He Who Strives

He Who Strives

WHO PUT THE 'TORY' IN INFLAMMATORY?

Ahead of my fourth tribunal hearing on Monday, I thought I'd better keep the old interblog chaps up to speed, so as to avoid any confusion if I'm shipped overnight to L.A., to replace Simon Towell on that talent show thingy.

I must say I'm not sure this is a good waste of taxpayers' money.
I'm perfectly capable of finding myself fit for work, without these bally DWP chaps suggesting I might not be.

My last tribunal hearing was cancelled because of (off the record & only allegedly) "the judge and doctor being struck off".
Now I know most of the GPs, JPs and BPs in East Anglia, and you have try ruddy bloody hard to get struck off these days.
An old friend of mine (let's call him Bunny) was eventually dispatched for charging his patients 200 guineas for a sick-note, something the GMC frowned heavily upon.
Bunny set up his own private practice after that, turning his back on the whole shoddy affair.
As he correctly said;
"What's more important?
Saving lives or creating work for a bunch of left-wing namby pamby trots in a nurse uniform?"
I think we can all agree with the sentiment.

I am however getting a tad miffed about all this 'Con-Dem' naysaying, and general dissent within the ranks.
It's not our Dave's fault the spics (and the wops) spent all the ready cash, and forced us all into upping the drawbridge.
Dave cares about England, and he and his cohorts IDS(RIP) & Christopher Grayling are damned fine chaps when it comes to getting the economy up and running again.
Only last week, an Air Commodore friend of mine (let's call him Piggy) told me in the strictest confidence, that our arms industry is worth £22 BILLION to old blighty's crown jewel purse.
That's an awful lot of cash when compared to say sales figures for the liberal nonsense comic The Guardian, that rarely breaks the £6million mark.
(My association soccer team Brighton & Hove Albion have a left-half worth more than that!)

Anyway. I think it's time we started looking at the positives in this whole welfare reform thingy.
Mrs Mac feels that my desire to pack up my old kit-bag and pick up my rifle again should be tempered with a visit to Lowestoft John (my Personal Adviser).
I personally feel she is always wrong, and with a little joined-up sky and a little blue thinking, we could get England (and a large part of Wales) back into work and out of the labour exchange. We need progressive thinkers like Bunny & Piggy, a good dose of the old bamboo, a few cold showers and a jolly bracing work-ethic that says

No! To shirkers.
No! To disabled benefit hoarders.
No! To mini-cabs.
No! To heavy-petting & bombing.
No! To council houses for single mums with itinerant boyfriends.
No! To foreigners who aren't tourists.
No! To free stuff for those who haven't earned the right to free stuff yet.

And no to this have-a-go-hero culture that rewards immigrants with no grasp of the King James' Holy Bible, and who insist on having families.
This 'bogof' society that expects free prescriptions, when men fought and died against the Germans to put square meals on the table, and the right to vote for discipline in schools and the right to bare their arms.
This septic isle, rotten to the core, and full of alcopops and Stephen Fry homogenousness.

It's time to keep Britain tidy again!
It's time to dig deep for victory.
It's time to keep mum.
It's time to bag it & bin it (or face a fine of up to a maximum of £1000).

WE ARE NOTHING WITHOUT OUR BANKS

It turns out that Allotment Alan was up to no good.
I only caught the end of the conversation in the Legion last night, but it would appear that he was breeding skunks with an anthropomorphic lighting system.
He's looking at 18months.
Bilko reckons they'll throw away the key.

Meanwhile, all the pinkos on Facebook are getting uppity about bank managers' xmas bonuses.
May I take this opportunity to remind readers, that once upon a time banks were only there for the very rich. People would literally keep their savings 'under the mattress', and mortgages were just a pipe-dream.
Many people lived in houses made out of horse dung.
It was the banks that liberated us from domestic tyranny.

If the feckless and the undeserving cannot see that being a bank manager is stressful enough, without having to justify his(or her!)salary, then what hope have we got getting people back into work?
I would like a bit more money yes, but I'm not prepared to work my way up in the Alliance & Leicester.
It's a tough old climb, requiring long hours and an ability to find numbers interesting.
No. This public outcry is just professional jealousy.
If all the jobless, and disableds and irresponsible shirkers want parity with the Captain Mainwarings of this world, perhaps they should get their fingers out, stop watching Jeremy Springers, and forge a more prosperous relationship with their Personal Advisers.
If they weren't rewarding themselves with over-inflated child benefits and emus, maybe we could all get through this cold spell without a cap.

(And if I were Allotment Alan, I'd start thinking about more than a protective cap!)

IF ONLY REAL LIFE WAS PAPERLESS LIKE THE LEVESON ENQUIRY?

Further problems in my attempt to get the old career kick-started.

Another letter arrived from IDS and those bods at Social Security on Saturday.
It would appear that I've opened up a can of worms with regard to this 'appeals' procedure.
Lowestoft-John (my Personal Adviser) is away for the weekend, and I'm loathe to take advice from all the lefty campaigners I now seem to be surrounded with.

It transpires that I am automatically 'up' for a tribunal.
It's in Birmingham, and if I'm honest, I'm not a big fan.
I once spent an enjoyable weekend at The Belfry near Coventry, but that was in the 1980s and I've been listening to The Archers for too long now.
It would appear I have to fill out this new 6 page document, if I DO NOT wish to proceed with my appeal.
I can't help think that the unionised commies at the GPO have more than a passing interest in this drawn-out correspondence.

So I've decided to go.
I'm involved now, and we didn't rescue the Falklands from the corned beef colonials by being hesistant.
It'll save the cost of another stamp, and I might get the chance to tell these tribunal chappies just what a good job Dave & IDS are doing.
I might even find out what they're really going to do with Clegg, now that he appears to have lost his last marble.

Apparently they do not envisage conducting the interview until at least the 6th of August, so it'll give me time to get a railcard, as I don't fancy re-negotiating the M42. Travel expenses are guaranteed on this one, so I'll book an hotel like before.
I'm also allowed to take a friend, so I think I'll take Derek.
We'll probably visit the Borchester & Ambridge set if we get a spare moment.

They've asked for documents detailing savings, mortgage payments etc.as these will go a long way to proving how disabled I am.
I'll probably give them my phone bill and a copy of my teenage diary from when I was at school.
I might let them have my Observer's Guide to Horses & Ponies as well.
A tribunal requires 'evidence' according to their letter, and I intend to be heavily laden with paper.
They're bound to like that.

Premature In Occupation

I only got the date wrong!
And to be fair to the DWP, they won't cover my hotel bill or taxi as the mistake was all mine.
What a sausage!

But bloody hell, I have witnessed some carnage today.

It would appear that I'm not the only one capable of returning to work.
In Lowestoft alone, there are literally thousands of us!
Admittedly, a lot of them don't have long-term chronic illnesses or disability, but a few could do with a bit of a bally brush-up.

And the language!
My word.
Now I spent many a year moving in military circles, and I've heard a few choice words that would make even the Queen blush, but this was just nonsense.

At one point, John (my Personal Adviser) asked the fellow ahead of me if he'd filled out his Appeal Form?
The answer went something like this:

"Nah, fuckin hent. Iss loik, fuckin arkskin me if loik, y'knew, I need loik anuvva piss of fuckin' paper 'n I hent, y'knew, fuckin' got a cuntin one, not diddly-squat y'knew, you nob-jockin' a-hole"

At this point I asked the gentleman in the supermarket security-guard outfit if I was actually in the right queue, and he informed me that I was, but I was also ten days too early.
We both laughed, and then the loquacious fellow threw-up on his Appeal Form, demonstrably qualifying his sickness, and inability to work today.

As I fought my way through the melee, I couldn't help but think I had made a shrewd move by not appealing.
It's going to take John, IDS and the rest of the DWP quite a while to find these chaps a suitable career.
I might just have a steal on them.