THE FALLACY OF EXHAUSTIVE HYPOTHESES

Apologies for the delay in bloggering chaps.
This whole kerfuffle with St. Iain 'Peace Be Upon Him' Duncan Smith has left rather a sour taste in my mortgaged-up mouth, and Mrs.Mac is beside herself over who will win Top Gear.
Needless to say, the fellow that's taken over at DWP HQ appears to be cut from the same cloth-cap as St.Iain, and it's more of the same for Broken British Benefit Bolsheviks & Their Gypsy Wedding Council Houses.

Stick them in the ruddy army I say!
That'll sort the tweets from the chavs!

Anyhoo.
On to this bally Referendum thingamajig.
I was terribly undecided for a while.
Far too much choice.
When Jeremiah Corbine stuck his trotty little snout into the mix, I was very much in favour of going all-out with Rupert, Bernard and Bojo.
But when I saw that David & Gideon had plans for a Google-Airbus sponsored European Super Army,
AND they were going to sell-off our failing NHS to the Yanks, I must say I was torn like Imbruglia.

Luckily Mrs. Mac wants nothing to do with the whole shebang, favouring the Rosberg/Hamilton dichotomy over central party policy.
Therefore I shall take her proxy vote from her Chablis-stained trotters, and have two stabs at voting myself.

I'm thinking I will stick one in the back of the Euro Soccer net and go all out with Nicky Morgan and the Remain lot.
But I shall also move heaven & earth and the Isle of Wight to a more defensive position in the mid-Atlantic, and join Nigel & Govey for a damn good Leave vote as well.
Win/Win.
Job's a good 'un!

God save the Queen!

He Who Strives

He Who Strives

LADIES FINGERS & FABIO-A-GO-GO

Spilt some Brasso on the bally carpet.
I was only buffing up the county shields, and the kids' school trophy.
It was hardly worth the ensuing panic.

Mrs.Mac is on one of her residential poetry weekends.
Can't see the point myself.
Full of libidinous types, who think daffodils are a deterrent to modern warfare.

Telephone-ordered an Indian takeaway.
Disappointedly a little greasy.
Uncorked the damson wine - a gift from Lionel on hearing the news about my polyp.
Lionel's very active in the autumn months.
Industrious.

Found myself watching that Gak Won fellow on the goggle-box.
Terribly anxious for a heavy-set colonial.
Made me feel slightly uneasy.
The BBC news was full of Fabio Costello's departure.
Good riddance I say. Ruddy Johnny Foreigner.
About time the sweet FA did something about all these migrant workers.

Why I didn't carefully spread out yesterday's Mail-on-Sunday I will never know?
A huge stain. Massive. Shaped like Malaya before the uprising.
Probably have to forego the 'no-claims' on this one.

And still no idea as to how The Moghul cooks their ladies' fingers?
Were they supposed to weep so sadly?

Mrs.Mac's back tomorrow.
She'll have a few answers.
No doubt.

Fine filly.
(Very similar in stature to Lowestoft John).

HEIGH HO/HI HO, IT'S OFF TO WORK WE GO.....

Had quite a problem with the title of this one.
Wikipedia is down due to some sort of industrial action, probably because of unionised Trots whingeing about their pensions, or freedom of speech.
Managed to Google 'Heigh Ho' and 'Hi Ho', and spent the past three hours counting the amount of results.
I think it's fair to say that 'Heigh Ho' is used by those of us who went to school, and 'Hi Ho' is used by the work-shy YouTube generation.
I will be using 'Heigh Ho' (over 3 million search results) forthwith.

I was at dinner with a bright young filly last year, who managed to persuade me that I should 'appeal' Personal Adviser Lowestoft-John's decision that I was 'fit for work'. It was fairly obvious that this young lady was a pinko, and that she'd never read any other paper than The Guardian in her life, but I gave it some thought whilst ogling her ample cleavage, and thought; if I don't test their capabilities, how can they test mine?

I'd heard several horror stories about people appealing, and subsequently dying, but I wasn't ready to shuffle any coils just yet; not with the prospect of Lowestoft-John finding me a suitable position as a wine-taster/food critic within the year.

So 'appeal' I did, and imagine my delight at receiving an incredibly prompt reply yesterday, from those DWP lackeys Atos, on the very day Dave, IDS and Ed Millitant were discussing the Welfare Reform Bill.
I left the weighty package unopened whilst I caught up on world news with the Mail Online.
Couldn't help feeling rather sorry for old friends Brigadier Giles Rowntree and Lieutenant-Colonel Crawley having to take early retirement, mainly due to that do-gooding Lumley woman. I suppose they'll still direct the odd military campaign from their conservatories in OxShott or Bagshot or wherever it is? (It's not Aldershot - marvellous town now overrun by unemployed Nepalese - terrible business).

So after my mid-morning G&T, I nervously embarked on reading the missive from JobCentrePlus in Belfast, hoping upon hope that they wouldn't put me back on the sick-pay.
I needn't have worried.
My Approved Disabilty Analyst Lesley had found me more than capable for work "and cannot see any reason to change the original decision given".
Luckily I hadn't really given them any reasons.
I listed my medications, attached a letter from my GP, explained how I can always be a little stiff on certain mornings (but this did not stop me enjoying fine wines & restaurant food!)and how I was hopeful that Lowestoft-John would find me a suitable employer very soon.

The rather sad news was that they had now moved the goalposts with regard to when I could start work.
Lesley said "I advise that a return to work could be considered within 18months".
This disappointed me somewhat.
It's obvious that I won't be considered for the Olympic Long-Jump judge now.
I'm unlikely to get the horse-groom job at Her Majesty's Diamond Jubbly celebrations neither.

The 33 page 'findings' (what is it with the Public Sector and trees?) did however highlight things that weren't wrong with me, and I found this reassuring coming from a designated government official.

I AM NOT likely to die within 6 months due to my chronic illness.
As I am male, pregnancy is NOT relevant.
I do NOT have a stoma, or serious problems with evacuating or voiding my bladder or bowels.
And I do NOT have a cognitive impairment or mental disorder that could lead to aggression in the workplace, or have difficulty in chewing or swallowing independently.

With that clean bill of health, I began my letters of application (cc;d of course to Lowestoft-John!).
I started with "Dear Mr Worrall-Thompson......"

IT'S TIME FOR A LEADERSHIP CHANGE

It's Wednesday, and that means only one thing.
Half-day closing.

As per usual, I donned my Hush Puppies and set about hobbling down to the Beccles & District Museum, to avail myself of my weekly fix; the majesty and beauty of the 1632 Shadingfield altar cloth.

And if you've been listening to Radio FiveLive's intelligent wall-to-wall commentary, interspersed with 'Sport, Weather & Travel' every ten minutes, you'll probably have no problem guessing what happened next?
The bally museum was closed!

And why?
Because some snivelling little Trot has politicised the part-time voluntary workers into a collective expression of their dissatisfaction at the hard work that Dave, IDS and Vinny Cable have done over the past 18months.

Pensions?!
They're already in receipt of their bloody pensions, and have been spending them quite happily in the post-office. the garden centre and Rosie's Tearooms for many years!
Like me, most of them will be dead before most NQTs get their first school department.
It's the feckless 'Want Want Want' generation again, stealing eye-pods and helping themselves to EMUs and tuition fees.

I'm all for gay rugby players 'coming out' to the Daily Mail on days like these, but this sort of gerrymandering will only lead to civil unrest, and an overall confusion with regard to museum opening hours.

It's madness.
Bring back Norman Tebbit and hunting with dogs.

Ruddy pinkos.

OCCUPY LOWESTOFT (No. Not really. Lol!)

I'm still in bed.
I have to say, these pills are bloody marvellous.
I can see why the sixties happened and that.

Been listening to that Vine fellow on Radio Two, and although he talks a lot of sense, I think he sometimes takes the moral high-ground with regard to defending stupid people.
If you're constantly getting burgled, move house!
The market's flat enough to do a side-shift, and if like me, you actually need to live in rural Suffolk, sell the Cherokee and downsize.
The winters are getting milder, and the kids are probably old enough to walk to university now.

Anyway.
That's all a bit of a hub-bub and bally hoo.
The real reason for putting pen to paper today, is to thank the Right Honourable Dave Cameron for his recent thoughts on complicit and fraudulent doctors.
According to the Daily Mail, something like 80 or 90% of medical professionals are in cahoots with the bad-back brigade, and the loss to our economy in sicknote man-hours is the price of a small African coup!
Thankfully Dave wants to replace them all with Independent Advisers, something we should've done in 1945.

An Independent Adviser will be answerable to no-one other than the shareholders (and possibly IDS).
There'll be less need for empathy or bedside manner, and more emphasis on getting shirkers to earn their keep, possibly in a lesser role than they're used to, but positively boosting the economy to greater heights than Australia's.
It's important that sickness absence is eradicated from our culture, if we're all to live above our means and in the manner to which we are accustomed.

If a civil servant has to pick asparagus in springtime, more power to his elbow.
If a teacher has to stuff giblets into turkey carcasses, then why not?
An active workforce will not only provide encouragement for future generations, it will also reduce the amount of vacancies for migrant workers.
And the queues at the local health centre will improve too.

Bloody good idea DC.
Next week I will ask my Personal Adviser, John, about applying for these positions.

Not this week though.
Let me just finish off this amitriptyline...........

IDEAS FOR IDS

After yesterday's escapade I find myself bedridden again.
It's the only downside to these marvellous drugs that those boffin chaps at Pfizer and Glaxo keep creating.
The quack says I'm immuno-suppressed, but I've never really taken much advice from a woman.
It would appear however, that if I get coughed on or touched up by the great unwashed, I do seem to inherit their filth rather regularly.
My encounter with the hoi polloi in Lowestoft's JobCentrePlus could only be described as " a lot of ill people with illnesses being ill all over other ill people".
I've no idea what I've contracted but I'm sure it's a symptom of the underclass.

So it got me thinking about this ruddy well-needed shake up of the whole benefits system.
Shirkers and idlers will always embrace a tickly throat, if a session on the sofa with 'Cash In The Attic' and a bag of Haribo are considered convalescing.
This will lead to further unemployment and an economy so far up the Swanee that it moors itself at Thessaloniki.

I propose to Mr Duncan Smith that those receiving income-related ESA (what we used to call the dole before Blair & Brown) go into the JobCentrePlus on one day, and those receiving contribution-based ESA (what we used to call Incapacity Benefit before Clegg & Cable) go into the JobCentrePlus, on an entirely different day.

The work-shy scroungers on the dole all receive FREE prescriptions (as well as dental, eyes & wigs) and therefore have no excuse when poorly.
They should be healthy & at work, or chucking-up their Lidl lunch at home.

Those of us who still have to pay for our prescriptions, seemingly due to paying N.I. subscriptions for many years, should have a one-on-one appointment with our Personal Adviser, who should be medically tested before each interview.
Contracting communicable diseases will not get any of us back to work.
Especially when we can ill afford the multiple £7-40s to combat them.

I commend this to the House, via the Daily Mail Letters page.


NEXT WEEK:
Why Most Americans Have Got It Right
http://www.butyoudontlooksick.com/articles/personal-essays/when-youre-not-sick-enough/