Written by tjmstroud
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Tuesday, 17 July 2012

Dear Constituents

That was a hectic weekend. Sorry for the late post but my server was down.

There was only one notable weekend success worth reporting and it will do little for my re-election chances, but I photo might appear in the Krupton News.

I won the Three Legged Race at Saturday afternoon's Church Fete.

Technically, I suppose, it was a partnership of two but the win will clearly demonstrate that I am not just a politician of high intellect but possess physical prowess and stamina to match. It proves that even when put at a distinct disadvantage - running with only one leg under my own control - I still rise above it all and win. The photo will show that even when crossing the finishing line I am not only well in the lead but showing no sign of stress or over exertion.

That upstart who calls himself the prospective parliamentary candidate for Krupton didn't attend the Fete. Quite rightly, he was too afraid. If he had, and had entered the sack race for instance, my son Hector and a few mates had been given instructions to pull the sack right over his head and tie it in a granny knot.

But this impressive win was not all my own doing as my racing partner was Doctor Sinnick.

Sinnick was only there because someone had forgotten to book St John's Ambulance and the health and safety organisers were nervous of running an event with dangerous sports like an egg and spoon race without adequate first aid facilities in place. As it turned out, this was very fortunate.

Not only did Sinnick and I win the race by being roped together with his stethoscope but his stethoscope also helped deal with a cat that suddenly appeared on the scene during the Splat the Rat competition. Presumably thinking that the rat we were splatting was real, the cat got so excited that it suffered a stroke or heart attack and collapsed, twitching on the sodden grass (it was, as usual, raining).

Sinnick (not being a qualified vet) declined to make a firm diagnosis in case the cat's owner ever sued for medical negligence so someone else scooped it up, stuck it on the passenger seat of his car and raced off to the 'Krupton Animal Hospital'.

But during those few short minutes I just had time to put a name to this bizarre animal. It is easily recognisable by the right angle bend in its tail and look of pure hatred on its face whenever it sees me. Cats and I don't get along. I was actually surprised that despite its medical condition it didn't recognise me, jump up and tear my eyes out with its claws.

This evil, slit-eyed creature of the night with its crooked tail and paranoid schizophrenia is called Smut which is a very appropriate name.

Its owner is Mrs Atkins who has a back garden with barely enough space to swing a - well, a cat - but it does have space for a bird table.

Mrs Atkins, like many cat owners also claims to like garden birds - a strange combination as by looking after one you give it the energy to kill the other. She constantly tops up this bird table with bread crumbs, whole slices of fruit cake and odd scraps like bacon rinds but Smut uses the table as a lure to attract prey.

Like a lion hiding by a Masai Mara waterhole, Smut hides behind Mrs Atkins' shed and rushes out, claws spread and teeth bared to pounce on its favourite snack - blue tits. Fortunately Smut is so overweight and unfit that he rarely succeeds and the blue tits merely flutter off to the top of the shed and wait until he has gone. Smut looks around, checks his claws, finds there is nothing impaled on them and disappears back through the cat flap for a drop of milk.

But why am I telling you this?

Well, Smut, you see, behaves like a certain member of the Opposition. Let's call him Smut 2.

Smut 2 is also overweight and thinks he is an expert in everything - be it the Health Service, Police, Education or the general state of the Economy. Like Smut 1, Smut 2 hasn't got much going for him but makes up for it by being very nasty. Smut 2 lacks the bent tail (as far as I can tell) but he has all the other characteristics of Smut 1 in that he gets his kicks by stalking prey and trying to kill it.

I, on the other hand, am like the blue tit. Agile, quick, never still for a moment and with eyesight that enables me to spot the smallest movement that might mean danger. Last Thursday proved it.

I met Smut 2 in a corridor. As I strolled purposely towards my office, I saw him coming towards me. He was slinking along in the shadow keeping close to the wall pretending to text something on his ancient Nokia. But I knew he was watching me out of the corner of his eyes. Having my wits fully about me I was already well prepared as he has never forgiven me for comments I once made about the health service when his lot were in power.

All I had said was that Harold Shipman was the only person to have ever done something positive about NHS waiting lists.

Now I agree that I am sometimes a little blunt but I was trying to point out that Smut 2's lot talked too much but achieved nothing. (Dr Sinnick by the way totally agrees with me about this. He has tried hard to change the system but is stifled by the staff employment contracts he was required to sign. But I know that if it had been me who had suffered the heart attack during Splat the Rat he would have immediately rushed to my side whereas other GPs might have suggested I made an appointment next week.)

So, anyway, Smut 2 slinked along and as we drew parallel, he stuck out his foot and tried to trip me. Naturally I was already on high alert and saw it coming.

I don't want to describe the ensuing fight but rest assured that, like the little blue tit I am, I escaped unscathed. I returned, however, a few minutes later to find Smut 2 lying on a stretcher surrounded by ambulance men.

Like Smut 1 he had clearly over exerted himself. When I bent over to see if he was still alive he almost had another attack but I thought I'd cheer him up by offering a belated apology for my distasteful Harold Shipman joke.

"Sorry about the Shipman joke, Smut, old chap" I said, "Hope you feel better soon. But you're lucky to be here in London. I hear that in your constituency, the waiting lists are so bad that even if you want an abortion you need to make an appointment twelve months in advance."

I then flew off like a little blue tit.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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