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Watch Out For That Secret Sect Of Corrupt District Nurses

The contents of this page came my way via email in 2001. I cannot vouch for its accuracy.

This is a genuine letter which appeared in the Bristol Evening News at the beginning of the month. Please do take the time to read it. It is clearly a work of genius and simply put, the writer should be knighted…

Dear Sir,

It has long been my belief that you should only be allowed to protest in public if you pay income tax. And you should only be allowed to vote at the ballot box if you own property. Sensible policies,both. And tested in time, too. If only Mr. Blair had thought to bring about these simple changes in the law, he would have avoided last week’s double embarrassment of Red Ken’s election and the rioting soap-dodgers.

Perhaps it’s me, but could someone explain why people who campaign for animal rights would throw bottles at police horses? Or why Friends of the Earth supporters would want to dig up the grass in a perfectly adequate London square? Or why anti-capitalists thought nicking the till out of a burger bar was a political statement? Or why campaigners for freedom would desecrate a shrine to the very people who fought and died for that freedom? What a bunch of immature, selfish, hypocritical idiots.

Bring down the State? Better not, Tarquin. The State provides your giro and your housing benefit, you work-shy moron. What would you do without that little green cheque every other Thursday? Somebody has to pay for the extra-strong cider and multiple nose piercings.

It makes me sick. If a bunch of football fans had pulled a stunt like that, they’d have been banged up before you could say CS gas. But this gang of middle-class warriors was allowed to deface national monuments while the police looked on. Mind you, Winston Churchill with a green Mohican haircut would have scared the wotsername out of Adolf Hitler.

My comments on the moral values of travellers seem to have ruffled a few feathers amongst the bleeding-heart Lefties who live like leeches on the publicly-funded fat of our society. One enraged correspondent (it must have been his turn to have the crayons this week) accuses me of using “intemperate and exaggerated language”, says people like me should be exterminated and then likens me to Adolf Hitler. Pot, kettle, black, old pal.

Another wailing Willy, who was obviously off sick the day they did irony at school, challenges me to produce hard evidence to support my claim that gypsies steal babies. Evidence? Of course there’s no evidence. It’s all covered up by a conspiracy of Masonic magistrates, policemen and politicians, aided and abetted by a secret sect of corrupt district nurses. Somewhere in Essex, there’s a warehouse full of stolen babies. They’re brought up by retired lap dancers and then they go off to be prison officers. Stick that in your meat-free pipe and smoke it, you monument of mediocrity.

My final correspondent (green ink, pressed down VERY HARD so that it comes through the back of the white weave Basildon Bond) argues that travellers are people too and have the right to live just as they want. Half right, mate. Travellers have the right to live as they want as long as they abide by the rules that bind the rest of us. That means paying road tax, paying council tax and buying a television licence. It means paying for a plot of land on which to live and paying income tax on the proceeds of patching up all those dodgy driveways. It means obeying the law, rather than laughing at it. And the sooner the hand-wringing apologists on most councils realise this, the better.

My doctor has forbidden me to read The Guardian on the grounds that it does terrible things to my blood pressure, but I sneaked a look last week to see the following:

“Burglars are people. For the most part, young people, even teenagers. From their point of view burglary must be fun as well as a way of making a few quid.”

Fun? Fun? What are they on? What a bunch of lily-livered, social-working, leather-elbowed windbags. Fun? Just ask an old lady who’s been terrorised, had her last few possessions stolen and who now lives in permanent fear. Fun? Just ask anyone who has to pay sky high insurance premiums because the cops would rather catch drivers eating Kit Kats than tattooed scrotes running off with your video recorder.

I’ll give them fun, these poor lambs. Any sticky-fingered yobbo coming within a hundred yards of Beelzebub Mansions will get to play a game currently popular amongst country dwellers. It’s called Reasonable Force and involves a teenage thief, a baseball bat and a five iron.

Yours faithfully,

Barry Beelzebub*

* The views of Mr. Beelzebub are purely personal and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the Editor or staff of this newspaper, or anyone who thinks our new cabinet-style council will result in more openness, or anyone who thinks Jez Quigley is hard, or of the snotty-nosed schoolboy in the back of the Volvo estate who stuck two fingers up at me this morning. Your Dad’s phone number was painted on the side, Sonny. And I’m ringing him tonight.

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Malcolm Farnsworth
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