Peeps who interviewed me
Trailer for Underneath
Trailer for Shades of Grey
Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.
What ho, chums! I don’t know about anyone else, but I found election night to be a real smasher of an occasion. For weeks I’ve had pasty-faced yobbos and foreign-looking bounders chasing me all over the place, asking question after question, and for the life of me I can’t understand why these people think I’m interested in their appalling and depraved ways. Anyway, now that I’ve beaten them all off I can move onto sorting this country out once and for all. I’ve got just enough time to reply to one or two letters, before I dash off to shut down an orphanage that hasn’t paid this month’s electricity bill.
Dear Mr Cameron
I’ve been reading in the news that more and more people are having to resort to using food banks in order to feed their families. How are you planning on dealing with this?
An excellent question and one that I’ll answer directly. I completely agree that there’s far too many people relying on food banks these days, and we’re currently drafting up legislation to force these so-called ‘people of poverty’ to dig up the dead before being allowed access to one. No doubt some of them will complain about the high cost of pick axes and spades, but quite frankly anyone who isn’t willing to get down on their hands and knees to feed themselves is a lazy fiend.
Landowners, fret ye not, for we haven’t forgotten about you noble people – if any of these digging bounders are caught trespassing in your privatised graveyards, the legal aid cutbacks will mean no solicitor in the land will bother representing them in court. Both your topsoil and your rights are safe with me at the helm.
Dear Mr Cameron
Nick Clegg is an honourable man whom I feel sorry for. Do you happen to have an address that I can send a well-wishing card to?
Sorry, who? Is he a greengrocer? I’m afraid I don’t really get involved with such awful occupations.
Last night, during a conversation with my buddies, I was astounded when I discovered that something I had always taken for granted as being the holy, heavenly truth had been taken away from me:
In 2006, scientists decided that Pluto was no longer a planet.
I felt as if someone had reached deep inside me and ripped my heart out. Pluto has been a part of our democratic culture ever since my science teacher first pointed at a poster of the solar system and told the class, repeatedly, that Pluto is a planet. It was something that everyone accepted as the truth and no-one had any reason to think otherwise.
Of course these days the teachers seem more interested in having sex with their pupils than giving them an education, which is directly responsible for the current situation where everyone’s favourite celestial body is Jupiter – as clear a indication as any that the liberals are poisoning society. Liberals are naturally attracted to anything that is big, centralised, and has the kind of gravitational pull that impinges on everyone’s freedoms, so it stands to reason that they’re behind this particular outrage.
Me? I always favoured Pluto, that little guy at the back minding his own business as he slowly worked his way up in the world. He was a pioneer, a maverick who had to make do with what little scraps of radioactive warmth were left after all the fat lazy planets who sit there doing nothing had taken their bites first. I know for a fact that Saturn doesn’t do shit except flaunt and wave his rings around like a big pussy, biding his time until he can jump on the gay marriage bandwagon.
Just what sort of message does all this send out to our kids? It tells them that no matter how many lawns they’re willing to mow each summer and no matter how many unpaid intern positions they decide to try their hand at, some fat pervert who calls himself a scientist can just come along and take it all away from them.
It’s pure horse shit.
Hello, dear subjects! I trust you are keeping well and taking good care of yourselves – after all, no-one else is going to bother doing it for you.
Anyway. The other day I was browsing the shelves of my local hardware store and came upon a delightful little stick with a fluffy thingy on the top. I was so impressed by it that I stuffed it up my skirt and walked briskly and purposefully towards the exit. The store is one of those daft local independent shops that can’t afford a security guard, so more fool them I say! Why should I bother putting my hard-earned pennies into the pot if I don’t have to?
It took me a good ten minutes to untangle the mop once I got back home. Lord only knows what hooks and splinters it was catching on, but my trusty old Swiss army penknife is perfect for getting in amongst all those troublesome nooks and crannies. Once I finally had my newly acquired mop standing tall in front of me, my attention was drawn to one particular little warning on the box: Not suitable for minors.
Which didn’t surprise me in the slightest. Given that they’re a bunch of lazy, dirty men who would down tools and go on strike simply because their pick axes are loose and those pet canaries they love so much are dropping like flies, it comes as no surprise that they would be reluctant to spend a few minutes cleaning their square-tiled linoleum kitchen floor. No doubt they see it as someone else’s job to supply them with clean water that is free from cholera and other nastiness. I tell you, that sort of attitude gets right on my shit.
As for the mop itself… well, I dipped it into a bucket of water but wasn’t too sure what I was supposed to be doing with it after that. I called in David Cameron to do the rest, as everyone is always telling me he’s good for that wishy-washy type of nonsense.
He’s bloody useless at everything else, that’s for sure.
Dear Mr Simpson, Conservative MP for London South West
The other morning I was woken up by the heavy footsteps of the postman as he trudged his way towards my front door. He must have been very excited as he shoved something through my letterbox really hard; well it was either that or he tripped up on the cat that usually lies across the driveway. Actually, I think that is the more likely scenario because I heard him swear at something and nobody has seen the cat for two days now.
When I first picked the leaflet up off the mat I was struck with just how fresh it felt, especially when some of the red ink rubbed off on my hand. To me this is a good sign because if I go into the bakers to buy a knotted roll, I want those yummy glazed sesame seeds to flake off as I pick it up. The loose ink on your leaflet is an endearing feature that gives me the impression that you like bread, just as I do. This is both reassuring and educational, as I have always wondered what politicians feed themselves during their time at Westminster; up until now I had always thought it was a combination of coffee and bullshit.
When I opened the leaflet I was drawn to the faux-professionalism of its contents. Dearest constituent it said, reminding me of just how serious politics is. It also reminded me of that time when the bank sent me a birthday card addressed To the account holder. Although it was only four words I felt as if my bank manager had personally popped round to say “We’ve got your personal details and your money, so fuck you.” Likewise, your leaflet referring to me as a constituent is a firm reminder that if I’m unhappy with what you’re doing, no matter how much you may have licked my arse to get me to vote for you in the first place, you won’t put up with any kind of rebellious nonsense from me. I confess to preferring my overlords to be firm, powerful and jealously paranoid, and you seem to fit the bill perfectly.
I especially liked the photo that was on page two of the leaflet of you standing there in someone’s front garden. The lawn was long enough to avoid alienating any crop-growing farmers, yet also short enough to show off the tasteful tartan slippers that the middle aged woman standing next to you was wearing. I obviously don’t know whether she was a constituent or your mother but she looked suitably terrified of your limp and clammy hands and of the sycophantic grin that was plastered across your chubby face. I must say, I was impressed with how lush and healthy the grass looked. If I was a dog I definitely wouldn’t want to ruin it by squatting down and taking a shit on it. Instead, I would do my business in the middle of the pavement and then go onto the grass to do that funny thing that some dogs do when they clean their arse by dragging themselves across the floor.
Unfortunately I’m not a dog so would it be okay if I came to your house and shit all over your doorstep instead?