Hello,
professional forum Bong here and appreciator of
@Kate Farms Shill 's posts, so as a fellow effortposter allow me to answer some of the specific questions here as well as give my thoughts on this ... specimen. I grew up in the so-called "Home Counties" (the counties that border London, including Buckinghamshire), so I am familiar with this particular species.
Not only that but given her evident lack of academic ability I'd bet her parents invested heavily in private tutoring to get her into Oxford.
In particular, those tutors would have not only coached her, but also helped her pick her degree. English lit is an ideal choice for a dullard who wants to get into Oxford, especially if you are a skinny blonde. Tuition fees in the UK are capped, but the living costs of Oxford are utterly insane. If you're not there on one of dem programz to get council-estate scum into Oxbridge, you need to be rich as fuck, or drown yourself in debt to pursue a degree that's guaranteed to land you the big bucks - PPE, STEM, MBA. I think Eng Lit grads have the worst employment odds of any Oxford degree, so it's a vanity degree only the seriously moneyed or heavily subsidised can afford to pursue. Barry from the local comprehensive isn't going to be very familiar with Dostoyevsky, so he's going to do something STEM related. STEM, of course, is far more objective in its assessment - you get the sums right, or you don't. English Lit is far more subjective, so much greater weight is given to the admissions interview - where being a pretty blonde is a very big advantage when the interviewer is some wizened old pervert with one hand down his corduroy trousers. Mummy dearest made a canny choice (this barely-sentient aloe vera golem hasn't chosen a single thing in her life).
1) Warm milk on corn flakes. Normal British behavior? Or her hamfisted attempt to drive home that it was unpasteurized by suggesting it just got squeezed out the cow's tit?
Absolutely fucking not. I come from a family of yokels and even we discovered the marvels of refrigeration some time in the 1970s.
begging her boyfriend for low calorie vegetable juices trying to sate the steroid hungries under the guise of being willing to try anything to get well.
Oh god. These dim, posh blondes always have the same boyfriend. I have never set eyes on this man before today, but I
know this man. He has a vague non-job in the city, probably in "finance" but not at the coalface, he's probably the in-house graphic designer for the magazine some hedge fund sends to its investors that nobody reads. Throw a stick in any part of North London and you'll hit a dozen of these dullards, with their khaki pants and rolled-up shirtsleeves. He likes skiing and horse-racing. He listens to Ed Sheeran. He owns a number of "Live, Laugh, Love" items. He likes to "cook" but that means making safe, Italian pasta dishes straight out of the pages of the Telegraph Weekend magazine to the letter. I went to a dinner with one of these idiots and I mentioned that I liked to add chili to bolognaise sauce, and he reacted as if I was describing the synthesis of antimatter.
her "tummy" (please stop using this word, holy shit, you are an adult)
You see this is what tells me that this family aren't "old money", they're social climbers. There's this belief here amongst women of a beige persuasion that aristocrats talk to each other like they're 4 years old, because that's what they do in Jane Austen novels, and so they ape this language to try to look like they're Rolls Royce class rather than BMW class. Actual aristocrats swear like wounded pirates. Entire books have been written on why middle-class Brits want people to think they made their money exploiting peasants centuries ago rather than providing management consultancy to the roller-blind industry, but it's a thing. Women are far, far more susceptible to this than men, probably because the business-class-frequent-flyer class are the only people left whose wives can be stay-at-home mothers (most aristocrats are actually pretty broke and their wives shovel horse poo to make ends meet), and they start to think they're the Queen.
You can tell she is from a climber family by the name she adopted. She thinks "Tilly Rose" sounds incredibly posh, whereas "Kate" sounds like someone who wipes her nose on her sleeve. Ironically, not long after she named herself "Tilly", Prince William promptly married a woman called Kate. Oops!
Is it a rich person thing to name your house and have that be the official mailing address?
Yes. Specifically it's a social climber thing, because aristocrats live in named houses so they decide they want that too.
That house is a typical social climber house, too. Not a real mansion (nobody can actually afford those, especially aristocrats who have to open up their family homes to the public just to get the roof fixed), but a big house in the Home Counties with an impractically large garden (so they have to have a gardener, you know,
staff, just like an Archduke!), far too many bedrooms and a special room for
entertaining, where Linda the Housewife can have
really expensive furniture that gets used once a year where they invite their relatives over for Christmas dinner (that tastes absolutely gross and is bone-dry because Linda is far too busy pretending to be Princess Diana to actually learn to cook).
I bet her mum drives a Range Rover, because that's what they think aristocrats drive. Actual aristocrats drive very old Land Rovers and Subaru Foresters, because they need to actually go off-road and need something indestructible because they can't afford to fix it if it breaks (Range Rovers are the least reliable car brand you can buy in the UK). Dad will drive a BMW 7-series, Merc S-Class or a Jaguar.
One of the most reliable ways to tell a social climber apart from an actual posho is what they do with their beige golf jumpers in hot weather. The wannabes will tie them around their waists, whereas the real thing will tie them around their shoulders. I don't know why this is such a reliable indicator, but it's pretty much bulletproof.
So when Kate says she went to state school, she wants you to think of the average underfunded government school that isn't preparing you for the Oxbridge league when really she went to the equivalent of a well-funded charter school that is definitely geared towards university-track students. She knows the majority of the country is using the modern consolidated education system and has one understanding of what "state school" is and just conveniently leaves out that she's in one of the few pockets of the country where it means something different and your performance on an exam at age 10 determines if you get a chance at a university slot or drive a truck for the rest of your life.
Importantly, graduates of those schools still count as "state school" grads for the purposes of University admissions. Successive governments have spent decades trying to get scum-class oiks into Oxbridge and have set compulsory targets for the universities to admit a certain percentage of state school pupils or risk getting their funding pulled. Of course they could improve state schools until their pupils get the education and grades they need to get into elite universities by the normal methods, but that would require both competence and spending money, and the British state is severely lacking in both. So they dump the targets on the universities and tell them to solve the problem themselves. This is particularly bad in degrees like English Lit, which most state school pupils have no interest in pursuing because anyone caught enjoying Shakespeare at a comprehensive will end up with a wedgie so severe it technically counts as gender reassignment surgery. So when some dumb posh blonde from a Grammar school crops up wanting to pursue Eng Lit despite having Patrick Tomlinson-level writing skills they jump at the chance to bump up their numbers.
You’d think such mediocrity wouldn’t get into academia but I met several like this during my time at university.
These fuckers are absolutely everywhere. They get crippling impostor syndrome and compensate by making the university they attended the absolute centre of their self-worth. In fact some people will do this even if they are actually academically gifted. I was briefly friends with a guy who went to Cambridge, and fuck me he wouldn't shut the fuck up about it, ever. He would drop it into every conversation ("I'd love to stay for another drink, but the last train to CAMBRIDGE leaves at 11. I don't want to miss my next study period at CAMBRIDGE, otherwise I might not finish my MASTERS at CAMBRIDGE"). I once jokingly corrected his grammar on Facebook, and he sent me a 700-word email that was one of the most deranged messages I have ever received on any platform, about how many qualifications he had, how that was more than me (actually it wasn't, but he assumed that because I didn't go on about my post-grad degrees like he did must mean I didn't have any), how that meant I couldn't DARE correct him, how I needed to apologise to him
right now because I'd started to
piss him off. Absolute lolcow behaviour that revealed a really dark pit in his soul. I stopped speaking to him after that.
Clearly this air-headed bint has likewise made her alma mater her entire personality because fuck me she doesn't have anything else going on. There's a certain tragedy to people who hang around university after graduating. When I was at University there was a collection of these failures-to-launch, doing shit McJobs locally rather than something more befitting a grad from one of our better universities, and they would hang around the nerd communities on campus, stinking up D&D campaigns and Warhammer tournaments with their neckbeard fedora energy. Most of them were furries, some of them were pushing 30.
And as others have noted, when the Oxford thing didn't fill the void, she had to do something else to keep mummy's attention and fill her Instagram with shallow bullshit, so sickness it was. I'm sure mummy was delighted, what's more aristocratic than having a sickly, waif daughter flop on her fainting couch, with CONSUMPTION, no less! And now mummy is co-writing her tragic memoir, where she dies at the end, probably. In fact this last point is worth bearing in mind, if mummy is really behind all this (and, well, dear little Tilly Rose isn't exactly a wellspring of creative ideas, is she?) this might be an MBP situation to a certain extent. And what would be better for mummy's ego than a really BIG funeral, with horses, and carriages, and so many tastefully-arranged flowers, in a really big church, no, a
cathedral, with choirs and a bishop and... gosh, she's getting the vapours just thinking about it, time to tighten Tilly's corset just a little too much...
Are things like Botox easy to get in the UK?
Frighteningly so. You don't need to be an MD, and you can get someone in a back alley to inject a probably safe amount, maybe, then disappear with the money if you don't want to spring for a licensed clinic. Then you die, the BBC wrings its hands and demands that things be BANNED (the BBC, and our press in general, likes to call for things to be banned), but nobody does anything much. And if you can't get it here you can go to Turkey or some other shithole where Mehmet who totally studied, somewhere, will squirt shit into random body parts and then you die and the BBC wrings its hands and calls for Turkey to be BANNED etc etc.
