LETTERS to THE WIND :2012: (Last to Postbag: Sunday 02-December)

ODA  :  Distinguishing between The Stick and The Beater



Nigel’s PO Box 408                                 Clegg N.
Mrs Slapton’s Post Office                        Tradesmens Entrance
Newton Abbot                                           10 Downing Street
Moi Lover                                                   Whitehall
Devon                                                        London
TQ12 9BG                                                 SW1A 2AA

                                            Bedtime, Sunday  02-December-2012

Dear Mr Farage,

Once upon a time not so long ago here in  Tory-Lib-Dem-Tory Land  all seemed to be bright & shining.
One could even have called it booming.
Everything was going our way with an economic collapse that we could happily blame all firstly on the out-going Labour Government, and then on the Euro going breasts skyward.
Just about everything of the day had just about the right amount of angst and strife pointed at everybody but us,  so much so as to take us  The LibDems  overnight from a rabble of shitty but principled little no-hopers, woolly-pully wearing, misfits various, all with a vague non-specific grievance; the lot being harboured under a non-conformist banner;  a very small group who habitually hung around outside the voting lobbies hoping for some loose change,  through a miraculous overnight metamorphosis into The White Knights of Hope  of the day.                                    (aka  Realpolitik top-table true con-artists like the rest of the BIG BOYS).
Once ensconced,  we happily went along with Dave and continued to pump public money into our mates banking businesses just as The Departing Party had done in the full knowledge that just the threat of total collapse to the proles at large was enough to keep the close enquirers of the odd-bod of Joe Public + The Press away from the door and we could continue with that little wealth re-distribution scheme relatively undisturbed.
(If only  Bro Goodwin F.  had stopped strutting and kept his gob shut then it could have all been kept rolling-on nicely without the occasional rude interruptions of now)
After all we were aiding the wheels of commerce as SME business after business collapsed and domestic repossessions of houses etc continued to rise.
The product of this was our mates in The City & Banks et al could feed enough beer vouchers to their mates in The Great Assett Stripping Industry UK to grab the goodies from those deprived of credit and make a tidy profit.
After all again,  it is all about  ‘making the cash flow go around’  and  ‘making a profit’  is it not ?
That is what made us the great nation we are.
A nice little sub note that’s recently come to us,  is that further down the food chain from    The Main UK Assett Stripping Industry per se  is a boom for the private landlords who are now fully engaged in housing the dispossessed                                                                        (Wonder where they both came from ?!)
A much growing industry indoctrinating educating them,  the remaining few working native proles,  both the dispossessed and the not quite yet,  to accept less and pay more and more through any orifice they might have left not in tatters after the shafting they have had and are continuing to get from HMG’s finest,  ( And YES,  I do know The Tuition Fees turn-round was a total twats trick but if you can’t have a bit of fun now and again life isn’t worth living is it ?),  for,  among many other things,  their kids education proper and the keep,  AS YOU WELL KNOW,  an unknown number of wastrels, ner-do-wells, footpads, snake charmers, sooth-sayers, general hoi-poloi and loose-wallahs various of all flavours,  etc,  now deposited on these fair shores to reinforce the ranks of the home-grown contingent usual.
So, there we go with proof of the old adage:                                                                                It IS a very ill wind that blows nobody any good is it not ?

I digress to the trivia of modus op of office, so to return to my main theme of point  –                     US ALL in Politico Land:
We were then,  as said above,  in a high position to play  ‘The Saviour of Our Nation’  bit.
Then it all started to go wrong.
Apparently our chief consultant bullshit advisors,
the long established and then much revered  speechythingsforprolestobelieveinplc.con (2005)  of Unit 69,  Si Roundabout,  Shoreditch,  EC1 Y00H00
had fed us exactly the same crap to spout as they fed the outgoing Labour lot – !
None of us here can really read well enough to interpret/ decipher these funny meaning thingy’s in the scripts we buy so we just pumped it out as it looked good.
And after all, the said long respected consultants speechythingsforprolestobelieveinplc.con, were known to be U to a bod and all came from what looked like perfectly good HC families to us, and we did know most of them from school anyway, and if The Party (now) Opposite had been using the same firm then they must be good must they not ?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         So just what more was there to consider ?
I know,  hindsight’s a wonderful thing and we would have done better to have gone to     Slutchi & Slutchi but they are still carry a bit of history with them so their PR’s a bit sus (Physician heal thy self ?!)  and in these times of austerity they are a little on the expensive side and we’ve got to be seen to be  ‘making a saving’.    After all that, along with  ‘easing the cash-flow’  and  ‘making a profit’,  is all what it’s all about is it not ?
So so, so,  hey-ho and whatever,  I suppose you get what you pay for Nigel,  don’t you ?

To what  speechythingsforprolestobelieveinplc.con  gave us:
As far as we can make out it isn’t so much that to have had a better shrouding and general dressing-up of the above guts of our emissions to improve the obfuscation usual to the masses that was the prob,
it was that  speechythingsforprolestobelieveinplc.con  entirely left out the bit of telling us to do as you do so well:  A jumping up and down act about shutting the gates to more sponging immigrants who are desperate to get here as we keep sending our squaddies over to their patches to play,
keep them well nailed down with trade agreements,
and should they come-up with anything remotely useful and beneficial to themselves and the greater human diaspora,
(An eg, for just one:  The planned  Saharan Solar Collection Scheme for Electric Power Generation and it’s supporting grid transmission system to The Near East, The Middle East,  and Europe)
we fuck-them-over good-and-proper and make their patches totally liveable,                               one way or another.

And that, as we all know, brings us to where you are coming in Nigel.
[ If I might be so bold as to address you so close  Mein Neu Lieber Fuhrer  The Ed                    (in anticipation) ]

Who would have thought that anyone could turn the tables over just by emitting truth and saying they are not going to deviate from pronounced purpose if/ when elected ?
There really is nowt so strange as politics is there not ?

So that brings me to what is in essence of this,  my plea.
Can I bale-out of this mess and kiss your arse now instead of Camerons* ?
A  ‘Road to Damascus Awakening’  bit of a show with plenty of tearful remorse etc on a Wednesday night on BBC2 at about 23.00hrs when every bugger’s fallen asleep I would think is enough to convince the average galley slave and get completely away with it and I could then take them with me.  (Quite fancy the  ‘Out of Egypt’  theatrical touch actually but I’ll rein it in at that as you can go OTT with these things such that even the oiks start noticing).
Should that not be enough to it pull-off,  the sufficiently respectable withdrawal from position I we need,  for Plan B I’ve arranged with Clarkson  (fuckin’ expensive that twat)  for me to be    ‘The Celeb of The Week’:  Sit on the sofa,  ‘have the craic’ talking total bollocks about motorcars and then be pretend accepted as one of the lads etc,                                                 and of course,  do  ‘The Circuit In The Ordinary Cheapo Car’ bit  if needed.
So indeed if it does come to that,  anything Big J endorses goes:
The shed-heads believe him over all others and it’ll be money well spent.

So to the proposed dowry:
I think I can drag at least 66% of what’s left of my Party along with me at first attempt as they are woolly minded sheep almost** to a bod and once one or two follow me then the rest will as they won’t want to become detached from the greater herd they know.
They do know the ultimate penalties for disobedience is de-barring from CND,  having their Daily Mail subs refused,  AND, no more Bettaware catalogues to drool over and flog. (We do consider outing their common collective cross-dressing proclivities uncivilised,  but it is always there as long-stop for sorting-out the truly recalcitrant if thought needed)
As to the inevitable few remnants which will be left I wouldn’t bother to much:
It’ll just be **Paddy looking rather embarrassed holding the last redoubt sanger with a bayonet on the corner of Parliament Sq against the hordes of Japanese tourists and wondering where he went wrong.
(Poor old sod)

Your neu ever-admiring Best Mate footstool in waiting,
X.  (But not LOL.  –  Yet  !)

*If needs be,  I’ve got some very interesting snaps from  MI5&3/16  of Dave C. making in-depth researches into  The Red Topped Press  that might well come in handy in a tight corner.    😉

Might be better for now if you made return by postcard to:
8-10 Gt George St,
(Security and all that old boy)

Best not let your Local Social Services know you’re in touch with me.
God knows what would happen to your kids.

Yours again in anticipation,



Ms K. Price.                                                                 Fitznicely,
Paddock-Cage,                                                           St James.
Shady Lane,

                                                             AM Monday  17-September-2012.
Dear Ms Price

I write to you in this time of our national crises in plea and in hope that you
will save this nation as faces it’s darkest hour.

You have been identified as our potential saviour by GCHQ from a consensus of images taken of you sunbathing when you holidayed last in Blackpool this year post your last deflation from previous heights of note;
these pictures got by multiple satellites, including The International Space Station,
both the old and new Hubble telescopes, Telstar,
a few predictably dodgy views usual from Google Earth
a Green Bloke with a pointed head and a funny stare parked-up on the prom and operating out of a saucer shaped van with ‘InterGalaticSnaps (GmbH)’ written on the side in felt-tip ,
ALL identifying you as now having an exact match for Kate Middleton’s,  errr-hummm
– appendages.

As you might well know, following her coming-out,  The Palace has now been
overwhelmed with demands for appearances at  18ths&21sts,  Rugby Club
Dinners,  Gentlemen’s Smoking Evenings  and,  *Star Spots*
at general pole dancing venues throughout The Realm.

I do hope you can find it in yourself to help  The Palace  in this its time
of need and step into the breach for The Duchess whilst she is attending to
other duties.
Indeed should you find you take to this most important role, she feels you
could step into her shoes for public duties other such as  shopping at Tescos,
showing your knickers through your frock and being kind to Harry when he’s home on leave.

Kindly consider your stance on the matter and RSVP ASAP.

Her Majesty wishes it to be known that whoever does successfully take this
post will be most favourably considered in next years honours for the BTM.

Yours in protocol,

Sir Hamish Fitznicely.  Equerry.
The Discrete Back Office
Tradesmen’s Entrance
St James’s Palace

cc:    Madame Carla Sarkozy
Le petit Maison de Grande Frogs
Rue D
Arrondisement 69



Madame Editor Laurence Pieau                        Papa Archie
Closer Mag – Bauer Media                                Shutterthefuckup Photographic Exclusives
Place de la Telescopic                                       The Old Hide
Le Back Alle                                                       Dense Copse Lane
Rue D                                                                 Beyond-the-Pale
Paris                                                                   Sailing-by-Slowly
France.                                                               Angleterre.

                                                                          PM Friday  14-September-2012.

Dear Lauri

Bonjour !

It is sometime,
(January last to my records; that on the exclusive shock-horror scoop that there was snow in England),
since I have had the pleasure of making contribution
and putting something into your organ to delight you.
With that,  and also having mind to general UK media reports that things have gone tits-up for you recently,  I proffer the recently rediscovered below, they possibly to be used as illustrative adjuncts to your occasional little filler pieces on the Brit establishment.
I do hope that they might bring a little light relief to your organ.

On going through my files during a periodic tidy-up and sort-out this week,
I find I have at the rear of one shelf,  gathering dust,
a couple of dozen assorted snaps of Pipa Middletons arse (sans kecks),
a 2 hour HD vid of HRH Betty doing an in depth investigation into whether/ not Q. Vic was correct on lesbianism,
a few,  rather hazy,  shots of Zara Philips ‘attending to the horses’
a rather splendid cameo portrait  (signed ‘To C. with Love’)  of HRH Chas conferring with a long stemmed daffodil in the early morning mists at Sandringham in,  it must be said,  not quite the same manner he has oft illustrated to The Royal Horticultural Society.

The point of this is,  are they of any interest or should I bin them ?


See you at the European Press annual get together this Xmas.
Do hope your old driver, Mo Ped, will be there too (wot a hoot !):
Any chance of you stripping and doing your pole-dancing party-piece again ?
I’ve still got your Mr Keenan’s socks from the last thrash
He’s not answering calls at the mo’ and might still be looking for them so will you let him know where they are for me please  ?

Yours in perspective,



Big Dark Grey Dave Cameron,                                           Little Kenny Afka
and                                                                                      The Hovel
His Boy Wonder,  Boris,                                                      Avenue Ordure
10 Downing Street                                                              Castle Anthrax
Whitehall                                                                             Much-in-the-Dark
South of Watford.                                                                Mancton.

                                                                                            AM Tuesday  24-July-2012.

Dear Uncle David and Dear Uncle Boris,

I do so want to come to your big sports day thingy at London for Transport
and me and me Dad think it would be patriotic to help you as you haven’t managed to move all the tickets you expected and I think The Queen might be well (as us kids say) pleased to see us as well,  but before we put us sleeping bags in his camper bus
there are one or two things which make me apprehensive:
Can me Dad park his VW combi camper on St Jimmy’s Park or The Mall Street so he can,
with the sleeper roof up and those binoculars from LIDL,  watch the volley ball properly,
will we be the odd ones out with all them foreigners there
(well, what with them and the visitors for the games as well,  we’ll look out of place won’t we ?),
and, so we can get in in the first place,
just where do we get us ring-pieces cleared by your Olympic Brand Polizie ?
Someone told us that they had an office here in Manc near Portland Street Bus Station,
so I got on one of our nice new trams and went down there but don’t think I found the right one.
I tried the chance inspection offer of who I thought was a kind gentleman in Canal Street,
but he just pointed me at Back Piccadilly and that has widened my problem.
I know you don’t have trams down there but never mind as I’m sure all the beer vouchers you’re to be paid by those  Not Quiet Americans  will get you at least  a set of two and a mile or so of track to run them on.
(Do hope they don’t settle in those iffy Eurinals but if they do, you could always buy Wop trams like we did;  they’re bound to be getting cheaper now and they’ve got proper opera on the PA muzak system)

Well, I’d better get back to your passport requirements:
As you can gather from the above I believe you’re guarding your ring-pieces with some vigour
as you’ve got to mind them properly for the American gentlemen who have given you the BV’s
so only they can sell their favourite pop and those funny soft barm cake butties with some very strange fillings.
Do you know they steam their barm cakes over a big kettle in the back and that’s why they taste of fuck-all and your teeth go straight through without knowing they’re there ?
Oh well, it takes all sorts, as me Auntie Matter would say,  and, as me Dad says,
if you do eat them,  that’s your business.
Me Great Uncle Albert said he wasn’t surprised in the least by any of it as all the UK Governments he’d ever known had always sold their arse to The Yanks.

To return to your requirements in general:
That funny red-ish Yank pop you’re flogging, (alongside the funny butties);
it tastes a bit like a very weak Tizer with some raspberry in it with a hint of cough-mixture so we won’t drink it.
Me Granddad sez Ray Davies wrote a song about it in 1970 about a bender who turned into a tart with a deep voice after drinking it.
(Or the other way round – ?    He never could work it out).
It’s supposed to ‘pep you up’ or something like that – ?
Tried it once but personally speaking, the only thing it did for me is make me pass wind at Sunday School.
Me Great Granddad says it’s dangerous, and you could easily follow through with it if you didn’t watch it.
He knew a bloke in The Eight Army who tried it and wasn’t off the khazi for a fortnight;
nearly missed the show at Tobruk.

Anyway, never mind, we’ve got plenty of Dandelion & Burdock and a bottle of proper Tizer here to keep us going and that doesn’t produce medical probs, and Uncle Clifford, who’s a proper alki but posh and drinks White Lightning and Pimms, said if we put a bottle in a bag and drink it out of that, everyone will think we’re some of his mates and no one will get upset.

Can you write back soon as petrol’s just gone down 2p at Morrisons and me dad says if he has to fill the tank he might as well do it now as with all the tax you fuckers have piled on,
he thinks he can afford it at the moment  –  just.

Me Mam’s going to make butties for us if we do go down, and we do hope, (and I don’t think there will be a prob), they won’t upset your McButty people as there shouldn’t be a conflict of interests,
as me Mams are food.
We’re not too worried if we run out either, me Great Auntie Pearl who lives in Whitechapel still,
told us where there’s still a proper Pie&Mash shop in Stepney that no bugger would ever find unless they were let in on it.

Anyway, hope you are both keeping well and hope you don’t catch Levesons Career;
there’s a lot of it going about down your street me Mam says.
(It’s a bit like a cross between Münchhausen’s and Huntingdon’s  but the steps are slower and the result is much more painful)
If you make sure you change your knickers and your moby regularly and stay away from naughty people you should be alright she sez.

Little Ken.

Can you give that nice Mr Livingstone,  who has my name and had Uncle Boris’s job before,
a hug from me Mam.
Me Mam says he’s the only proper cockney amongst you lot and she would vote for him if she could despite him getting rid of the Routemaster and allowing that daft new Town Hall.

(If he’d gone to see that nice Mr Terry, up near Bishops Stortford,  who does proper buildings,
I’m sure he’d have knocked-out a proper shed for Mr L.  but there we go,
there’s no accounting for taste is there ?      Little K.)

Me Grandad said he’d risk the trip as well if you put Trumans back on at all the pubs,
well them’s that are left anyway.
You know wot’s wanted – get it back to just like it used to be before you load of air-heads & assorted handbags fucked it all up by filling The Town up with foreigners so proper Cockneys had nowhere to go so they fucked-off to milk concrete cows in the sticks North of Watford.
He wonders who’ll man the ack-ack if the balloon goes up again ?
Him and me and me Dad can’t see the average *Not-Abdul doing it,  can you ?

Luv again,  well LOL really,    Kenny.    x.x.

Editorial Sub-Notes:

*An UntergroppenUberFiddelStrasseFuhrenGemienSchaft  (GmbH)  ‘approved’ word
(aka  They can’t live off it so they’ll move onto the next thought easy target/ low fruit for their Brownie Points)
as taught at Little Kenny’s educational establishment:
The School for **Dissenting Gentlefolk
**In Apparatchik Speak  :  ‘Non-Compliants’

PM Thursday  09-August-2012.



Fur der Platters:  UND NICHT FORGESSEN:

Oportet Operam Dore
However,  me thinks,  it just depends what you’re working at.  😐                                        Old :    The Ed.

And, ODA, supports, the Oxford,.


An Inverse But Still Tasteful Marketing Promotion:

Or the girl gets it !
(I wish – PLEASE don’t tell Mrs Ed)

ie  Your chance to comment


THIS PAGE  :  Description  :  Delightful excerpts from our bountiful postbag   <
THIS PAGE  :  Make-Up  :  Missives mostly to those it would be better to dismiss  <

THIS PAGE  :  Last Update Proper Loaded  :  LATEST TO HEAD OF PAGE  <
THIS PAGE  :  Latest Draft to Above  :  AM Saturday  12-January-2013.  <


All times noted to writings to    >Railway Time=London Greenwich   * PROPER.
None of that funny foreign  ‘Eastern Seaboard Time’  etc
(Which they use in Ramsgate)
or even any of that UDT.                                                                                                                         (Lark wot owr milkman ‘as)

* GMT.  +  When in season, easy-read BST.
(Which surprisingly contains no added E-Numbers, hydrogenated oils or salt
and is thought to be non-fattening and harmless to animals)
May Might Does not contain nuts.
(Noted for the sake of any passing plebs who may might be considering it
for referral to their social worker as grounds for their next claim)

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.