16th October 2016
The sun is still shining over here, my word it is rather splendid. Why oh why did we not organise a few more jollies in this direction instead of shlepping it over to Frau Merkel’s in the sodding rain of a damp February morning? I’m sure the Maldivians would have been interested in hearing about our plans to adapt to climate change, what with most of their land being lower than the ethical standards of Trump in a brothel. Speaking of whom, the fillies here are rather, well, suitably pleasing on the eye in that dusky way of theirs. I don’t mind telling you, a rather pretty little thing brought breakfast this morning and I have to confess, I rather thought of a decent spanking, but not the sort we were used to back in the old days? Gosh, I do think the sun is rather working havoc with the old hormones.
So whats up with Blighty now that St. Theresa’s been given the keys to the money ‘printing presses’? I know you never believed that bullshit about austerity, but I think her blessed Saintness did not get the irony in cabinet when we talked about budget deficit reduction. I should have known that her blank face was not due to a lack of sense of humour, although God knows she is about as much fun as one’s morning ablutions following a hot chilli wings competition in Walsall, no it was because…and bugger me with a pineapple, she was taking us seriously when we said “there is no money”. Christ, what the blue fuck does she think money actually is? Does she think the Treasury is stuffed to the gunnels with dubloons, shekels and gold sovereigns? Did she really believe that to bail out the NHS you have to actually go running down Whitehall with a wheelbarrow stuffed full of gold coins to Richmond House like some demented Pirate in a Treasure burying race in which the loser donates a still attached testicle to a rabies crazed crocodile? Its one of the few things I’ll regret in leaving office. We should have made it clearer we were only joking, it seems we should have spelled it out. Austerity was for keeping the plebs in check, not for putting one’s granny out on the street because some tosser in a local authority paid the rent for a jihadi inclined immigrant in Barking (or some such). No more money for the NHS? What! You must be livid. We were always going to bail out the NHS, but you were keeping that until 2020.
Perhaps we are getting her all wrong, perhaps its the same tactic. Scare the living bejesus out of the lower orders and then pull it out, rabbit like, just before the next election? I just was saying to one of the medics Sam and I employ just the other day, that all would be well with the NHS. The poor would always be looked after. Granted, they might have to wait a bit longer in AE and for cancer care…but not all cancers are quick killers anyway. A bit of wait would do some of them good. They’d get a sense of the value they are getting for free as they wait and reflect on what damn fine value is the NHS. Rupert (M…not old Prince Rupert zu Loewenstein who sadly passed away – god he could throw a bash) says the middle classes like to use insurance anyway. We do so as a matter of course for just about everything else, so its just a bit of molly coddling that they need to be weaned off.
Like a piglet off a teat.
Except we should use a taser to their gonads to do the job. Sometimes I fucking hate the middle class. At least the working class know they are swivel eyed goonbuckets with a penchant for a supersize bucket of KFC, duty free cigarettes and celebrity wankfests passed off as chat shows, dancing and the culinary arts which feature handling a bag of flour and a whisk as the summit of their pathetic achievement (don’t tell Sam I said that, chuffed to bits when she won of course, but its not international diplomacy, nuclear physics or organising an orgy in a nunnery for the over sixties celebrant). The middle class? Fuck ‘em. You know those country suppers back in old Chipping Norton? We had fun with Jezzer and Tony (before that little incident on Top Gear involving a steak, baby oil and a well greased dildo). I always thought Cherie came across as bit of jumped up middle class tart, y’know the sort. Called to the Bar, and thinks she’s mother bloody Theresa (the dead one, not her blessed saintliness now at the helm).
Oh, I know you won’t tell, but my chap found this headed paper in my luggage as he unpacked. Shame to waste it. Hilary’s emails? Now thats a piss take.
PS. Boris. The bastard, I always knew he’d written two very different articles on Brexit. Et Tu Boris? Whats latin for ‘Cunt’?