Back to my normal nasty self

When I was young, I lived in a properly organic West Country village. I refer not to the food, but the population, which ranged from retired army officers, judges and the like to ordinary oiks like me. There were three pubs, one frequented by a transvestite, usually highly rouged and dressed in a crinoline. He looked totally conventional at work.

The other two were where old Etonians and farm labourers rubbed shoulders and drank: The Commercial and The Ring of Bells.

Local streets, too, had organic names: Smith Hill, Bread Street, Heddy's Cross (a lonely and spooky crossroads, reputed burial place of a suicide).

Then, in the late 1950s, a new breed arrived. Residents - retired minor civil servants, bank managers, openly describing themselves as the "patron class", they made their way on to the village council, and things started to change. The Commercial became The Admiral Grandison. Smith Hill became Exe View Gardens. Grandison Drive appeared, to be locally nicknamed Grandiose Drive.

Forever complaining of farmyard smells, barking dogs and the like, they were not greatly loved. They made me smell blood at the back of my nose.

Years later, in that very organic town, Winchester, new, expensive housing estates appeared. One which particularly enraged me was "Teg Down Meads" (a teg is apparently some kind of sheep, as if the residents of the road would know that). 

I hate tweeness, in language, manners, art, and, most of all, in religion.