This is the true story of the weeds: the origin of the species.
A story of cultivation, exploitation, civilization.
Found flowering on wasteland unnoticed, unofficial, accidental.
A cutting was taken but weeds do not thrive under hothouse conditions & wilt when in competition with more exotic strains.
A charming naivety, very short flowering season;
no sooner has the first blooming begun than decay sets in.
Bring your camera, take photo of life on the margins.
Offer money in exchange for sex & then get a taxi home.
The story has always been the same
A source of wonder due to their ability to thrive on poor quality soil offering very little nourishment
Drinking `Nurishment`.
But weeds must be kept under strict control or they will destroy everything in their path.
Growing wild, then harvested in their prime & passed around at dinner parties.
Care for some weed?
So natural, so wild, so unrefined & someone`s gonna make a fortune one day
If only they can market this stuff right.
Come on: do your dance.
Come on, do your funny little dance.
Germination. Plantation. Exploitation. Civilization.
A sensational buzz – zzzzzz.
Crop rotation. Genetic modification. The creation of expectation. Ultimate frustration.
This is the story of the weeds: the origin of the species.

You could have quoted the “Indie” band Pulp (not that they are that “Indie” anymore) and their great song from 1997 (grim year):

She came from Greece she had a thirst for knowledge,
she studied sculpture at Saint Martin’s College,
that’s where I,
caught her eye.
She told me that her Dad was loaded,
I said “In that case I’ll have a rum and coca-cola.”
She said “Fine.”
and in thirty seconds time she said,

“I want to live like common people,
I want to do whatever common people do,
I want to sleep with common people,
I want to sleep with common people,
like you.”

Well what else could I do -
I said “I’ll see what I can do.”
I took her to a supermarket,
I don’t know why but I had to start it somewhere,
so it started there.
I said pretend you’ve got no money,
she just laughed and said,
“Oh you’re so funny.”
I said “yeah?
Well I can’t see anyone else smiling in here.
Are you sure you want to live like common people,
you want to see whatever common people see,
you want to sleep with common people,
you want to sleep with common people,
like me.”
But she didn’t understand,
she just smiled and held my hand.
Rent a flat above a shop,
cut your hair and get a job.
Smoke some fags and play some pool,
pretend you never went to school.
But still you’ll never get it right,
cos when you’re laid in bed at night,
watching roaches climb the wall,
if you call your Dad he could stop it all.”

The last line being your point – temporary shortage of cash is not the same as poverty.

I’m guessing that if you did “live in poverty” you probably wouldn’t steal cars, take drugs, engage in any level of criminality or randomly impregnate local girls. I’d also bet you could get a job and be off the estate in quick time.

I was born in 1952 on a council estate in a mining village in the North. Nobody had much and considerably less than those on council estates today. We were not “poor” nor did we live in “poverty” and nor are or do people in Britain today. There are lazy people who think everyone else owes them a living, and others too stupid to do anything to improve themselves – tough.

Poor is living in India or Africa not just with nothing but no prospects of being able to get anything no matter how smart, willing or hard working.

As for explotation, at least the TV producers pretend they are not do so – Nu Labour make no such pretence for the middle and working classes whose money they extort on a daily basis whilst destroying our liberties and forcing social engineering on us at every opportunity.

JR has the bones of a much better reality show. Actually to help guide a small trader to improve his business would be streets ahead of Gerry Robinson’s recent approach and strike a real chord with everyday folk.
Alternatively let’s see Ed Balls sent into a Headmaster’s office to help handle the incessant paperwork, Yvette Cooper into a Benefits claims office or Alistair Darling along to a small businessman ploughing through the inches-thick tax regulations!
A clock should be shown on the screen tracking the time to taken to get to grips before the participant summons his ministerial car and drives off in a complete paddy!
Great TV eh?

There’s plenty of barbeques, beer, wine, abit of fishing and a load of politically incorrect banter that the BBC would never televise, you know – reality.

TV in Britain today is not to inform, or to build or educate, it’s used to destroy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yFx7lSI8srg

Suggest to the programme makers that you haven’t experienced extreme wealth and suggest that you take the reality show onto a billionaire’s yacht, cruising the Cote d’ Azur for a month.
You can come back and say how disgusted you were and push for the return of Investment income surcharge.

That sounds a lot more fun to me.