Poor You

He's real.

The poor are a revolting bunch. Clad in ill-fitting garb, mouths stuffed full of cigarettes and crisps, they seem to spend the bulk of their short, sorrowful lives shuffling miserably between the dole office and the doss house, pausing occasionally to expel a few mongrel offspring from their overworked reproductive systems. As if it weren't enough to be forced to watch this disgusting parade, our twisted and wasteful taxation system also forces us to finance it.

I will confess without blushing that I am a modestly well-to-do young man. But everything I have was earned through my own hard graft. My bootstraps are soaked in blood and sweat. I've never relied on the Bolshevik state to give me handouts for anything (with the exception of healthcare, education, infrastructure, law enforcement, and etcetera). So, you can imagine my joy at reading the recent news that at long last, this country's scroungers will be receiving a short sharp strike up the hindquarters in the form of unprecedented benefit cuts.

Of course, the cutting of this chaff has elicited the usual cries of protest from the loony left, who claim with a straight face that 'the poorest and most vulnerable will be hurt the most by these cuts' and other such piffle. Still, I was curious to see just how great the gap between truth and fiction is, and living in South London I have ready access to a plethora of the impoverished. So, Dictaphone in hand, switchblade concealed beneath my waistcoat, I bravely set out from the safety of my domicile and made my way towards the Elephant and Castle, in search of a poor. The following is an account of my experience.

It was not long before I found my first poor. His name was Anton and, although I ask him his age, it is irrelevant. What youth he had was spent long ago and now all he has to hope for is the quick embrace of death. I spoke to Anton about his pathetic existence.

He said some unpleasant things after that. Shaken by this experience but undeterred, I persevered, approaching further urchins and interrogating them about their financial solvency. Eventually I happened upon Daphne, who in addition to being a council-house dwelling benefits vacuum also had the indecency to be 'of the colonies' or whatever the PC term is these days.

Sensing the same danger from this creature as you might expect from a bitch protecting its pups, I egressed to a nearby safe zone and steadied my nerves with a shot of brandy from my hipflask. But by then I'd seen all I needed to see to draw my conclusions. The poor are a wretched and vile lot who are utterly undeserving of our sympathy, let alone our money. As I left the real world behind me and returned to the shelter of my home, I found myself pondering an interesting question: would it really be so awful if we left them all to die?

Permalink || Posted 3/4/2013 by Pete


  1. Small Child - 3/4/2013 - 11:14pm

    thank you for starring out the swear word

  2. A favourable critic - 3/4/2013 - 11:28pm

    This is terrible.

  3. A web designer - 4/4/2013 - 12:17am

    This website doesn't even have a favicon. Terrible.

  4. a constructive critic - 4/4/2013 - 8:45am

    Lacks any kind of witty spark, insight or particular originality. Must try harder.

  5. An agreeable critic - 4/4/2013 - 10:52am

    I agree with all of the above comments.

  6. Brett - 31/7/2013 - 7:42pm

    Pete, looking for a copy of French with Johnson - no luck on wayback machine. Was telling my missus (a school teacher) about it. Hook me up mate. Brett (from school).

  7. The Natflap - 1/9/2013 - 3:22pm

    Bloody hell Brett! How do you remember that? Obviously not dedicated enough in your Wayback search... http://web.archive.org/web/20050210042837/http://www.pnattress.plus.com/files/fun/fwj/index.htm

  8. Brett - 11/11/2013 - 12:10pm

    Nice one Pete, je suis sorry. Must have missed that. Oddly it's one of the few things I can actually remember from school (along with Lara Poodle, something about pies, and Grand Theft Trolley).

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