You lived under the stairs in a cupboard? Check your privilege, fancy pants. You're not real working class until you've been a compost wizard.

Yeah, boo hoo, your foster parents spoiled some other kid. At least you had a room. I had to learn how to be a wizard out in the back yard on wheeled base. Every day, I'd be told "turn 7 cubic feet of waste into compost" and if I didn't? Well, there'd be no sausages for Jack, would there? No, you dummy, my name's not Jack. That's just how we talk in a working class town. Sausages for Jack means watching TV before bed. It's rhyming slang. Do I really have to explain it to you? Pfft. So middle class, you lot.

And at least you turned out to be royalty, innit? "Oh, Mr. Glasses with his special scar, have an enchanted peppermint and a magic robe!" Me? I got a 12" twist off lid and a whack on the bum from the kids playing cricket down by the parking lot. You know cricket, Mr. Magic Broom? It's the game where you hit things with mallets. Sort of like day labor, which I bet you never had to do at your big private school in the sky. Oh, but the teachers all knew your real dad, didn't they? That must have made it super fair for the other kids.

Me, I knew the joy of a breeze through aeration holes, and how a low profile design could help you blend in with the surroundings. But Special McWandZap never had to blend in, right? Just marched right up to the prettiest girl in school and said "Do my homework, I've got to adventure!" Seriously, you're so cliche I'm surprised you didn't start a rock band.

Do us a favor, Merlin, and cart your potions on back to your side of the tracks. Us Compost Wizards don't need you looking down on us. Come back here again and I'll sic my mate John on you. You may have heard of him. He was at Newcastle.

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