Post-PC Family Planning, Bribery & The Royal Mail.

The quality of the letters sent to The Boss is not getting any better. Today's contender for F*ckwit of the Week reads as follows:

Dear Mister Sincler

Tony Blair kept on about wanting people to have lots of kids. I done what he wanted and me and the wife have 5, but we don't get NO HELP. I work 16 hours a week and we have to live on benefits and tax credits but the goverment won't pay for someone to take my 3 oldest kids to and from school. My wife can't do it with the 2 little uns at home. What I want to know is what you and your party are going to do to stand up for hardworking parents now Dave Cameron's in charge. I'm disgusted your lot told me to have all these kids and now look at the mess I'm in. 

Disgusted
Mark Betts

PS I'm so disgusted I've sent copy of this letter to the local paper and I'm gonna deliver 300 more round town.


Greg and I work out what Mr Betts' total income would be - assuming minimum wage for 16 hours a week - and it's more than mine. Quite a lot more, if you take his Housing and Council Tax Benefits into account. Now I'm positive that Greg's earning more than me, as he isn't half as pissed off as I am, though he does say some awfully politically-incorrect things about the people he's keeping with his taxes.

At lunchtime, he buys a packet of five condoms, and puts them into a House of Commons envelope with a compliment slip. He marks it "FAO Mr Betts, Father of the Nation. Try these and do us all a favour." Sometimes I think constituency staff working for Labour MPs are becoming more reactionary with every day that passes. (Maybe those who work for Tory MPs are too, but they're supposed to be!) I am starting to sound like my grandfather, let alone Dad.

The rest of the day is more of the same, though I actually manage to finish work on time. I get halfway home when I realise that Greg and I have forgotten to remove the "letter" to Mr Betts from the post tray. It has therefore been posted, with all the other mail. Oh sh*t, sh*t, SH*T!!! Total panic. I have to run all the way back to the office and stand in wait next to the post box outside. Then I have to humiliate myself again - wasn't the arse photo enough? - by begging the postman to give me the letter back. Well, actually, I have to slip him a fiver and, even then, he won't give me the bloody thing back until I've shown him my business card and pointed out the House of Commons crest. Bloody, bloody Greg.