Posh girls

Call me racist but I’m not convinced that posh people have souls. Perhaps they sold them to the devil long ago in exchange for a life of privilege, not realising that no one would ever be able to take them seriously, except their own soulless, chinless kind.

As daft theories go, it’s quiet a good one as the old boys’ network suggests they don’t need to deal with the hoi polloi (except to collect rent or have their wives done over so they can marry their cousins).

But perhaps it’s because posh girls like a bit of rough that they’ve been saved from my bias. I say rough, but it’s all relative. I’m not going to beat anyone up or plaster your wall (with anything useful), but the lovely Mariel was impressed to the point of randyness that I broke into her Kensington flat to filth her on the floor in a manner that made her feel quite common.

Posh girls often exude a certain elegance and deportment. That’s nice but unless it’s combined with sauciness, it’s all a bit ornamental. Fortunately, in my experience, posh girls have lashings of sauciness. And they even use words like “lashings”. Some of them like a bit of hanky spanky too, the naughty minxes.

And there is something inexplicably satisfying about ravishing the 20-somethingth in line for the throne in the toilet of a dingy club while her cut glass tones urge deeper, harder, filthier commitment from this obedient peasant.

Actually she exaggerated her proximity to power, but she was in the top 100. I would have her at No.1. Imagine, instead of a dusty old Queen for a head of state, we have a hot, posh glamourpuss. Much better on your tenner. Men would take any excuse to get her out, thus stimulating the economy. And every nation would want to befriend us, except the pious. (OK, ‘bye.)

All the loveliest girls seem like princesses to me, but one of my favourites is almost posh enough to be one. As the sun rose and spilt over her aristocratic cheekbones one recent tired dawn, I reflected that the only riches worth having are in the eyes of the beloved.