THE British Class system is still alive, so says the BBC. It should know.

The beeb couldn’t be more middle class if it pranged its 4x4 struggling to reverse out of M&S with a bootful of fair-trade organic cinnamon yoghurt for Petal’s afternoon tea party.

There are now seven social classes. The middle classes dominate.

Perhaps this is because the industries where the working class once worked have been flogged off to Chinese sweat shops (a decision not taken by the working class, I might add).

Or is it because working class horizons are changing?

They want the opportunity to eat olives and develop a pathological insistence on ground coffee.

If you’re from a working class background in a middle class world, you’re probably class schizophrenic anyway. For instance, I can be properly working class in DIY shops.

As in: “I need a job lot of sand fer t’back patio, love.’ I’ll throw in some nonsense nail and wood dimensions too: ‘Get us some 10 be threes and five be twos.”

But when it comes to complaining, the voice finds a range occupied by the haughty middle class.

As in: “Well I demand to speak to your line manager or departmental head, now!”

Class schizophrenia becomes more acute when you have children. You have to become selective about pubs to visit, for example. In an unfamiliar city, finding the right pub is fraught with danger.

On opening the doors, you become the Dadinator - horizon scanning for potential threats.

“Man at bar is paralytic and there’s a woman dancing to Come On Baby Light My Fire. On her own, with a drink.

“All it would take for a kick off here is a minor refereeing aberration. Just get a glass of tap water and we’ll go.”

Sometimes you hit it lucky. Oh this is a gastro-pub. Men are wearing ties. This is a three spooner.

And once all the kids have got their coats off, you look at the expensive menu and when the waitress arrives you say:

“Four sparkling mineral waters all round please.”