S.N.O.B.I.S.M.

Snotty Nosed Ostentatious Bastads, Imbecilic Scrounging Morons.

(Please note: The Author of this piece actually spent 3 years working for the True Aristocracy, and found them to be kind, decent and lovely people, and with not a trace of being ‘up their own asses' or acting like they own the planet.....)

It's Andrew Peregrine Farquhar Smyth. Raa Raa, my daddies got a Porch 911

And many greetings bestowed to one and all, Andrew Farqua Smythe here, oh what a hoot we had last weekend on our foray to Paris, Daddies gold card took a right old bashing and mummies BMW was festooned with panties from the ever so naughty young ladies that, for some bizarre reason worship the ground I walk on.

Got the cash…? One acquires the gash.

Tamara Samaria Clueless was a silly little bunny, insisting that her younger and even more ludicrously thick and pancake makeup faced sister just had to spend all day with her ear glued to her new Nokia 1000, whilst sipping on a bottle of like totally expensive water.

She did smell rather exquisite, as she was wearing the new and must-have fragrance…

Even when giving her one up the botty region, like we were taught by the games Master at Private school she was still canning Mummy's credit cards on Gucci bags and other utter rubbish, whilst whining ‘'I don't fink this is proper is it?' and ‘Ouch, that hurts' in her best fake South London accent.
Still, at least it means she achieve great status as a ‘Big Brother Babe', and will be festooned all over the covers of various grotty lads mags, for about a week, till she marries Edward ‘Im as bent as a Sheppard's crook' Barrington-ludgwick, on the premise that if he doesn't get married soon, his inheritance will be cut off.

Or as Daddy proclaimed ‘If he doesn't find a bimbo soon, his bollocks will be cut off'

(Editorial note: Just a quick word from our friend the Chav,)

Well fuck you an get a job; ya bunch of lazy fucken Kuntz...

But the fun and frolics had to end on Monday morning when it's back to earning a living: well I say that with a grin being as such I might just make it out of bed about 10.30am, sip some putrid instant coffee (I do wish the Spanish maid would learn how to make it properly, and she refuses me a blowjob in the mornings, how frightfully ungrateful)

Then it's off to the office to converse with the peasants. Checking my e-mails is usually a total bore unless Nigel peacock-Brownstain from accounts has sent me rude one, titter titter, he's such a lush.

Don't think this made it onto the big screen.

Lunch soon beckons as I slap the new "thick as a fence post" temp on her bottom….you see being a snob also allows rampant sexism, because if she complains I'll just sack her.


Know your place woman...!

After several glasses of champers and nibbles it's back to drudgery about 3.00pm, that's the hardest part of the day. Because Daddy set up everything I don't actually have any work to do. So I just sit around sending sexist/racist e-mails and every one thinks I'm the ruddy dog's bollocks.

Another hard day at the office.

Then it's off to Yuppies wine bar at 5.00 with a flotilla of my fellow parasites, stopping just quickly enough to draw another large wedge of Daddy's cash to impress the scores of gullible airheads that hover like a plague of locusts in knickers: maybe I'll marry one some day, preferably blonde and immensely stupid.

Not so thick as to get married and have two equally snotty children, probably called Miles and Tiffany, then she shags the gardener and takes the lot. Still, never mind as I've always got Mummies villa in Spain to run to and hide, shaking like a jelly as I battle my ever increasing £500 a day cocaine addiction.

Yes my scummy little fuck-wits, Snobbism allows me and my fellow turds to look down at anyone, threw our Charlie ravaged nostrils, and judge the downtrodden by the car they drive, the cloths they wear…and by golly, even down to how they speak.

Don't give a fucken monkeys, ya toss-pot shit faced Kant…..

But me and my chums do feel a very smug sense of satisfaction when we put on our fake London accents, and drink…heaven forbid… the ‘Stella Artois' and watch fellow snobs pretending to be hard and macho in films like ‘Snatch' and ‘Lock, stock and two winging wankers' where they pretend to be ‘Geezers' or ‘ Chavies'

Then head off home to Daddies mansion in Surrey.

Then of course there is our collection of flash motorcars stored in the Garage: The Porches, the Aston Martins, and the Bentleys: All on show like giant dicks on parade.
Oh, how the bimbos love them and it more than makes up for the fact that our manhood's resemble writhing maggots.

Just think of the money girls, think of the flash cars etc etc

Then we drive like complete aresholes, usually pissed up, around the small and picturesque towns and villages, asserting our masculinity and sexual prowess: completely oblivious to the decent
People who actually work for a living: well they can jolly well bugger off anyway…peasants.

Yes folks, life as a snob is spiffing, and with the added bonus that we can brag and boast about how we are ‘self-made-men' which always goes down well and impresses the ladies…Who are too thick to realise we've been handed it all on a plate anyway.

But horror of horrors, just imagine if we had to actually work…

It doesn't bare thinking about.

'OMG, what a big Willy you must have…

Of course in America the Dollar is king, and I'm not even going to go there, but suffice to say they are none to keen on our British snobby imports: especially in Hollywood.

And speaking of the music business, many of my fellow snobs pretend to be in it, but once reaching 30 years old realise there are talentless hippy pricks anyway, so they spend the next 20 years scrounging of the parents: then when they pop off and one acquires the big house and the flash cars its ‘well I'm in the music business actually, just look how successful I am'

So until next month peasants,

Ciao….!

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