Badge-class system

CEO of Planet. Because of that E.

The badge-class system is an informal yet entrenched framework in which automotive trim levels double as markers of social class. In the European context, this system has gradually supplanted the traditional segmentation by car size or category.

Though these badges—typically small abbreviations or words mounted on the rear of a vehicle—are officially meant to indicate a car’s equipment level, in practice they function as shorthand for the owner's status. They signify the difference between pride and embarrassment, between being admired and being ignored. Often, it's not the car itself that matters, but the badge on the back.

Background

This is the 1966 Ford Cortina GT. However, this particular GT has the Lotus Cortina paintjob so the owner can say: "I am a sucessful man!" even though he's not.

Until the early 1960s, owning a car was an unattainable luxury for many European households. Cheap cars did exist—the Mini, the Morris Minor, the Volkswagen Beetle—but these were machines built for survival, not for families. Anyone who wanted a vehicle that could truly carry both people and cargo needed capital, an exception, or connections.

But in 1962, a quiet revolution took place in the United Kingdom. Ford introduced the Consul Cortina—a simple, spacious sedan that was finally within reach of the masses. What set it apart, however, was its internal caste system: the car was offered in Standard, De Luxe, Super, GT, and Lotus trims. Each one was more than just a specification—it was a social stamp.

• Standard was for the underclass of factory floors and service pits.
• De Luxe for the petty clerical masses.
• Super for the white-collar bourgeoisie.
• GT and Lotus stood as escapist dreams for those hoping to break free from the system—through performance, speed, or at least a chrome grille.

At first, the motoring press and the public reacted with sarcasm—different steering wheels, same sheet metal. But Ford had understood something crucial: this was the future. Equipment as a social filter. One model, five customers, five classes. Simple production, maximum margin.

And so began the era in which the little words and letters on the rear of a car told the world not just who you were—but, more importantly, who you weren’t.

Later expansion

Ford Granada L. L means Luxus, so the owner was and still is scum.

By the 1970s, Europe was drowning in trim levels. Volkswagen Golfs came in L, CL, GL, GLX, GTI, GTD, G60, and more. Peugeot? SR, GR, STI, GTX. Renault? TL, GTL, GTS. The badges got longer, the meaning fuzzier—but the judgment sharper. Car trims became a form of public caste system.

And suddenly, everyone knew. Everyone. Even kids.

If you had a Golf L, you were the poor guy. No headrests, rubber floor mats, plastic hubcaps. But if your neighbor had a GL? That meant velour seats, chrome door handles, tachometer, and sometimes even a cassette deck with auto-reverse. That’s when things turned ugly.

People stopped being neighbors. They became rivals. Badges were stolen. Tires were slashed. Mirrors kicked off in the night.

One man’s Ghia badge became another man’s revenge. Parking lots turned into silent battlegrounds. Children whispered at school: “His dad drives a GTi... with Recaros.”

There was no forgiveness.

If someone upgraded to a new trim, they parked diagonally, just to flaunt it. If someone got demoted—say, after an accident—humiliation followed. Because here’s the other dark truth:

Ford Granada Ghia X. Ghia X is the top-range trim with wooden dashboard, alloys, central locking, fuel-injected V6 and also tachometer, so the owner had declared himself an OBE, even though not having one.

If your high-trim car got in a crash, the repair shop might use base-trim parts.

You brought in a Sierra 2.0 GLX with fog lights, and got it back with black plastic bumpers and missing door trim. The shame was immediate. “Did you downgrade?” the neighbors would ask. You didn’t. But you might as well have. Your social credit was gone.

In East Germany, people stood in line ten years for a Wartburg with an optional radio. In West Germany, people cried if their Mercedes lost its chrome arch trims in a fender bender. In France, having a Renault 21 GTS instead of TXE was a matter of emotional death.

And then there were the Japanese.

Toyota Corolla GL, DX, SE, XL, LE, XLi, GT. Honda Civic DX, LX, EX, SiR, VTi. Mitsubishi Lancer GLX, MX, SEi, GSR. The badging was cryptic—but the public learned. A SiR was to be feared. A DX? Pitied. Everyone played along.

It wasn’t just about what your car had. It was about what it said about you.

• Wool carpets = refinement.
• Walnut trim = success.
• Electric sunroof = ambition.
• Color-coded bumpers = class.

Meanwhile, the L model parked across the street had no rev counter. The radio was AM-only. The mirrors had to be adjusted by hand. And yet the owner had to pretend it didn’t matter. But it did.

Today, it’s different. Cars have names like Elegance, Life, First Edition, and Business Plus. Leasing has flattened everyone. Status has moved online.

But if you grew up in the '70s, '80s, or '90s, you remember.

You remember when a badge could ruin your day. When the kid across the street pointed and said, “Your car doesn’t have rear headrests.”

And when the only thing worse than having the base model…

…was having the wrong badge on the right car.

Situation now

Adults says that badge wars ended. They're lying....

Cars all look the same now. Rounded edges, blank grilles, soft curves. Even base models have touchscreens, alloy wheels, climate control, and sometimes lane assist. The difference between trims has faded, visually. Adults say it doesn’t matter anymore. They lie.

The badge-class system didn’t vanish—it evolved. It mutated. It became more psychological, more intimate. It moved to where it hurts most: adolescence.

Now, the battleground is fabric, rubber, and foam. Nike Air Force 1 vs. Jordan Retro 4 or Adidas Samba vs. Campus 00s.

Hoodies with just the right logo, just the right drop. Jeans that are “authentic” enough. Backpacks with status zippers. Phone cases that signal TikTok fluency. Teenagers understand the code. They’re fluent in the hierarchy. Just like their parents once were with GL and Ghia. A kid with Air Force 1s from the outlet mall? Mocked for wearing basic shoes. A girl with a pastel Fjällräven Kånken? Too 2017. Someone in Zara? You tried. Someone in Rick Owens or Salomon XT-6? Untouchable.

The rich teenagers don't even need to say anything. They radiate it—through their sneakers, their earbuds, the quiet superiority of paid Spotify Premium.

The middle class tries to keep up. The poor improvise. Fake labels. Vinted. TikTok hacks. Secondhand drip. And sometimes, the anger spills over.

Shoes are just shoes. Give over!

Backpacks get drawn on. Shoes get stepped on. Drinks get “accidentally” spilled. A kid with Balenciaga Track sneakers finds gum in his locker. The class war didn’t end—it just got a new uniform.

Meanwhile, adults smile. “Just fashion. Just kids being kids.”

And then they turn to their spouse and whisper:

“Did you see what car the new neighbors drive? Is that... a Dacia?”

Because they remember.

They remember sitting in the back of a Ford Taunus L, staring at the dashboard of shame—no tachometer, no clock, plastic everything.

They remember watching the neighbor’s kid open the door of an Audi 100 CD, hearing the thunk of quality, seeing the chrome surround the windows, the pride in his posture.

They remember knowing, in their gut: “We’re not like them.”

They remember what it felt like when someone asked if your car had central locking—and it didn’t.

When dad's dad said, “We don’t need rear headrests,” and parent stared into space and wished his dad was someone else.

So when their kids cry about being bullied over cheap trainers, they say “Don’t be silly, it doesn’t matter.” But they’re not fooling anyone. Not even themselves.

Because it always mattered. And it still does.

Examples (Ford Cortina Mark III)

You’ll meet four men. Each owns a Ford Cortina. Not the same one — different trims, different lives.

One just drives a Cortina. No badges, no extras. The others? They’ve got letters — L, XL, GXL — stitched onto the back like class on a school uniform or hype on a hoodie tag.

If they were outfits, one’s in a Primark tee, another in M&S, the third in Zara, the last in something vintage, overpriced, and slightly tragic. But none of them would call it fashion. They’d say it’s just "what you wear." Just like they’d say it’s "just a car."

But look closer — and you’ll see how trim level becomes personality. Social code. Class. Regret. Hope. Fear of looking weak. Or worse: average.

Read this not as car profiles, but as character studies. These men might be your dad, your neighbour, your future self. Or someone you swear you’ll never become.

But roads are long. And a badgeless Cortina doesn’t mean a badgeless life.

Stanley Carter (Cortina)

Car No.1

Stanley Carter used to work the factory floor — now he’s in an office, but still talks like he’s on shift. He’s got a key to the company toilet, but still says bog.

His car is a brown Cortina 1300 Estate. No badge, no L or XL — just steel, space, and a boot as long as his patience. Five doors, no extras, just a radio he paid extra for. He saved three years to buy it new.

Three kids in the back. A GT was never an option — too expensive, too impractical. His wife, sporty and envied by neighbours, tells him he should’ve gone for it. He shrugs. He knows what they could afford.

Promotion came from nowhere. He outpaced his bosses in spreadsheets. Now he’s got a desk and his own pen, but still goes for pints with the old crew. Never first to sit. Never gin — always bitter.

At home: noise, half-cooked dinners, chaos. In the Cortina: quiet, vinyl seats, a radio playing T. Rex and Slade. Sometimes he stays there half an hour after arriving. Just breathing.

It’s not glamour — it’s Bristol. A few jealous neighbours, still driving their Morris 1500s, slashed his tyres twice. Others whisper behind curtains. Those with Austins envy him. Those with Cortina Ls, XLs and GTs laugh at him.

But Stanley’s patient. One day, maybe a GXL — blue, vinyl roof, chrome trim. For now, he parks the base model under the streetlamp and polishes it every Saturday. He never pulls the antenna all the way up.

Not yet.

Car No.2

Barry Thompson (Cortina L)

Barry Thompson has no kids, but he has a system. Lives alone, keeps two teaspoons. Never says “cheers” – always “thank you.” Closes doors quietly. Every time.

Works in the council mailroom. Knows every file number, every name, every lost sewer letter from 1973. Unseen, but essential. Arrives at 8:56 to brew tea before the shift. Keeps M&S hankies and his own strainer clip.

Drives a pastel-grey Ford Cortina 1600 L. Parked straight, always. Rubber mats, manual windows, Radiomobile radio. Listens to the Shipping Forecast – never loud. Antenna never fully extended.

In the boot: tech specs, a rain mat, Tic Tacs – for visitors, should they ever come.

A few envious types with older or base-model Cortinas have stolen his L badge or carpet mats. Twice. He said nothing.

Owns three suits – grey, navy, brown – all from C&A. Three ties. One watch. Nothing blinks, nothing flashes. But it all works. Lives in a quiet terrace with beige-leaf wallpaper and unopened sherry.

Doesn’t curse. Doesn’t gossip. If annoyed, he just says:

“Well, I suppose that’s one way of doing it.”

Never takes biscuits unless offered, but always straightens the tea box.

They call him “the one with order, but no emotions.”

He doesn’t mind.

Ronald Fletcher (Cortina XL)

Car No.3

Ronald Fletcher sits between classes — promoted from the low manegment. The office is functional: artificial greenery, stale smoke in the carpet, and tools that barely work but are never replaced. His background shows in his posture, in the way his shirt cuffs stay rolled an inch too high, as if expecting work that never comes.

His Cortina is a 2000 XL — manual gearbox, black vinyl roof paid for from a warehouse bonus. It isn’t a GXL, but looks close enough in the right light. The badge has been stolen twice. One was recovered in a bin. The other disappeared. Since then, there are quiet evening glances through curtains, just to check it’s still there.

At home, there are five children. One not his by blood, but absorbed fully into the routine. The car is chosen for capacity and control — a shell to hold chaos without tipping. Lesser cars wouldn’t survive the weight of school bags and muddy boots. Automatic transmission was never considered. There are still limits on comfort.

The promotion came not through ambition but through persistence — through silence, completion, and knowing when to nod. In meetings, he uses the accepted language of structure and performance. At home, expression reverts to rawer shapes: fatigue, volume, cracked discipline.

His neighbours take notice. Those in older Fords eye the vinyl roof with resentment. Tyres have been slashed more than once. No one ever caught. But the Cortina is cleaned each weekend, regardless. Chrome is polished, windows cleared of prints, and every dent becomes a project of its own.

There’s a plan in the boot — tucked under tools and a blanket — with figures and months leading toward a possible GXL. The dream is modest but persistent. Respect isn’t earned where he stands. Those below mock what he’s reached; those above never acknowledge it. He remains in the middle — trying, enduring, maintaining.

And when the car is damaged, he repairs it alone, before sunrise if necessary. Not out of pride, but because things must last. Because progress is fragile. And because no one else is going to do it for him.

Graham Smith (Cortina GXL)

Car No.4

Graham Smith is a regional operations manager, owns a Ford Cortina 2000 GXL and therefore commands immediate, unspoken authority in every pub car park from Sutton Coldfield to Tamworth. His suit is pressed but old. His watch tells time, not status. His hands have held both a Parker pen and a rusted socket wrench.

His GXL is fully equipped: twin reading lamps, faux wood dash, factory-fitted clock, cigar lighter, padded dash top, and the holy grail—a tachometer, fitted as standard. Most men in 1974 wouldn't recognise a tachometer if it lit their cigarette, but Graham uses his to shift with surgical precision, even in rush hour. It's not flash—it's domination.

The vinyl roof is beige. The carpets are real. The interior is original, save for a faint smell of pipe tobacco and the crayon marks left by his kids, which he refuses to clean. “It’s not a showroom, it’s a working vehicle,” he says, as he adjusts the wing mirror with a folded copy of The Times.

In Graham's mental taxonomy of society:

• Cortina XL owners are scum or poverty
• Cortina Base and L drivers are effectively homeless.
• Owners of British Leyland cars are even rank bellow homeless.

And yet, Graham talks to everyone. He’ll share a pint with a guy in overalls if he doesn’t talk bollocks. He nods to people with rust, smiles at those who’ve tried. But respect? That’s reserved for those with a proper alternator and functioning dashboard dimmer.

His Cortina has been vandalised twice, ticketed wrongly, and once had its valve caps stolen—acts not of hatred, but of envy. Graham didn’t report any of it.

These guys know it better. Because they grew up in that time........

See also

• Ford
• Social classes
• Social Credit system
• Sick-fuckery
• Jezza
• James May
• Richard Hammond

Notes