Dear Prime Minister,
This may be the last communication you receive from me. I have become increasingly disillusioned by this world (especially this big balloon of a country) as my daily letter for the last five-and-a-half years will no doubt testify, but there comes a point in every fishmonger’s life when you must cry “enough is enough!”
Did you know, there are children roaming the streets? I witness them every day, all dressed the same, between the hours of 8:30am-8:45am and then again at 3:30pm-3:45pm, all filing quietly through the streets – but not on a weekend! My children, Chastity and Redemption, have long since grown up and left home in order to earn a wage down the local tin mine and have never indulged in such outrageous behaviour! I spoke to Redemption, 7, who still returns home once a week for his thrashing (which never did me any harm, just in case there are any wishy-washy bleeding-heart liberals in Government who disapprove) and he offered the opinion (when asked for) that these children have not yet let Jesus into their heart – and I heartily agree with him! I blame the parents, the introduction of spreadable cheese and, of course, you, Mr. Cameron, if indeed that is your real name!
This place reeks of hell and damnation – I can almost smell the brimstone in the air – although I do burn brimstone-scented incense. There were rumours that the man who came to re-wire Major Featheringly’s electrics was of the Indian persuasion and was wearing a turban – in Devon! The very idea! I’ve heard of these things in the mire of sin they call London, but not in our green and pleasant land! The unions have a lot to answer for. Maggie had the right idea – God bless that woman and all who sail in her!
I cannot live in a country which allows French footballers to join English teams – how many Englishmen are playing for Lyon? I’ll tell you… none! What does that say about us, Mr. Cameron? We’re becoming over-run by immigrants – they’re taking all our houses, all our beds in hospitals, they’re stealing the milk from my doorstep and I’m sure it was an immigrant who bought the last granary loaf in the general store. The shopkeeper said that it was Mrs. Jenkins who lives at number 92, but I know otherwise. No good can come of women vicars, either, even though The Vicar Of Dibley does make me chuckle – but you can’t disguise, using humour or, indeed, pickled eggs, heresy! Indeed!
I am a man of simplicity who likes a simple life – such as watching ‘Coronation Street’ on the televisual apparatus, listening to ‘The Archers’ on Radio 4, eating good English fruits, such as pineapple, and indulging in bouts of mild sexual deviance… which is my right! I didn’t die in the last three world wars to allow these things to be snatched from me by some lesbian, disabled, cross-dressing, trans-gender, black, Asian, Polish single mother with a sob-story and her hand perpetually out wanting money, Kentucky Fried Chicken and bottles of White Lightning… whatever that may be! More so, I cannot, and will not continue to live in a country where folding chairs are the norm!
God save the Queen!
I remain, sir, your most humble and obedient servant,
Julian Ffyfe-Smythingfieldshireton (Mrs.)
Full-time Garden Gnome and Conservative MP for Piddlington-on-Sea, Devon.
(Available for functions and private parties, reasonable rates apply)