This is a genuine letter which appeared in the Bristol Evening News.
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
My final correspondent (green ink, pressed down VERY HARD so that it
come 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-fingeredyobbo coming within a hundred yards of
Beelzebub Mansions will get to playa game currently popular amongst
country dwellers. It's called Reasonable Force and involves a teenage
thief, a baseball bat and a five iron.
* 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, of 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