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Brian Reade's Column: Pinkoes' Budget for all is tough on us toffs.

A Letter To The Editor

From Lord Ivor Hefty-Stash

SIR, So you believe Mr Average has done rather well out of this Budget, do you?

Good for you, old boy. Seems a bit ruddy daft we should reward chaps for being average but that's how the profiteroles crumble when you toss away an empire.

However, what I refuse to accept is the Trotskyist propaganda on yesterday's front page where you stated that the Jocko with the commercial salesman's tie has "helped every woman, every man, every child, every one of us."

Heaven forfend. What utter poppycock!

Visit my club, old chap, and the chances of you finding a man he has helped are roughly on a par with you finding my old pal Lucan rogering your nanny when you return home tonight.

This was not a Budget for Family, Firms and Fairness.

It was a budget for Pinkoes, Pilferers, and Politically-correct

Poofters.

They have pronounced a death sentence on the traditional family, the bedrock of this island since the days when my forefathers raped and pillaged their way to a decent title.

The scrapping of mortgage relief and the Married Couples Allowance defiles the sacred covenant we are proud to call marriage.

Since the day I took my solemn vows that allowance has paid my dear wife's golf fees, enabling her to wile away the evenings while I stayed in my London flat, seducing any secretary who caught the eye.

And I could only afford the damn flat because of MIRAS.

Well, now all that family harmony has been destroyed. We will have to stay in at night as man and wife detesting the sight of each other, watching appalling Cockneys in soaps and talking about divorce.

It is enough to turn a chap homosexual. Which is their aim. Why else has Jock the Lad given tax breaks to the film industry in this Budget?

And why else is there so much mention of the environment. I tell you it is a gay conspiracy. And I know one when I see one. I went to Eton.

But "ah", he says, "it is a Budget for the children." Well, that might be the case if you have Darrens and Kylies living under your roof, but what about chaps like me who sired dozens of the buggers then did the decent thing by paying off the feckless mothers to keep schtum.

I've enough kids for two rugger teams, for Crissake, but I won't see a penny of this extra child benefit. Which brings me on to the increased Stamp Duty on houses over pounds 250,000.

Do you realise every time another illegitimate child turns up on my doorstep I have to buy them a house to keep them away from my wife?

I couldn't find decent servant's quarters in Chelsea for pounds 250,000. What is a chap supposed to do to escape this iniquitous tax hike? Send my newly- found children up to bloody Cleethorpes?

That would make me a complete bastard. Just like them really. I tell you, I won't be party to it. And what of the legitimate heirs to the Hefty- Stash dynasty? Thought we'd be giving you a big hurrah! for upping the Inheritance Tax threshold from pounds 223,000 to pounds 231,000? Piffle!

If that piddling amount had been left to me by Pater I'd have exhumed the bugger and killed him all over again.

The starting rate should be pounds 233,000,000. This money was left to me for doing sod all, and I've worked hard living off it and doing sod all ever since. I'll be damned if my sons and their sons can't do the same.

How about petrol? Up four shillings a gallon. Might be fine for the E-Reg Fiesta-classes with their furry dice, but I've got a fleet of Rolls Silver Monster Guzzlers that do eight-miles to the gallon to keep. This will hit me hard.

Ah, I hear you say, go green and you'll pay less road tax. Go green! I'd rather go Communist. This ozone layer stuff is a Red plot. If a chap gets a bit of excess lead in his lungs, why not take a mile-long walk around your grounds before dinner? Talking of which, cigars are up 7.5p for five. Disgraceful. What's a chap supposed to puff on when he cracks open the brandy and sends the little ladies out of the dining room?

And he has left alcohol alone. Lovely. That means more of Jocko's countrymen breathing whisky fumes on me outside my club as they beg for change.

Oh sorry, we are all supposed to be charitable now, aren't we? Jocko says he'll add pounds 30 to every pounds 100 we give to charity?

What's new about this? I give thousands of pounds of charity to the lower- classes every week. It's called income tax.

Which is yet another gross insult. This 10p tax rate. Why bother picking up your wages if you earn that little?

What can you buy with it apart from scratch cards?

Let's face it, it's a budget for the uneducated to become gambling addicts on the back of the wealth my forefathers left to me. I mean, look at what he is jolly well doing with the tax. He's putting computers and books in every state school.

Heresy! I was told we sent the lower classes to those squalid comprehensives to make sure they ended up unqualified, thus keeping all the decent jobs for our young chaps.

And two grand for new books? When did we teach them to read and what have they done with the books we taught them with? Then there is this pounds 500 million extra for NHS hospitals. Aren't they places where the working classes go to die when they become a burden on the state?

Yet I am being asked to pay to keep them alive by paying extra National Insurance. Why? I go private, and I don't particularly want the old and unproductive lower-classes kept alive, thank you very much.

He's even trying to court the fillies by handing out more maternity pay. Allowing all pregnant women to stay at home for 18 weeks after giving birth.

That's all very fine, but who is going to clean out my stables, tend the animals and do all the hard, dirty labouring work when my women workers fall pregnant? Not me, old boy.

And finally we come to the poor ruddy state pensioners who lacked the brains to speculate in the markets when they were younger. He's giving them a hundred quid to keep their houses warm in winter?

Why don't they do what the rest of us do? Close down the east and west wings when it gets a trifle nippy and live in a mere 34 rooms?

It's called tightening your belts. But no, we pander to them. Pity them. Up their state pension so hugely they can now spend their final days in Blighty in wealth and happiness? While we foot the bill.

How typically pinko. How typical of the way this country I once loved has gone to the dogs. How unpatriotic.

What about those of us who are saving hard so we can retire to our Caribbean tax havens? What's in it for us? What is in this entire Budget for me and my class? Nothing.

Margaret Thatcher, take off your muzzle, tone down the barking, and come to our rescue.

Your country needs you.
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Title Annotation:Features
Author:Reade, Brian
Publication:The Mirror (London, England)
Date:Mar 11, 1999
Words:1250
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