Last updated 15:54, Wednesday, 14 May 2008

THE recent victory of Boris Johnson to become London’s mayor could kick off a ‘posh’ revival.

One of the national papers wondered if following Boris’s win and the rise of David Cameron (both members of the Bullingdon Club, not, shall we say, like a Working Men’s Club, while at Oxford University ) it was ‘cool’ to be privileged.

This sent a shudder down my spine. Having grown up in the eighties with the horror of the yuppies, large shoulder pads and the ‘greed is good’ philosophy, the very thought makes me run screaming for the nearest commune.

Of course it all depends on your definition of posh. I tend to think someone is a bit la-di-da if they possess a cutlery set which includes fish knives, have more than two sets of spare bedding, don’t watch satellite TV, sing along to opera and, in the case of women, own jewellery which is older than a Spice Girl.

My attitude towards posh folks is based solely on growing up in a working-class family. Boy, were we obsessed with those who were a bit swish back then.

I remember being impressed with those who had a hostess trolley (holding a dinner party marked you as a classy person); ate foreign food made with garlic, including proper spaghetti bolognese which didn’t come from a Heinz tin; had wine in a decanter bottle in their living room and had lots of big books in their home.

I wasn’t sure what defines the upper-classes these days, but thankfully The Daily Telegraph had a handy guide. Gone are the pedigree labradors, the Range Rovers, Avocado bathrooms, Barbours and bouffants.

New Posh, apparently, reads Jason Donovan, My Story Uncut, works in the media, eats lime sorbet and drinks tap water, uses spray tan, dresses in scraggy jeans and says “Oh my God.’’

Maybe it won’t be as hard for my working-class soul to be posh after all...