was obvious they were living in another world and destined for different things.
I no longer begrudge the advantage that public schools provide. If I had children I’d give them every chance I could. After all, my parents migrated to Britain so their kids could have opportunities that didn’t exist in India. Having been to university and mixed with people who’ve been privately educated I know the advantage is a limited one. They are spoon-fed the methodology for passing exams and nothing more. They don’t have any more resilience, courage or creativity — the qualities that ultimately define someone’s life — than anyone else.
Advertisement
Being working class and going to a state school gave me an incredibly broad and enriching experience. Moving from the bottom upwards, I’ve encountered many different people from many backgrounds; as a writer I can draw on that for my work. Making my way in the world and meeting folk along the way has given me a lot of confidence. I can honestly say I don’t feel out of place in anyone’s company.
Working-class kids who get on in life always have a strut about them. Think of Gordon Ramsay and Julie Burchill. They have the outspoken swagger that comes with being self-made. They’re cocky and enjoy their success. Self-deprecation isn’t a working-class phenomenon.
The middle and upper classes always seem apologetic for what they have. They have that nagging doubt about themselves: would they have made it without the leg-up? They’ll never know. This accounts for the thin-skinned preciousness that afflicts so many of them. Stephen Fry once fled the country because of stage fright: can you imagine Wayne Rooney running away before a big game?
I have faith in myself. People can say what they want about me and my work. Compared with so much of what I’ve seen and experienced, being in the media and the literary world is a sissy’s game. It doesn’t worry me.
The advantages bestowed by class and public school are overrated. They often create a pathological fear of failure and make people neurotic about how they compare with their peers. But to be original requires taking risks and sticking your neck out. This explains why so many top entrepreneurs come from humble beginnings: Alan Sugar, Philip Green, Waheed Alli. When you’ve got little to lose you might as well gamble with it.
Advertisement
I don’t have any fear of failure either. I don’t think I can’t fail, but starting from scratch doesn’t scare me. I’ve made something out of nothing for myself before and I know it can be done again. Parents can’t buy their children mettle; they have to earn that in the rough and tumble of life.
So I won’t get to be a judge. So what? Public schools only enable people to get ahead in square careers where, like passing exams, there is a clear structure for progression.
The sharpest minds will always find a medium for expression. And companies that are serious about making money always tap the hunger and chutzpah of the working classes. The City is full of barrow boys making the kind of dough that most barristers would kill for.
Whatever the statistics say, Britain is a mobile society. The working-class-made-good get to move in all sorts of situations.
An aristocrat pal of mine told me his friends wanted to hang out with me because I’m the son of an immigrant dishwasher who’s now a writer. At a dinner once he remarked: “If you were the son of a dentist no one here would talk to you.”
Advertisement
I like his honesty. His friends are bland and vacuous, but my origins allowed me to observe high society in all its banality. It was another interesting encounter to add to the logbook. I’ve made my background work for me and there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s only what the privileged classes have done for centuries.
Tourism by Nirpal Singh Dhaliwal is published by Vintage, £7.99