Social class has worked for years. Born into the right family, go

Host: The city skyline glowed like a web of ambition — towers of light stabbing into the night, each window a cell of quiet striving. Down below, the air was thick with horns, footsteps, and the hum of exhaustion. Somewhere far off, the bells of St. Paul’s chimed, the sound dissolving into the pulse of commerce.

Inside a rooftop bar, the glass walls reflected both the skyline and the faces of its patrons — young professionals, laughing too loudly, checking their phones too often. It was a temple of self-made myths and inherited privilege.

At a corner table, Jack sat in a dark suit, tie loosened, nursing a glass of whiskey. Across from him, Jeeny — in her usual quiet defiance of formality — sipped water with lemon, her coat draped over the back of her chair. Between them, the city glittered like both promise and accusation.

Jeeny: “Katie Hopkins once said, ‘Social class has worked for years. Born into the right family, go to the right schools, even if you’re not super bright to start with, you’ll turn out bright. You go to the right university, you get the right job, you have the right connections, you’ll make it to the top. Job done, very efficient.’”

Jack: (dryly) “She makes privilege sound like a production line — sleek, polished, and moral by design.”

Jeeny: “That’s the satire of it, though, isn’t it? She’s calling it efficient, but what she means is unfair. The machine works — but only for the ones already inside.”

Jack: “You’re giving her too much credit. Hopkins doesn’t do irony. She’s describing the system with admiration — the hierarchy as merit’s counterfeit.”

Jeeny: “Or as proof that society loves the illusion of fairness more than fairness itself.”

Host: The bartender clinked a few glasses together, the sound sharp and crystalline, slicing through their words. A man in a navy blazer laughed nearby — the kind of laugh that carried money in its echo.

Jack: “She’s not wrong, though. The machine works. The right birth still buys the right future. Some of us climb; others are chauffeured.”

Jeeny: “But what kind of world calls that ‘efficiency’? Efficiency without ethics is just cruelty wearing order.”

Jack: “Cruelty with a business plan.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We confuse competence with consequence. The system runs smoothly while crushing the wrong people — that’s the tragedy.”

Host: The night wind brushed against the glass, making faint patterns of condensation that blurred the city lights. Below, taxis moved like veins of gold, pulsing through the streets.

Jack: “You ever notice how the language of privilege is always moralized? ‘Work hard, go to school, earn your place.’ But Hopkins’ quote strips that veneer. She’s saying it plainly — success is manufactured, not earned.”

Jeeny: “And yet, society worships the myth of meritocracy because it gives failure dignity. It tells the poor their suffering has meaning.”

Jack: “It’s a rigged story that keeps the audience clapping.”

Jeeny: “And the actors thinking they deserve the stage.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his gaze lost in the skyline — the city reflected in his glass like a miniature kingdom.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? The system pretends to create excellence, but really it breeds sameness — same schools, same accents, same dinner parties. They call it ‘networking,’ but it’s just inbreeding of opportunity.”

Jeeny: “Because comfort doesn’t innovate — it replicates.”

Jack: “Exactly. And yet, the world keeps rewarding conformity because it’s predictable. Risk belongs to those who can afford to fail.”

Jeeny: “And failure belongs to those who can’t.”

Host: The wind rattled faintly against the glass. A helicopter crossed the horizon — its red light blinking over the dark Thames like a warning in motion.

Jeeny: “Hopkins is cynical, but not entirely wrong. The structure is efficient — in maintaining inequality. It’s a perfect loop. The powerful pass on power, and call it destiny.”

Jack: “That’s why revolution never comes. It’s hard to riot when you’re still hoping to be invited to the gala.”

Jeeny: “You think cynicism is her point, though? Maybe it’s confession — the elite acknowledging the con but too comfortable to end it.”

Jack: “That’s the curse of clarity. The ones who see the truth usually benefit from it.”

Jeeny: “And the ones who don’t — live by it.”

Host: A hush fell between them, not awkward, but heavy. The kind of silence cities carry — filled with invisible labor. Somewhere below, a deliveryman cycled through puddles, his breath visible in the cold air, unseen by those he fed.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How we built a world where fairness feels naïve, and cynicism feels realistic.”

Jack: “Because idealism doesn’t scale. Efficiency does.”

Jeeny: “But efficiency kills empathy.”

Jack: “Empathy slows production.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without it, the system eats itself.”

Host: The lights outside flickered off one building at a time, the skyline dimming as offices emptied. But the towers still stood — cold, functional, untouchable.

Jeeny: “You know what I find fascinating? Hopkins calls it ‘very efficient.’ It’s almost mathematical — as if hierarchy were the natural order of things. Like gravity.”

Jack: “That’s the lie — to confuse design for nature. But privilege isn’t gravity; it’s architecture.”

Jeeny: “And architecture can be redesigned.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But cynicism can’t be the final philosophy. If we accept efficiency as justice, then we stop imagining alternatives.”

Jack: “And imagination is the first casualty of hierarchy.”

Host: The last light went out on the building across the river. The reflection in the glass faded, leaving only the faint outline of their faces — tired, alive, and thoughtful.

Jeeny: “You know, every system eventually collapses under the weight of its own perfection. The British aristocracy, Wall Street, Rome — they all believed efficiency was eternal.”

Jack: “And what replaces them?”

Jeeny: “Something chaotic. Something human.”

Jack: “Until that too becomes efficient.”

Jeeny: “Then the cycle begins again. But maybe the point isn’t to end the system — maybe it’s to keep remembering it’s not inevitable.”

Host: The wind pressed once more against the glass, and the city lights shimmered like restless eyes.

And in that reflective quiet, Katie Hopkins’ words lingered — cold, efficient, and unsettlingly true:

That privilege has mastered the illusion of fairness,
that success can be manufactured through proximity,
and that the world’s most enduring machine
is the one that converts birthright into destiny.

That efficiency, without morality,
is not civilization —
but engineering of inequality.

Host: Jack raised his glass, watching the amber light tremble within it.

Jack: “To the system that works.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And to those still trying to rewrite its code.”

Host: They drank in silence.
Below, the city glowed on — perfect, pitiless,
and efficient to the very end.