Here is a letter I have just written to an old school chum. Thought I would share it with you.
Hello, Cameron. Remember me? Lord Justin. You were my fag at Eton and we were Bullingdon members together. Thought it was about time I dropped you a line.
I’ve had just about enough. You’re becoming a disgrace to the Eton and Bullingdon tradition.
For a start, I went out to buy a couple of bottles in Sloane Square the other day. I was just heading back to the Lambo when some scruffy oik, with greasy hair and dirty fingernails, came up to me muttering about being a Pole. Naturally, I told him to sod orf back to Poland and take the rest of his Euro yobs with him. Then he said something about galloping. Galloping Poles? At that point, I thought he must be barking.
These Polish chaps work as painters, not jockeys. I know that because some of them turned up at the stately home the other day while I was in town asking to paint the drawing room. Said they were down on their luck. All of them were PhD’s in nuclear physics and couldn’t get a proper job. Of course the girl friend, JC, takes a fancy to the ring leader. Silly cow said he had a nice bum.
When I got home, half the antique horsehair plaster was covered in pink Tesco Value paint – place stinking of beetroot and vodka, white spirits spilt all over the Persian rugs, and the lead Pole upstairs with JC, allegedly showing her how to hold the handle of his brush. Had to pay them 500 quid and set the rottweilers on them to get them orf the property.
Anyway, this greasy-looking bloke says, no. He’s carrying out some nosey Gallup Poll for your lot, and starts asking me a load of damned stupid questions. Where did I stand on identity cards? Would I be voting Conservative at the next election?
Good God, I said, don’t they teach you anything at Victoria Street these days? I don’t need an identity card. I’m recognised on sight by every Hello reader and boozed-up tabloid journo in London. And, do I look like the sort of chap who would queue up with a mob of unwashed peasants to put a cross on a piece of paper? If I have a problem, and I don’t have too many of them, all I have to do is pick up the phone to the old man and have it raised in the Lords. So, I hit him over the head with a bottle of vintage Krug - bit of a waste, but it was the only thing to hand - pressed 200 quid into his hand, like the old Bullingdon days, and drove orf.
Then there’s this Douglas Smith bloke you’ve got working for you. Can’t figure out why you keep him around. Of all the bloody stupid ideas, I heard he wants to give every working class bloke 20 quid a week to father more little Kevins and Gemmas. It’s hard enough to get these people up in the morning and off to the factory, or wherever they work, as it is. Now they’ll all be on the dole, and staying at home all week, shagging the missus to increase the family income. That commie, Brown, is fond of giving handouts to his layabout voters, but even he wouldn’t fall for that one.
Don’t you know this Duncan Smith’s a dashed Catholic? They’re all hell bent on breeding. Any C of E chap would know that you should be slipping contraceptives in their beer to cut down the cost of their benefits and free housing; never mind siring the next generation of unemployed BNP football hooligans with nothing to do but riot when they grow up and realise Labour have given the immigrants all their jobs.
The final straw was when I caught the Filipino cleaner looking at your You Tube web site when she should have been working. As soon as I walked in, she started babbling on about carbon footprints. I told her that, if there were any carbon footprints, she should be down on her knees cleaning them up, not playing computer games. No, she says, that nice Mr Cameron is launching a “carbon action plan”. He’s aiming to reduce carbon footprints in Oxfordshire by 18 per cent over the next five years. He says that “climate change is one of the greatest challenges facing us today”. So I told her that if she didn’t launch a “cleaning action plan” in the next 30 seconds, the “greatest challenge” facing her would be my “carbon footprint” on her backside. I know you have to come out with all this old tosh to get the Lib Dem lefties to vote for you, before that lunatic Brown has us leaving the EU and joining the Russians. And I know that you’ll scrap it all and bring in the tax cuts, and the tax concessions for high performance cars, that you promised when we got pissed last month at the old man’s birthday party; but, when a man can’t even get his house cleaned, enough is enough.
And, to cap it all, I read that you’re trying to edge old Johnson out of parliament by spreading rumours about him taking over Comrade Livingstone’s job. Now I know he’s always been a bit of a scruffy tosser, and he has trouble keeping his flies done up sometimes, but he’s a rugger-bugger. You’ll need as many right-thinking OEs and former Bullingdon members, like him, in the cabinet as you can get if you’re going to send the commies packing at the next election.
In fact, I’m a patriot. Sort me out a nice safe little seat in Kensington, and an open tab at the Commons Bar, and even I might join up, purely in the national interest you understand!
Now, can we have some improvement in the future? Don’t forget who rules this country. If this carries on, all the chaps down the club will start to think you’ve gone pink on us.