There has been only one story this week in British celebrityland, and that story was: what does Kirstie Allsopp think of the placement of your washing machine? AKA, just doing our best to make Europe feel just fine about Britain leaving the EU, cap’n.
Now, we’re going to pull back a little here and tell a story about this faction of LiS, which has lived in this country for more than two decades but still finds there are some things that still make no sense. Like: is it posh or not posh to eat in the kitchen? And, why do your posh people wear such terrible clothes? And their ties, oh my God, can we discuss their ties? Also why do they all call their dogs names like “Sam” and their children “Sixtus”? In other words, class. LiS doesn’t understand the difference between lower-upper-lower-middle class and upper-lower-middle-middle class; although it is clear on the fact that the only thing that shows less class than not understanding class is asking questions about it. Class is Britain’s Fight Club: the one rule is we do not mention it, while simultaneously mentioning it in every sentence. And like Eliza Doolittle, all LiS can do is spin around in the street, clutching its dying flowers, waiting for someone to explain, once and for all, if it should make its own Christmas pudding or buy one from Waitrose.
But who is that in the distance, sauntering up the street, probably selling a villa in Spain and handmaking 10,000 holiday ornaments before noon? It can only be Kirstie Allsopp, someone with even more jobs than George Osborne (is this another posh thing?) but whose primary job this week has been shedding light on the British class system, again. Some have criticised the daughter of the 6th Baron Hindlip for this (Kirstie does not like it when people mention her background, but given LiS’s already professed ignorance, coming from the colonies and all, hopefully Kirstie will maintain a good shopfront this time, as Nancy Mitford would say). But LiS perches at her knee, desperate to learn how to pass muster at Ascot, or get invited to Chipping Norton for the weekend, the modern equivalent thereof. Where does the rain in Spain fall, Kirstie? Who cares! We have washing machines to deal with.
Matters kicked off this week when Jim Waterson, young friend of this column and news reporter bigwig, mentioned, in passing to a friend: “Americans in our office are always confused by the British habit of putting washing machines in kitchens and view this as disgusting.” Allsopp, who never came across a domestic matter she didn’t have an opinion on, barrelled on in. “It is disgusting, my life’s work is in part dedicated to getting washing machines out of the kitchen,” she tweeted to her 400,000 followers. Instantly, Britain’s collective ears perked: was that a class dog whistle on the breeze? To the keyboards!
Suddenly, Britain was riven in two like never before, and the prime minister is said to be considering another referendum. On the one hand are the remainers, people snarkily asking Allsopp where, exactly, they should keep their washing machine, maybe in the smoking room next to the billiards room in their third castle, yeah???!?!?!?!? Julia Hartley-Brewer was so outraged that someone who wasn’t her had sparked a Twitter feud that she wrote a furious column in the Sun dissecting Allsopp’s apparent class snobbery by being quite a snob about Allsopp (can’t beat ’em, Julia? Join ’em). On the other are the wexiters, who firmly agree washing machines must leave the kitchen because it is indeed “disgusting”.
But is it? LiS must confess to being a little confused about this, not least because even when it lived in the US, its washing machine was firmly kitchen-based and LiS was not ejected from the country. Allsopp later elaborated on the disgustingness: “Why does anyone want to mix poo, pee & period with food unless they have to?” I’m sorry, what? We’re going to need more information here, Kirstie.
“Why is it disgusting to have a washing machine in a kitchen? Simple question needs a simple answer!” cried one tweeter who may have been LiS’s externalised self.
And simple answer there then came: “Pants,” replied Allsopp.
Is rubbing dirty pants on everything near the washing machine before doing the washing a British tradition or just a posh one? Sadly, we’ll never know, because the issue was reaching full-on meltdown stage.
“Look you bunch of total fuck wits, IF POSSIBLE having a washing machine out of the kitchen frees up space, if not possible no big deal,” Allsopp tweeted (LiS is guessing that good shopfronts are not a big concern in Allsopp’s world). Yeah, if you poor people with tiny flats want to eat poo, that’s your business – NO BIG DEAL. Let them eat skidmarks! Move your blooming arse!
And so, as the world burned outside, Britons focused on the 10m quizzes that ran this week on daytime TV and in tabloids ascertaining exactly how posh YOUR kitchen is. This is what Britain now is: an isolated island in which the biggest issue is what your washing machine says about you. EU? We still only care about U and non-U around here. That sound you hear in the distance? Oh that’s just Michel Barnier trying to say: “Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on your way out of your kitchen” in between hysterical gales of laughter.
