Things are a bit slow today by any standards. Must be the awful weather. Anyway, I’ve decided to have a little bit of fun over the next few months. I’m going to publish the letters that Gordon Brown’s new cleaner Edith sends to her cousin Ethel. I suspect the new PM’s spell in office will not involve a lot of mirth, so we may as well try and inject a little laughter. Admittedly it’s not a new idea; the Private Eye have done very well out of it over the last twenty years or so, but in the true tradition of British political sarcasm, lets give it a go! Here’s the first instalment.
Dear Ethel
Just a quick letter to let you know I got the job. I knew I recognised the address when I filled the application form in. “10 Downing Street” it said, “Cleaner Wanted”. Well, when I got there, would you believe it, it’s were that bloke lives who’s always on the telly, Tony Thatcher or something. Anyway, he wasn’t in as he’s gone on holiday somewhere with his friends. He must have a lot of them mind you, as they have their own plane. I think he be a pop star, because Billy says he’s never seen such a group of hangers on. Have you heard of them?
Anyway, his missus was also out having her hair done. I wonder if she goes to that one next to the laundrette, they do blue rinses on Wednesdays. The new women did the interview, a Mrs Brown. Her bloke was also away, something about Iraq and soldiers. I wonder if he’s an undertaker, apparently there’s plenty of jobs going over there. I saw a picture of him on the desk, looks the part, a right misery. What an interview mind you, it was worse than that time I signed on after the birth of our Poppy Troy Lynx Java. You remember, when they wanted to know the fathers name for those people who chase dads, the CIA. Well I said, if the council would put lights behind the bingo hall I would know his name wouldn't I? Going back to Mrs B, some of the questions were harder than those on Richard and Judy. What did I think of PFI, was the Euro a good idea, did I recycle (no, I said, I cant afford a bike and always use the bus) and something about the best time to pull out. I nearly pulled out there and then I can tell you, but what with Billy’s pension scheme not turning out the way it should, I needed the job (I wonder if Mrs B is related to that “b*****d Brown” Billy keeps talking about). You know me Ethel, I could bluff me way through a nunnery, and this one was easy. I was so good in fact, Mrs B said I should go on something called “Question Time”. I think it’s that new quiz on Channel Four, you know, that channel where people cant keep there clothes on for longer than five minutes and swear a lot? Ten minutes later she said I’d got the job, and could I start on 27th June.
Before I left, I asked her what the job involved. Don’t worry, she said, I would be fully trained up by MI6 when I started. I don’t know who they are mind you, perhaps some other cleaning company. I might also have to answer the door sometimes. For some reason there’s always a policeman hanging around; one of the Brown kids must have an ASBO like your Jamie. She also gave me a colour chart with about 20 different colours on. Something about bins and different types of rubbish. Looked more like a Dulux chart to me! What about the rest of the people who work here? “Forget about them” replied Mrs B “Once Mr B’s moved in properly he’s sacking the lot”. I put a good word in for your Eric, with him being able to read and write. Plus he gets that posh paper, The Express. But she just laughed and said something about being over qualified.
So there you have it, a new job in a posh house. I’m off down the tanning shop for a quick body spray. When I left some fat bloke was coming in the front door. He had a lovely tan. “Been somewhere nice,” I said “Caribbean” he came back with.”Ooh, very expensive”, not really he said “it was all free”. Something about “perks of the job”. I wonder if he’s a travel rep? Said he’s off to China next. Nice man though, gave me his number but said put the phone down if the wife answers.
Write to you later when I start properly.
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