Written by tjmstroud
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Tags: MPs

Monday, 29 October 2012

Dear Constituent


I have had a hectic few days spoiled by a gastric upset which I blame on the poisoned haggis that arrived via Parcel Force from an address in Aberdeen.

I actually suspect my last newsletter upset Alex Salmond of the SNP and it was he who posted me the spiked Macsween haggis.

Both of these famous names - Salmond and Macsween - claim to be guardians of Scottishness - one being the guardian of Scotland's national dish and the other the guardian of Scotland's need to always feel like the underdog - ignored and hard done by.

(Actually, all they need is a bit of toughening up with a bit of serious competition - like getting Celtic and Rangers to join the English Football league - once the debts are paid off.).

Talking about national dishes, though, I actually thought the national dish of Scotland was now Alex Salmond's 'PA' Nicola Sturgeon although with a name like Sturgeon I think she's pushing her Scottish credentials a bit far. I thought the name Sturgeon was the English metonymic name for a fishmonger.

However, let me return to my diarrhoea.

It started just after I'd ……………………………

Sorry about that - I'm back again now.

As I was saying, my stomach upset started just after I'd finished eating the haggis straight out of its plastic packaging, which proves it wasn't fresh. But the indisposition has given me a wonderful opportunity to read the newspapers in peace while sitting and waiting for nature to take its course and I am intrigued at the number of government, police, BBC and other enquiries going on.

Why is this country so masochistic?

I was also surprised at the number of people clambering to claim that their "pervy" experience was the most "pervy".

Worried that at some stage in my life I may have looked at someone in a strange way whilst innocently removing a dead fly from the corner of my eye, I will be proposing the introduction of a perve-scale. So, on a perve-scale of 1 to 10 where 10 is utterly despicable I reckon I am about average - say about 3.

Also, I will also be asking at PM's Questions this week how long we have to remain dead before our living descendants can live in peace without being suspected of having once had a pervert in the family or of having inherited his or her antisocial habits.

In anticipation of the PM's answer being that the length of time we now need to wait is as long as a piece of string, I thought I had better check on a few matters from the past.

And so, during my many recent visits to the Gents toilet at Portcullis House (thank goodness for the lavender air-freshener) thoughts have been pouring out with no effort at all - just like everything else has.

I began by thinking about the Industrial Revolution when people fled rural poverty to come to live in our big cities. Krupton was not alone in this mass influx. Our local mills were desperate for cheap labour, for people with existing hard callouses and no qualms about health and safety or demands for affordable homes with en-suite bathrooms.

But there was still an awful lot of messing about with stealing, fighting and poaching rabbits from land belonging to the gentry. That was when a chap called Henry Fielding formed the first police force - the Runners. And this is when it all started to go wrong.

The Bow Street Runners started asking the public to help with descriptions of naughty people and that really opened a can of worms. Anyone with a grudge could tell stories on an otherwise good guy. Then the Runners starting publishing unsubstantiated rumour and innuendo and got people to listen at key holes. Can you imagine strangers listening to your private conversations? This really hacked people off.

One poor guy called Thomas was so hacked off that he put in a claim for compensation for wrongful imprisonment based on keyhole evidence. Thomas's great, great, great grandson is a constituent of mine in Krupton and I'm going to seek compensation for him as it is bound to have affected his upbringing.

Anyway, the Bow Street Runners (the beat) then joined up with the Bow Street Horse Patrol (the blues and yellows) who helped clear Highwaymen (the ticket touts and chuggers) and so it went on until Robert Peel set up the Metropolitan Police in 1829. By 1856 over 200 police forces were set up around the country - including Krupton.

But people hated the police so much that they were given dark blue coats, truncheons, rattles and whistles to summon more police if they were outnumbered by plebs, which of course they often were on a Saturday night.

One poor guy, Cedric, was out earning his crust one day (he shovelled horse shit and sold it to farmers as a business) was hit on the head with a truncheon just because the policeman thought he was about to use his shovel as a weapon. Cedric's great, great, great grand-daughter, Mandy, is also a constituent of mine and now wants compensation because she still suffers memory lapses which she claims got passed down from Cedric. The PCC won't have a leg to stand on. But, then, neither did Cedric because after they hit him on the head they then starting hitting his legs.

We need to identify the policeman with the truncheon as he clearly went way beyond the call of duty.

Edith Smith was the first police woman with powers of arrest and her first arrest was a man - surely a case of sexual discrimination. I can't find this particular man's family but an official apology by the Metropolitan Police would suffice for now.

But where do we draw the line back into history? In fact, where do we draw the line into the future?

I read today about that now recently infamous paedophile also being into necrophilia. The guy is, of course, now dead but it poses the interesting question of what he might be up to right now as he's surrounded by potential victims.

I'll need to double-check the policy of the Church on this subject as I thought they preached forgiveness and that Paradise was the most tolerant place of all and offered all things for all tastes.

Just in case this policy has changed, I will be proposing a Government Bill to ban post mortem visits to Paradise for anyone unless they've passed a full CIB check.

Sorry, I now need to visit the Gents again. Call me on my Blackberry if you need to but definitely don't come to find me until the air clears. I hate haggis.

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

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