Thursday, 20 March 2014

Budge it!

Lest I ever forget that Labour’s day is done and their entire approach is based on bribery, lies, envy and class war, Ed Miliband reminded me yesterday with his atrocious response to George Osborne’s budget speech. If you were looking for an example of evidence why Miliband and Balls are not fit to lead the country you would be spoiled for choice but the budget address really took the biscuit.

George Osborne – love him or loathe him – delivered a forthright and sensible budget based on getting us all out of the mire we were placed in, yet again, by  a profligate and populist Labour government. There were never going to be riches to divide and the message was to stick to a plan that by all accounts appears to be working, even though there are still some areas of concern and aspects that deserve close scrutiny. After the best part of an hour he sat down to await the anticipated incisive, analytical dissection of his plans by a worthy and informed opposition.

Instead he got – and this is pretty much agreed by every commentator in the land – a braying jackass, straight from the ranks of Militant Tendency, deploying every jaded, anti-Tory, comic-book  cliché he could muster. Dan Hodges in the telegraph called it “…a series of Labour Party press releases randomly thrown together without anything even resembling a coherent textual – never mind intellectual – structure”. I called it a load of lefty bollocks. He trotted out all the standard ‘”tax cuts for millionaires, looking after your mates, in it for yourselves” drivel that has been Labour’s entire ‘policy’ since 2010. It was almost as if – why, surely this could never be - Labour had no response at all.

So, sod it. I’ll do my own budget – I need the practice for when the country comes to its senses and puts me in charge. I hope you’re sitting comfortably:

Right. It strikes me that far too many of you are whinging and griping and moaning about your benefits being reduced to still-above-what-many-in-work-will-ever-see, for which I introduce my Whine Duty. It’s very easy; you complain about what you get for absolutely free and we cut it. Complain again and we sign you off. That’s it. If you’re not happy with free money, we will simply remove the source of your unhappiness. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.

Child Benefit? You had children for your benefit and not for anybody else’s sake, so there you go –the children ARE your benefit. Do what you like with ‘em – veg picking, going up chimneys, furniture; you obviously didn’t give a fuck when you had them, so neither do we. In fact, forget child benefit, in future you will need to buy an annually renewable licence to have kids. If you don’t pay to renew it we’ll take them off your hands and shove ‘em up the chimneys ourselves.

Bingo Tax? Too damned right. If you’re so dim you think bingo is entertainment it’s about time we cut off your life support. According to every happy-clappy, new-age, joie de vivre, proclamation of all that’s good about the human spirit, life itself is a precious gift. I’d never go that far and for some it’s an unwanted gift, admittedly, but if the biggest mark you can make on the world is to amuse yourself dribbling over bingo it’s time to turn off the machine. Beeeeeeeeeeeep… Oh, that will help out enormously with pensions, too. Joined up, see?

And finally, food banks; they’ve caused nothing but trouble so we’ll close them. Free food? In the middle of a cost-of-obesity-crisis? That makes no sense and anyway, you’re always saying we should do something about the bankers, so there you go. Sorted. This is a budget for standing on your own two feet and not sponging off the rest of us and I commend it the house.

In Moncrieff's bar, Miliband was having a drink with a bunch of sycophantic goons. He was propped up on a bar stool while his acolytes stood around him and toast after toast was raised to the hero of the hour as he regaled them with quotes from his little red book. But one of the comrades was missing; in a corner, looking dishevelled and dejected, sat a broken Ed Balls, nursing a slow pint. I went over to ask what was wrong. “I’M supposed to be the braying jackass!” he complained bitterly. But why, I asked, would you want to be referred to as a donkey? Ed looked at me for a second, then nodded towards Miliband. “Ee-aw, ee-aw, ‘e always calls me that.”

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