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The discreet charm of the Romanian Bourgeisie
Tom Wilson 23.07.04

This weekend, I found myself in conversation with another British person. It's a rare occurrence. I usually run for cover when I spot them, but on this occasion there was nothing for it - I was going to have to make conversation with another one of my kind. It's always advisable to try to make a good impression when meeting someone for the first time, and the chap in question was doing well - until he decided to let it be known just how educated he was in the ways of Romanian culture and society. "Of course," he nodded knowingly, "Romania hasn't actually got a middle class, so to speak..." Give that man a medal! If I had 500 Lei for every time I heard some foreigner repeat this blindingly obvious idea, I'd have enough money to raise my head above my plebian parapet and join the nouveaux-riche myself.

In fact, it's usually encounters with middle-class people from my own island that remind me exactly why Romania is such a wonderful place to be. A friend of mine recently entertained a Brit in Bucharest for a week, and his request upon leaving made me smile, being utterly indicative of the middle-class mentality in the UK. Rather than a doll dressed up in traditional Romanian costume, or a bottle of Palinka, or a commemorative bust of Adrian Nastase, he sought out a stick of propolis . The life of today's sophisticated, urbane middle-class westerner is perfectly captured by this poor mans quest to take home the product of a bumble-bee's backside, hoping to benefit from its health-giving properties; because if there's one thing the middle classes are concerned about today, it's their health.

The historian Eric Hobsbawm tells us that the widest definition of the middle classes, those of "the middling sort", as they were known in the nineteenth century, was that of keeping domestic servants. Fast-forward to the nineteen-eighties and it was his-and-hers pajamas, dinner parties and a fear of falling house prizes that marked you out as middle class. Today, it's all about the Turner Prize for Art, a hyped CD by some 14-year old rapper from a council estate telling it 'how it really is', and organic vegetables.

I dislike eating pesticides, which makes me like organic vegetables. I think they're great. Where I come from, they're sold in farm shops by little old ladies who always give you the wrong change and smell of mothballs. However, in most cities, going to an organic food store is like going to a Disneyworld designed to pander to the fickle desires of the over-pampered. Middle-class nitwits like Liam Gallagher (Oasis) and Damon Albarn (Blur) were regular visitors to the organic store where a friend of mine used to work, in the fashionable Notting Hill district. Its difficult to believe, but the cool place to hang out for a coffee today isn't Starbucks (so 1999!) but over a crate of dirty turnips.

This is the problem with middle-income westerners today. They've advanced too far from their earlier, rather embarrassing incarnations. Their high incomes and cutting-edge media-awareness means that their word has become increasingly competitive. Aspiring to purchase expensive things is no longer their driving aim; it's all about being ‘in the know', ‘in the loop'. Whether it's the health benefits of wheat-germ, or the latest novel by Zadie Smith, being clued up is what matters today.

What's even more infuriating about the middle classes is their attempts to chase the elusive ideal of cool . Success in the west is no longer measured out in terms of money, but in credibility. Being a conformably well-off yet rather dull middle-manager just doesn't cut it in the competitive world of today's bourgeoisie; having a hip and interesting profession is almost as important as having the money to afford £25-a-bottle olive oil. This is why we've seen such an incredible shift of aspirations towards jobs in the media. Being a media professional is now the defining middle-class position. Work in TV, or in film, or for a cool magazine is now so sought after that most people are prepared to do the job for a literally subsistence salary for years in order to get their foot in the door. It's exactly what many of my ex-colleagues from university are doing at this very moment, in the hope of one day being able to rub shoulders with pop stars, backstage at a BBC kids TV show.

Cool might be what the middle classes aspire to, but as everyone knows, there's nothing less cool than being middle class. The idea of cool - its distance and indifference - is borrowed from the nonchalance of those with nothing to lose, those who are living at the bottom of the pile. Most middle class people thus go to extreme lengths to disguise their obviously privileged backgrounds, often adopting ridiculous 'street' accents to hide their irritating home-counties drone. In London there's even a special term for people who attempt this, with the middle-classes who appropriate the local accent being referred to as 'Mockneys' - mock cockneys.

This emphasis on cool has also led to the 'perpetual youth' phenomena, whereby people in their 40s are mimicking the spending habits of teenagers. Retail therapy comes in the form of skateboards, CDs and limited-edition figurines of punk-rocker cartoon squirrels. In all seriousness, this is the sort of thing the middle classes are spending their hard-earned cash on. This is why I dislike the western bourgeoisie so much. Deep down, they're all nursing a nagging sense of self-loathing; they're desperate to be other than they actually are.

Hurrah! then, I say, for the Romanian middle classes. Hurrah! for their termopan windows, their bad taste and bad intentions. Hurrah! for their ugly villas, their unreformed communist sensibilities and their base desires. Hurrah! for their Securitate connections and their kitschy concept of style. Because the last thing I want to see in Romania is a well-educated, cultured, self-effacing bourgeoisie. There's literally nothing more annoying.