Middle-class guilt: the other side of the coin

A few years ago there was a spate of news coverage about how the British middle classes were much more likely to commit petty crimes than people from lower income backgrounds. Apparently the middle classes were sick of paying higher taxes with no appreciable improvement in their lifestyles, while those in the lower income bracket were perceived to be living on state benefits and contributing little to society. Consequently, the middle class bitterness gave rise to a new trend of retaliation via small thefts and the like – mediocre illegal acts that made them feel like they were redressing a supposed imbalance.

And despite my choice to document the above in the third person plural, there is an unarguable case to be made for first person singular. For, like Britney Spears, I’m not that innocent: I too have committed a few small misdemeanours and have, thankfully, escaped without punishment thus far. Like many others, I have driven over the speed limit. I have recorded copies of bought CDs and given them to friends. I have kept the duplicate set of books I was accidentally sent by a large corporation. And, perhaps more scandalously, I have travelled home on the train without a valid ticket for my whole journey.

Allow me to explain. My local bus stop, from whence I leave for work every morning, is in Zone 2. My local train station, which is in close proximity to the bus stop and which I use infrequently, is inexplicably in Zone 3. There are no ticket machines at the train station, no guards and no gates. And out of every hundred journeys one makes from that station into central London, a railway employee will check tickets on a maximum of four.

Now, I realise that the purpose of buying a ticket is not to have it checked; the purpose is to pay for the use of the train. Whether it is checked or not should be irrelevant. But when you’ve spent many tens of pounds buying tickets that were not validated, seen by a station official or even glanced at by a third party, the motivation to continue buying them wanes somewhat. When you take into account that I already have a valid travelcard for all journeys within Zones 1 and 2, and thus require an extra ticket only for the portion of the journey from the end of Zone 2 to my home stop, a stop which I feel should be in Zone 2 anyway since a bus driving to the same place would accept my travelcard as sufficient – well, it becomes almost impossible to contemplate the purchase of an extension ticket without burning up with rage and red-tape angst.

My own motivation for committing this middle-class crime is not because I feel frustrated by high taxes and the state of society. As what my father would call a ‘screaming Leftie’, I do not grumble about state benefits and I certainly do not feel as though I am owed anything by society. I realise the trains could not run if everyone behaved as I did and didn’t purchase a ticket – but yet, out of sheer frustration at the extant system, I persist in my petty theft.

Last night, however, may have been my crime swansong. Using my travelcard to board the train legitimately in central London, I took my preferred seat at the front of the front carriage and waited for us to depart. As we pulled away from the platform, I started in shock as a railway employee spoke in person over the tannoy and announced that he would be coming through the carriages to check tickets during the course of the journey. Despite this unprecedented occurrence, I remained calm and planned my story. If questioned, I had two options: a) claim that I had intended all along to disembark the train within Zone 2, get off at the next stop, buy an extension ticket and continue, legally, on my way; b) admit that I was planning on travelling to my intended stop, but claim that I had no idea that it was in Zone 3 and hope that they would believe me, choose not to fine me, and then issue an extension ticket there and then on the train. Ever inert, I chose the more static option b) and awaited my fate.

For the following 22 minutes, I lived in a state of manic anxiety, unable to read my book but refusing either to answer or use my mobile phone in case my conversation alerted my fellow passengers to my true address: this would seriously hinder any attempt I could make to pull a quantity of wool or other natural fibre over any part of the ticket inspectors’ anatomy. Eventually, we left the final Zone 2 station. I was now in Zone 3, only minutes from home but without a valid pass – and there was still no sign of the guard. My heart was timpani-loud and I could feel myself blushing at the imagined confrontation. Finally we pulled into my home station. I stood up and turned to see two uniformed guards making their way down the carriage. I knew they wouldn’t make it to me before I left the train – but the relief was thin. I had knowingly committed a crime, albeit small, and escaped – but the benefit was negligible while the stress was palpable and as I walked home I admitted that I had cut it fine for the last time.