(The Original)

Amateur Scribe

No Grace and Out of Favour

An Open Letter to the Gentlemen of the Press

fat prezza

Burnham Beeches

430 Holderness Road

August 1

I'll have to change me bleedin' personalised notepaper now, you fookers...

Dear Scum,

Where do you blighters get off, eh? A man can’t go and visit a pal for a quiet game of cowboys and Indians followed by some barbequed ribs and a trip to the Rodeo without being called a crook and a bludger.

If the leader of the free world can spend more time down on the ranch than in his office, why the bleeding hell can’t I?

I’ve already been hounded from my own home by your tawdry obsessions. Every day there’s a new story about the cars or the women or my ability to do the job. Persecution – that’s what this is. Truth is, I’m a simple man. A man’s man. I’ve been an MP for over thirty years. A Labour lynchpin – but I guess that doesn’t sell newspapers.

Bloody croquet – that’s got to be the ultimate irony. I wouldn’t know what to do with a mallet and a hoop if my life depended on it – I usually use the grounds for real sports like ferret racing and shooting badgers. It were their idea - Tony and his mob – The right-on Tristans and Sebastians thought it would be good to associate me with high culture, so they get a fellow with a long lens to snap me on the lawn relaxing with a couple of underlings and a glass of Pimms. I stormed into Number 10 after you lot broke it, and lost my rag with the PM: “Fooking Hell, Tony,” I roared, “that little plan’s backfired a bit, hasn’t it?” – “Not really, John, no,” he said looking strangely pleased with himself. Smug elfin git.

But that’s the kind of important stuff that goes unreported. Anyone can move numbers around and spin out the party line to Jeremy Paxman – you try single-handedly fending off a swarm of outraged civil servants who’ve just been told the heating’s on the blink and the canteen’s hiking its prices by 15%. Now that’s management.

I don’t dwell in the past either – I’m always at the forefront of new, exciting policy decisions. I’ve said for ages there aren’t enough mealtimes in the day – OK, there’s breakfast, lunch and dinner, but under new rules set up by yours truly, this government will look to phase in a mandatory elevenses by the end of the year and an as yet unnamed fifth meal by 2009. Tony’s been very supportive, allowing me to devote most of my time to it. He hasn’t actually signed it off yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

john and tony

Contrary to popular belief – I do have a sense of humour over the “Two Jags” stuff. Getting accused of appreciating well made, refined British engineering is not a damning indictment as far as I’m concerned. As I said to Clarkson at a cross-party drinks do the other day, “it’s got to be better than your eco-friendly Japanese muck, eh Jeremy?” I’m not sure he can have heard me though because he dived behind a big pile of vol au vents just as I approached and then scuttled off to talk to Ming Campbell. Busy man.

And let me make one thing very clear about the missus. I’ve had about as much as I can take of all those holier than thou editorials that begin “it’s the wife I feel sorry for…” You smug condescending bastards. Pauline? Lovely woman - wouldn’t want to change her, but let’s not beat about the bush – she’s now’t but a crazed, big-haired freeloading harpy.

I’ve given her the world: Houses. Cars. Absurdly large earrings. Hell, if anything happened to that jug-eared prick at number 10, I’d be the ruddy Prime Minister and she’d be hobnobbing with Laura Bush, Condoleezza Rice and Nancy Del Olio. But you hypocrites at the tabloids have her painted as some long-suffering, saintly housewife with a miserable oaf of a husband and the weight of the world on her shoulders. Balls. She loves her life. Can’t get enough of it. And old muggins here is always ready with a platinum card, a government limo and a trip to the opera despite the fact she hasn’t granted me conjugal rights since the bleedin’ seventies.

Well, I’m glad I got all that off my chest. It’s nearly my time now. People ask me about the future. Let’s hope it involves plenty of buffet lunches, real ale, and, most of all, not having to answer to a bunch of bleeding heart liberals every time I wipe me jacksie.

You people make me sick.

Warm regards

J Prescott
Deputy Prime Minister

August 2006


The missus: Word of advice - Pre-nup

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