The sun is shining, the dog has been for a paddle at the beach and here on the sun deck a large G&T with ice and lemon is at hand – not quite as good as a cider, but we need to look the part, according to Mrs Wilt.
Blooming glorious, all the same.
Mrs Wilt and Miss Wilt are at the club swimming pool – Master Wilt is studying hard at Oxbridge, or so he says. Mmmmm!
Now all I need to do is become an MP and I could claim all this on expenses.
The twats are finally getting screwed from all quarters, Mr Tax Man (sounds like Paxman) is after em, see link here:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/mps-expenses/6350945/Twenty-seven-MPs-investigated-by-tax-authorities-over-expenses.html
Blooming marvellous – I just love it. MPs from all over must be examining their bank accounts to see if they have enough ready dosh available to pay those backdated tax accounts and fines from HMRC. And all this on top of the retrospective caps on gardening and cleaning expenses, which Speaker Bercow has indicated must be accepted. Furthermore there are the police investigations, some know and others not which will see a peer or two and MPs in the dock and ultimately very probably at Her Majesty’s Pleasure – regrettably the days have long past where prisoners have to pay for their upkeep in prison, or starve to death.
And then there are EU representatives – their next on the list of shameful crooks, charlatans, voyeurs and fraudsters. Not however before the new system of allowances and expenses (all evidenced by receipts) are introduced shortly. Gone will be the (without receipt) claims for £400 per month food allowance – shock horror, Members will have to feed themselves, at their expense, and not on the public purse.
So there is a God – he is called the voting public.
This 5th November will be a real celebration – the day Honourable twats find themselves accountable, for every penny and every hour.
By eck, this G&T aint so bad. Trouble is there is no one else around to pour another one whilst I watch the sun go down over the sea.
Blooming sweet thoughts of dinner – shit, it’s my turn to cook. Salted dog with chips from Smoky Joe’s sounds nice. Oh dog, where are you? Hello, dog come now and let me whisper sweet Welsh into your floppy ears.
What, dog, do you mean ‘go stick yourself in the oven?’ Who do you think is the superior race here?
Oh dog, what nice white teeth you have – I tell you what, you find a nice rabbit and we have a deal. OK?