Whilst out for my usual sojourn around town the other day I happened to take note of a rather odious aroma pervading the otherwise perfectly pleasant spring atmosphere. Turning my head I soon discovered the source in the unwashed, sweat soaked bodies of a snaking queue that formed outside the local labour exchange â€“ the festering, stinking boil on the face of Britain that is the unemployed. I am all for helping those who help themselves.
Only last night I gave more than fifty pounds to a charming young lady in her late teens who I summoned to my abode in order to perform light cleaning and muscle relaxant duties and it was just last week that I tipped an extremely accommodating gentleman ten pounds after he kindly helped me negotiate my way out of a thicket in which I had inadvertently become entangled whilst taking a walk along Hampstead Heath.
What I object to is the smirking, scab encrusted wastrels who proceed to drain dry the coffers of our taxation contributions and go running off to the authorities following every innocent misunderstanding over a promise to ‘keep quiet to your dole officer over your little job on the side provided you do a little job for me on the side every now and again’. Scum nation indeed.