Amateur Scribe

(The Original)

No Grace and Out of Favour



Burnham Beeches



430 Holderness Road





August 1

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

An Open Letter to the Gentlemen of the Press

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.

I’ll miss Dorneywood, but - I really will. We just had the Billiard room done up lovely – a nice oak bar with Yorkshire bitter on tap and boxes of pork scratchings and peanuts safely stashed underneath. A couple of years back I stuck in an oche and a championship dartboard. We had Phil “The Power” Taylor over the other week for a hog roast and a couple of friendly legs. There’s a proper man, right there – None of your posing - Salt of the earth. He gave me a black, shiny autographed darts smock with “Prezza” scrawled across the back which I wear when I’m down the shops with the missus.


I guess you got me bang to rights on the Tracey Temple thing though – fooking temptress in a trouser suit she were. Bending suggestively over the photocopier, buying me pastries, complimenting me on me River Island leisurewear. I never stood a chance. It’s not like I’m the only boss who’s ever had it away with a tart from the office but - half the fookers in Whitehall are at it – and that’s only the ones who like it straight. You want scandal? The Cabinet’s so choc full of perverts, it’s a wonder there isn’t a ruddy orgy on the Commons floor.


Alistair Darling hung around with the Collymore crew a few years back – used his Transport remit to get unlimited access to all the dogging hotspots off the M6. Jack Straw has a serious hard-on for department store mannequins - he’s been barred from Debenhams since an embarrassing incident in 1997 when he was found in a compromising position in a storeroom with an inanimate stilettoed statue from the lingerie section.


Ruth Kelly? Think she dresses up like a blushing public schoolboy for nothing? She spends most of her time loitering in the shower block at Eton wearing now’t but a wanton look and a wet towel. John Reid’s no better. Foot fetishist. Got arrested from his local swimming pool for pestering people with verrucas. Big photos of Imelda Marcos all over his office. I could go on.


I tell yer – I’m the least of their worries on that score, but it’s a sorry state of affairs when the size of a statesman’s meat and two veg is headline news. Chipolata? Ho-de-fooking-ho. Course, I rise above all that nonsense - childish tabloid tittle-tattle – water off a duck’s back, is that.


Chipolata? Is that the best you lot can do? Fooking king-size saveloy more like it. You jealous bastards – Us Prescotts have always been hung like ruddy donkeys.


And it’s nonsense to say my responsibilities have diminished recently - I still make key decisions. Stationery. The bane of any government department. Think there was ever any griping down at the old ODPM? No. What’s important is a clear vision and a robust replenishment system. Not one of my staff has been without a stapler since 1986 – that’s a record I’m rightly proud of. And don’t even get me started on the whole photocopier toner thing. I was single-handedly responsible for quelling toner unrest across the whole of Westminster  – I tell yer – there were nearly a ruddy riot.





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.

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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