Fear and Privilege: The Timeless Playbook of the Elite
The elite’s scare tactics endure, convincing the public that what hurts them hurts us all.
2 July 18471
The parlour is stifling, its heavy velvet drapes drawn against the pale daylight creeping through the windows. The hearth blazes in defiance of the summer outside, casting flickering shadows over the room’s opulent inhabitants. Lord Frumbleton, perched upon a high-backed chair that seems as uncomfortable as his mood, waves a crumpled copy of The Times in the air like a man swatting a swarm of bees.
“My friends,” he bellows, his jowls quivering with righteous indignation, “it is the end. The end, I tell you, of civilised society as we know it!”
Lady Snifteridge, resplendent in a gown so adorned with lace that it seems a miracle she can move at all, clasps her hands to her bosom and lets out a faint cry. “The end, Frumbleton? Whatever do you mean? Surely Parliament hasn’t—”
“They have!” Frumbleton thunders, slamming the newspaper onto the polished mahogany table with all the subtlety of a guillotine. “They have gone mad! They have passed the Ten Hours Act2! The very backbone of our factories and our fortunes, now fettered by the whims of these so-called reformers, intent on gutting industry!”
Lady Snifteridge recoils as though struck. “But who will keep the looms running? Who will tend to the lines? Are they expecting us to—” she pauses, her voice dropping to a horrified whisper, “to pay them overtime?”
The room collectively shudders.
Sir Horace Puddlewick, a man whose cravat is as starched as his opinions, leans forward from his perch on the divan. “This is madness,” he declares, his monocle glinting ominously in the firelight. “Sheer madness. Do they think wealth simply falls from the trees? Shall I send my sons to the mills to oil the machinery themselves?” He snorts at the very idea, though his disdain is as much for his sons as for the suggestion.
Miss Euphemia Danderplum, seated primly by the window, sniffles into her handkerchief. “And what of the children, Frumbleton? What will become of them now that they’re forbidden from working more than ten hours? What else will they do, poor things, if they cannot earn their keep?” Her voice quivers with the conviction of someone who has never earned her own keep in her life, save for the occasional embroidery lesson.
“Exactly, Danderplum!” Frumbleton declares, seizing upon her remark as though it were a golden sceptre. “The reformers don’t understand! They sit in their Westminster offices, sipping their ridiculous imported coffee, and they haven’t the faintest clue what this will do to industry. To the economy! To us! They say it’s about humanity. Humanity!” He spits the word as though it were an unripe olive. “Do they think humanity will keep the factory chimneys belching smoke?”
Lady Snifteridge fans herself furiously. “It’s the principle of the thing, Frumbleton. First, they limit the hours we may employ labour. Next, they’ll want us to pay for breaks! To provide safe working conditions! On the wealth we’ve already earned! Imagine the indignity of it!”
In the corner, Timothy the footman stands still, his face a practised mask of detachment. But behind that calm exterior, his thoughts churn. How typical, he muses, that those with everything find even the slightest attempt at fairness to be an affront. Ten hours. As if those men, lounging with their brandies, have ever worked a ten-hour day in their lives. He resists the urge to let out an audible sigh, knowing full well that doing so would only bring trouble.
“Oh, they’ll come for us all, mark my words,” Puddlewick grumbles. “Workers’ rights today, land tomorrow, and God knows what else next week. What’s industry without its profits? What’s a gentleman without his fortunes? If we are forced to endure such indignities, what hope is there for the common man?”
Timothy can’t help but clench his jaw. The common man? What do these people know about common men? His own father worked twelve hours a day, six days a week, and still barely managed to put food on the table. This 'Ten Hours Act'—as paltry as it seems—is at least a start. But these people speak as if it were a threat to civilisation itself.
“The common man?” Danderplum echoes, furrowing her brow. “But surely, they will not be affected by all this?”
Frumbleton fixes her with a pitying gaze, as though addressing a particularly slow pupil. “My dear, don’t you see? They will be convinced they’re affected, and that’s what matters. We’ll tell them that shorter working hours will make their bread more expensive. That they’ll lose their jobs. That the world will tumble into chaos. And they’ll rally to our side as they always do, bless their simple hearts.”
At this, Puddlewick nods sagely. “Indeed, we must not underestimate the value of a good scare. The masses are so very predictable when they think their supper is at stake.” He reaches for the brandy, pouring himself a generous glass. “And what of our friends in Parliament? Surely they cannot all have gone mad?”
Frumbleton’s eyes glint with a conspiratorial sheen. “Oh, rest assured, Puddlewick. We still have friends in the right places. There are always those who understand that the wheels of industry must be greased with something other than sentimental folly. We must apply pressure, make them see the repercussions—the very fabric of society unravelling, chaos in the streets!”
Timothy’s fingers tighten around the silver tray he holds. Greased with something other than sentimental folly—what a polite way to describe exploiting others until they are too broken to fight back. He pictures his sister, her hands raw from the factory work. What would these elites say if they had to see the blisters on her palms? The truth is they wouldn’t care—they would sip their imported coffee and call it the natural order of things.
“Chaos indeed,” Lady Snifteridge says with a shiver. “What if the workers get ideas? What if they think they deserve comfort too? It’s a slippery slope, Frumbleton. One moment they are demanding a ten-hour day, and the next they will want a place at the table!”
“Perish the thought!” Puddlewick exclaims, nearly spilling his brandy. “Workers at the table? Whatever next, voting rights for coal miners? A nation ruled by factory hands?” He clutches his chest as if the mere thought has given him palpitations.
Timothy fights to keep his expression neutral, but inwardly he imagines what it might be like—if people like his father had a say in how things were run. If laws were made to protect them, rather than to appease those who already had more than they could ever need. He dares to hope, even if just for a moment.
“Calm yourself, Horace,” Frumbleton says, though he himself looks none too calm. “The important thing is to maintain the narrative. We must make them believe that what hurts us will hurt them tenfold. That without us, they are doomed to a life of hardship, even though we are the very reason their lives are hard in the first place. We will spread stories through the press that shorter hours mean fewer jobs, that the factories will simply reduce their workforce to compensate for lost production time. We will say that wages will fall because of increased competition for fewer positions. We'll argue that businesses will have no choice but to raise the prices of bread, coal, and every necessity, and that families will go hungry. We'll imply that the chaos caused by emptying workhouses will lead to increased crime, instability, and threaten the very fabric of their lives. The common man must be convinced that these reforms are an attack on his livelihood, not a benefit. And, if needed, we shall arrange for a few of our associates to make sure that layoffs happen—give them something tangible to fear.”
Timothy wants to laugh at the irony. These men are so terrified of losing even an ounce of their power that they can’t see the absurdity of their own words. The 'narrative,' as they call it, is nothing more than a thinly veiled lie—one that Timothy has heard his entire life.
“Precisely!” Lady Snifteridge agrees. “We must impress upon them that we are all in this together—though, naturally, we are in it somewhat more comfortably.” She flutters her fan delicately, as though dispersing any hint of discomfort from the room. “The poor, simple creatures are so easily led. A whisper here, a headline there, and they’ll think the devil himself is knocking at their door.”
“Oh, and we shall give them headlines, Snifteridge,” Frumbleton says, his voice lowering into a conspiratorial growl. “We shall tell them that shorter hours will drive prices sky-high. That their bread and butter are at stake. That their children will starve if we do not keep the mills running smoothly. And they will believe it, for they always do.”
Sir Puddlewick leans back, his monocle glinting again. “Ah, yes, the loyal, fearful public. Bless them, they do so hate change, especially when we convince them it will make their beer cost more. We simply must keep them frightened and in the dark.”
A smirk creeps across Frumbleton’s face. “And so we shall. The brilliance of it, Puddlewick, is that they will defend our interests as if they were their own. We won’t need to lift a finger. They’ll take to the streets, railing against the very reforms that might ease their burdens. And when it’s all done, we’ll still be here, in our parlours, our wealth intact, while they’ve once again fought to maintain their own chains.”
Miss Danderplum, who has been quiet for some time, finally speaks up, her brow furrowed in thought. “But, Frumbleton… what if… what if they don’t believe us this time? What if they truly want change?”
The room falls silent for a moment, the only sound the crackling of the hearth. Frumbleton’s face darkens, and he leans forward, his voice dripping with condescension. “Oh, Danderplum, my dear. They have never wanted change. They want comfort. They want stability. And we will convince them that comfort lies in keeping everything just as it is. Change is frightening, unpredictable. And that is why we shall win—because we promise them that nothing will change, and they are too afraid to dream of anything else.”
Timothy swallows back his frustration as he turns and quietly leaves the room, his duties calling him elsewhere. But as he walks through the servant's corridor, he allows himself a small smile. The world is changing, even if these people refuse to see it. And maybe, one day the workers will realise they deserve more than crumbs.
4 November 2024
In an exclusive and trendy Private London club, The Ned, a hedge fund manager named Peregrine Frumbleton-Smythe swirls his Chardonnay and sighs heavily. “It’s the end of civilised society, I tell you,” he laments to his equally well-heeled companions, his voice echoing eerily like his 19th-century predecessor. “A 1.2% increase in National Insurance Contributions for employers, of all things! They expect us to foot the bill for public services. Absolute madness, isn’t it, Digby?”
Around him, nods of agreement come from men and women alike, each one adorned in tailored suits. A woman named Arabella pipes up, “It’s a slippery slope, Peregrine. Today, it’s a small increase in national insurance, but next, they’ll be expecting us to pay a fair wage! Where does it end? Do they think we can just shake a magic money tree?” She shakes her head, her diamond earrings catching the light.
Digby, whose investment portfolio is the envy of the City, chimes in, “Exactly, Peregrine! Let’s not forget that we are the job creators. Without us, where would the economy be? If the government keeps putting its hands in our pockets, what incentive do we have to keep at it?” He raises his glass as if to toast their collective plight.
Arabella nods emphatically. “First, they come for our NICs. And this is on top of VAT on private schools! Don’t these people understand the burden that will place on parents like us? It’s as though they don’t realise we’re paying for the future of this country!”
Peregrine agrees with a theatrical groan. “Exactly, Arabella! And what’s worse, the inheritance tax on farmers. They make it sound like it’s farmers being targeted, but what about those trying to keep estates in the family? It’s an outright attack on tradition, on stability.”
Digby leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “We must make sure that the working class understand this is their fight too. We'll use the media—tell them that the increase in NIC will force businesses to cut jobs. That the VAT on private schools will somehow harm their children's education because the brightest minds won’t have the opportunities they deserve. We’ll say that farmers having to pay inheritance tax for the first time means higher food prices, and that it'll be their tables that are empty because of these changes.”
Arabella nods, her eyes narrowing in thought. “Yes, we need to make it clear that these taxes and regulations won’t just inconvenience us—they’ll ruin everyone. Higher national insurance means fewer jobs, VAT on schools means fewer scholarships for promising children, and inheritance tax on farmers means higher costs for everyone at the market. We have to paint this as an attack on the very fabric of their lives.”
Peregrine smiles, his eyes alight with a gleam of satisfaction. “Precisely. The narrative must be that these policies are assaults on tradition, prosperity, opportunity for all and above all, the working class. We have to convince them that it’s not about protecting our wealth; it’s about protecting their future.”
The waitstaff move quietly, refilling glasses, their expressions unreadable. One young server, Tim, catches fragments of the conversation—something about the 'tragedy' of paying their fair share. Tim rolls his eyes as he moves towards the kitchen. Different century, same nonsense, he thinks.
Back at the table Peregrine leans forward, his eyes glinting with the fervour of a man who believes his own delusions. “It’s like they’ve never even heard of trickle-down economics! We provide opportunity. We keep the wheels turning. A little discomfort for us means disaster for the common man, isn’t that right, Digby?”
Arabella nods sagely. “We must make them understand that what hurts us will ultimately hurt them even more. And by 'them,' I mean everyone—shopkeepers, taxi drivers, schoolteachers. They don’t realise we are all in this together.”
Digby scoffs. “Together, indeed, Arabella. I’ve never seen them willing to shoulder the risk, only to enjoy the fruits.”
As the conversation at The Ned continues, Peregrine raises his glass, his voice taking on the gravitas of a statesman delivering an epoch-defining proclamation. “We must fight back against this assault on decency and tradition! The workers must be shown that what is bad for us—their job creators, their pillars of society—is far worse for them. Let them think these taxes will empty their wallets, not just inconvenience our wine cellars!”
Arabella nods fervently, adding, “Precisely, Peregrine. If they dare tax inheritance, they’ll think they can tax anything. It’s a slippery slope, you know. One day, we’re paying VAT on private schools; the next, we’re footing the bill for universal childcare. Where does it end?”
Tim, now clearing the crumbs from their polished table, catches Peregrine’s next words: “Yes, yes, like this bloody national insurance hike! They say it funds public services, but we know the truth—it’s just yet another burden on the selfless business owner. And who will suffer when we’re forced to lay off staff? Not us, of course. But try telling the public that. They’ll fall in line, as they always do.”
Tim’s jaw tightens as he suppresses the urge to respond. Selfless business owner? he thinks, These are the same people who’d raise a toast to the phrase ‘Let them eat cake’ if it came with a tax exemption.
Back in the kitchen, Tim scrolls through his phone, skimming headlines about tax reforms, inheritance protests, and the “unprecedented strain” on Britain’s elite. He pauses on an image of a farmer, protesting the inheritance tax reforms. The placard reads: “Save Our Farms! Save Our Food!” Tim sighs. He knows who whipped up this outrage—Peregrine and his ilk, spinning tales of apocalypse to protect their estates while conveniently ignoring the fact that the majority of farmers—those running farms worth under £3 million—won’t pay a penny more.
He smirks as he scrolls further, stumbling upon an op-ed railing against VAT on private school fees. The same tired narrative: that this tax will destroy opportunities for “deserving children.” Yet, in all the arguments, Tim realises, no one ever mentions that the overwhelming majority of British children attend state schools—schools underfunded for years while the elite fret over losing their tax-free enclaves of privilege.
The room echoes with laughter from Peregrine’s table as Tim steps back into the parlour, tray in hand. “They’ve taxed the death of a farmer!” Peregrine proclaims with mock solemnity. “What’s next, taxing our champagne?”
“Only if they dare,” Arabella quips, to delighted laughter.
Tim clears the empty glasses, his expression neutral, but his mind churns. Different era, same script. Convince the working classes that their lives depend on the comforts of the elite. Convince them that taxing the rich means taking the bread from their tables. And then sit back and sip your brandy while they fight to protect your wealth.
As Tim heads back to the kitchen, he wonders if this time the tide will turn. Will people see through the lies and scare tactics? Or will they, as always, rally to defend those who wouldn’t lift a finger to save them in return?
Don’t Fall for the Crocodile Tears of the Rich
Apologies for the odd flight of fancy—I think my week has been a bit too long and my mind may be heading towards the more unhinged side of things. The point though, as bizarre as it might have seemed, is a serious one.
Whenever we hear the wealthy, the privileged, or their media mouthpieces warning us that they’re the ones suffering, that their burdens are too great to bear, we should stop and think: who actually pays the price when they start demanding “relief”? When they spin tales of economic collapse, of breadlines and job cuts, who are they really speaking for? Spoiler: it’s never the working class they claim to champion—t’s themselves.
We’ve seen this play out over and over again, from the outrage over taxing inherited wealth on massive estates, to private schools being asked to pay VAT, to a modest hike in employer NICs. Every time, we’re told that these measures will somehow destroy livelihoods and devastate the economy. But when you strip away the rhetoric, it’s clear these policies aren’t aimed at harming ordinary people—they’re aimed at closing loopholes and making the wealthiest contribute a bit more to the society that enables their success.
The truth is, these aren’t attacks on hardworking families. They’re attacks on systems of entrenched privilege. And when those systems are challenged, the privileged push back. Hard. They’ll do everything in their power to make you feel like your interests and theirs are the same—when in reality, they’d sell you out in a heartbeat to protect their profits, estates, and tax havens.
So, let’s keep our heads about us. Let’s not get swept up in tales of apocalypse spun by people who’ve never known a day of real struggle. Let’s ask the right questions: who benefits from these arguments? Who loses? And who’s being played to keep things exactly the way they’ve always been?
Because, ultimately, this isn’t about saving farms or keeping schools affordable—it’s about maintaining a status quo that works for the few, at the expense of the many.
And frankly, we deserve better.
This is completely made up and the characters displayed have never existed… or have they?
“The Factories Act 1847, also known as the Ten Hours Act was a United Kingdom Act of Parliament which restricted the working hours of women and young persons (13–18) in textile mills to 10 hours per day. The practicalities of running a textile mill were such that the Act should have effectively set the same limit on the working hours of adult male mill-workers.”
The entire system is now designed and set up to funnel publically created money to flow into private,often foreign hands. Unless that changes it'll just be more of the same
What a surprise read. Thoroughly enjoyed it, very apt.