Musashino Musings

This great piece comes from the pen of "Curmugeon" who writes in the obscure "Magnet" - a magazine circulating in Kent & Sussex. The author is a writer of rare wit that never fails to amuse.

On my birthday Mr Blair finally announced that he was leaving. It seemed over generous, a card or a pair of socks would have done. After all, I am so obliged to
him for what he has done for me over the past decade, I hardly know how to express my gratitude. Perhaps I’ll start with the Millennium Dome. Remember how it kept us amused for so long trying to guess what it was for; well worth the best part of a billion spent on it and the couple of million a month it’s cost us since. I’ve heard it’s going to be sold to some nice American friend of Mr Prescott who is going to have some chums around for a little roulette. I do hope so. I wonder if anyone ever did guess what it was for. Tony has given me such pleasure over the years. The endless game of musical ministers was always a delight. As soon as one minister was eventually forced to resign in disgrace, he or she would run around to the back door, come in again and before you could say ‘Grace and Favour’ be back as a minister once more. The eventual loser would be the one who couldn’t find a ministerial desk and was shunted off to a million pound sinecure in Brussels. I don’t think there was one minister in the original 1997 cabinet who didn’t join in - what a lot of sports they all were. They certainly showed up the last lot who could only manage a few brown envelopes and a freebie weekend in the Paris Ritz. Tony left that lot at the starting tape, with free holidays all over the world, especially with that hospitable Mr Berlesconi, who I’m told did so much for Italian democracy and Italian actresses.

Closer to home we owe Tony still more. He has advanced the cause of women’s rights enormously by raising up all those delightfully identical women ministers. It is a great pillar on his legacy. Despite their incompetence being only exceeded by their ability to patronise and the fact that they all appeared to have been cloned by aliens in an artificial limb factory, they have decorated the political horizon like stench pipes at a toxic waste disposal plant.

On a more personal level I owe thanks to my leader for the extra care I now take with my appearance. Now that I know I can be photographed and filmed up to three hundred times, as soon as I pop a metatarsal over my threshold, I never go out without a top hat, spats, plus fours and my malacca cane. You’ve probably seen me queuing in Lidls. It’s the least I can do to repay Tony for all the trouble he has gone to, to create his 1984 theme park throughout our country. There is so much else that I need to hank him for. No longer do I have to face overcrowded train journeys unable to find a seat, because now, I can no longer afford to buy a ticket. And I am far less likely nowadays to be stabbed in the street, because I can no longer go out, as I have to stay in to save up for the monthly council tax bill. But then again I do save a lot on my dental costs as I can’t find a dentist.

There are so many boons and benefits under Tone. I have been driving since just after the man with the red flag no longer needed to walk in front of me. Down these motorised decades I have never had an accident or committed a traffic offence. Well no more do I need to rely on my intelligence, now all I need is a roadside flashing eye to dictate to me. Another burden lifted off me by Tone’s compassionate hand. Oh and there was education, education, education. How excited we were with all the reforms, which were then themselves reformed, replaced, cancelled, reintroduced and reformed again. I know your tuition fees have cost me over £10,000 in the last decade, but it has all been worth it, as now nearly 75% of 11 year olds can almost read. You have also removed a great worry from my student debt-ridden children. Allowing people to borrow as much as they can stuff inside a pantechnicon, has meant that house prices are so far out of my offsprings’ grasp that they will never have the bother of finding a home. Neither will they be troubled by the crumbling family bungalow, when I have finally laid down my quill, as they will have to sell it to pay Tony’s Inheritance Tax. So many worries lifted.

You had such a skill at doubling our taxation and using our money Tone, that it left us gasping with admiration. Your ability to spend our money incompetently, inefficiently and prodigally could not be matched. Every time you computerised to modernise it cost us billions. From air traffic control and identity cards to the NHS and everything in between. Some say it would have been better if you had just stuffed our money down a sperm whale’s blow hole, or thrown it out of a Tiger Moth while looping the loop over the channel in a north westerly, or used it to make a papier mâché model of Hemel Hempstead, but not me. I was entranced by all the jolly capers.

The new licensing laws that cost licensees 10 times more to do exactly the same as they had done before, the pointless farrago of £600 compulsory house surveys (as if any buyer would rely on one) and 30,000 doctors without jobs to go to all kept me rolling with mirth. I seemed to be falling continuously down Alice’s rabbit hole. I can’t believe Tone, you won’t be here for me any more. As a parting gift you have so generously spent 10 million of my money on trying to stop me having my evening glass of Moldovan Claret.

I’ll always be here for you Tony. Even when they come to arrest you for taking money from wannabe peers, or when they drag you off to the International Court of Justice as a war criminal or when the truth comes out about that awkward Dr Kelly who knew too much, I’ll still be here for you Tony. I know there is absolutely no substance to any of these wild accusations. Even if there were Tone, I am sure you could spin your way out of them like a king size spider and get it all sown up with a friendly report from a hand-picked lord. And if the worst comes to the ultimate worst, I shall still be here for you Tone, contributing to your two grand a week pension, until for one of us, the joke is finally over.

By Curmudgeon