Politicians, Education and a little bit of Madness

Well friends and fellow Bloggers I’m feeling in a frivolous mood lately; I don’t know why but those new size 18 knickers have certainly released some tension.

Before I start, please don’t forget to read my previous post and enter my stupendous competition. Now both Eve’s Lungs and Onedia have raised concerns about the cost of posting the prizes. Let me assure you ladies and gents that I shall be able to afford it; I have worked out that if postage is approx £10 to distant shores if I save 50p out of my very generous allowance that Mr T gives me of £2.50p a week it will only take 20 weeks to accumulate enough pennies for the postage. With any luck the star prize winner will receive his/ her gift in time for Christmas! (The downside to this is that I will have to drop from 4 bars of Galaxy down to 3 a week but you know – where needs must.)

Now I must just recount a little story from Friday morning. I was bending over (yes, I know; a very worrying situation if you’re top heavy but unfortunately I’m not and with my general sturdiness I was rooted to the floor like a concrete post) looking in Master Jacob’s rucksack for his lunch box when naughty Master Benedict started pummelling my buttocks;

“I’m going to box your bottom mummy; your bottom is SO flexible!”

FLEXIBLE???? FLEXIBLE????

What kind of description is that?

Humph, being insulted by 7 year old is NOT a promising start to the morning. I think what he actually meant was “flabby” but (and I say this with some degree of pride) I’ve bought me boys up to talk proper like. None of this colloquial gibberish. Just the good old Queen’s English with perhaps (cough, cough) a little bit of colourful expression thrown in for good measure. (Yeah, you’re right – usually on The School Run.)

Now I had a little bit of a rant on Friday too … yes, it doesn’t happen often but I rang the School Transport Services and complained furiously and pronounced I was going to write to my MP. Why? Because I received a demand for £300 pounds. Yep that’s right; 300 smackers… and all because Master Samuel is 16 and is going onto higher education so he will no longer be entitled to free transport to school even though we live in a village.

This policy makes me laugh (in a sort of maniacal way) because the government has been discussing introducing compulsory education until the age of 18 - So I think I can safely say that this isn’t going to be a popular policy with those who aren’t the least interested in education anyway. Oh, here’s another thought; if you haven’t learnt to read and write by the time your sixteen another 2 years isn’t going to make much difference; unless of course the whole education system is rethought and delivers what it should do. So fat chance then. Although with all those lovely certificates that are issued is still looks like we’re all doing really well. Hooray!

Anyhow…back to that phone call; my blood was boiling, steam was coming out of my ears, the zip was bursting on my jeans (Well, it does that anyway but even more so.) and I was ready to KILL. (Oh yes, and the horns on my head weren’t that comfortable either.)

But you know what? I didn’t get a decent answer…. Nothing but complete indifference… nobody could care less if I have £300 pounds or not and whether I could actually get my son to school because everyone is so INDIFFERENT. Oh, yes and I’m “middle class”. Why, that means I must be rolling in cash; so much so that I can afford not only to support my family in the lap of luxury but also the rest of the entire country.

Needless to say without even a good argument to console me my Uzi fell limply to my side… doesn’t anyone care anymore, about anything??

Yep, Mrs T has finally had enough of this attitude particularly towards the middle classes and she is mad, mad, mad. I’m gonna get a saucepan, stick it on my head, hold a broom stick in one hand and my rolling pin in the other and march on London. To the Houses of Commons I will go and force feed my Spaghetti Bolognese to Mr Brown (Huh, I’d like to see him get out of that without messing his kilt up) AND I’m gonna stick my toilet brush up the Education Secretary’s backside just so he gets a good idea what else I have in store for him.

Yep, Mrs T who has been supplementing her children’s education to the tune of £190 a month is well and truly fed up. Hey, I’d like a holiday MR BROWN but guess what I’m buying my kids extra lessons because the education system is fundamentally FLAWED.

It’s time to for the middle classes to rise up and protest! In fact I think I’m going to launch my own electoral campaign and stand at the next General Election.

I call it “Let’s Put England back on the Map and some Money Back in Mrs T’s Wallet Society.” (But if you’ve got any other more workable suggestions please leave a comment and if they insinuate general incompetence of the present government it would certainly guarantee my deliberation.)

Here are some of my proposals;

1. Send all politicians back to school to experience the current state school system. (By the way they will have to walk there cos the bus service will be cancelled.) Yep, since most of our MPs have come from privileged backgrounds that should be a real eye opener. Whilst they sit arguing over whose turn it is to use the textbooks they can look forward to their school meal produced at a cost of about 35p per child. Yum, yum that lumpy mash potato is really rather delicious.


2. Force the Prime minister to stand in the corner of the House of Commons wearing a huge hat which has emblazoned on it;

“I’ve been a really, really silly boy and now Mrs T is going to make me suffer a vastly protracted and horrifyingly gruesome death.”

(Hmm... I think that one could be a real vote winner.)

3. Just for old times sake I’m gonna wipe that smile of Cherie Blair’s face by producing a law that says no MP, or their spouse may produce a book, diary, television show or lecture until at least 20 years after finishing their term of office. The punishment for breaking this code will be imprisonment in The London Dungeons with a tape of Alan Sugar and Gordon Ramsey repeatedly telling them they are a) fired and b) to you know what. (They may however perform…cookery recipes… for the amusement of the general population.)

Oh cripes, Mrs T was thinking something else there; oh she is being vitriolic today! (That’s what happens when you overdose on 90% proof dark chocolate.) And now that I’ve thought about it… Cherie Blair…cookery recipes.….. UGH!!!!!!! My mind is stupefyingly numb with the sheer horror!

(Note to self; get a grip on yourself Mrs T that was way too naughty. Write 100 lines; “I must NOT insult Cherie Blair, I must NOt insult Cherie Blair, I must N…o…t insult Cherie Blair….I must insult Cherie Blair……I must insult Cherie Blair…..)


4. To continue… I propose that all politicians be strapped to a hospital gurney for at least 24 hours and left in a hospital corridor to wonder whether they are dying or not. If they aren’t and manage to exit the hospital without contracting a deadly strain of MRSA I propose that they have all their teeth pulled out using some rusty old pliers because of the lack of availability of NHS dentists. (Whilst sitting in front of a bar of Green and Black’s Organic Chocolate placed just a fraction out of their reach…. Oh lord, I am cruel!)

5. All politicians must have a lie detector strapped to their chests which will be remotely connected to my laptop. In the event of them lying a large flashing icon will appear on my screen showing a thumb in the down position and a message will speak which says “ Political incompetence detected, abort term of office.” Whereupon, I will press the destruct button (The exclamation key) whilst casually eating a praline and sipping sherry from a finely cut crystal glass.

Hmm, I fear Mrs T is enjoying the prospect of absolute power rather too much.

Perhaps she should talk about something else for a while……before she starts lying herself. (Which, of course, is something she never, ever does.)

By the way, did I tell you I’m an excellent cook?

Now here’s some exciting news; yesterday Mr T and I celebrated our 17th wedding anniversary! Yes, yes, I know this means I only got married when I was 12 but I’ve always been a bit of a rebel. Blimey, old Mr T in his long johns is a lucky guy having a hot young chick like me! With any luck he’ll keel over soon and I’ll be a hot AND rich young chick.

OW!!! THWACK!!! (Sound of reverberating flesh.)

Hmm, the punishment for being too cheeky about Mr T is very, very severe.

Crikey, you would have thought after 17 years I’d have learnt by now.

Anyhow, what did we do to celebrate yesterday? Well…we went on a tour of the new Wembley Stadium with my boys’ football (soccer) club. Grrrreatt! You know those latrines were really rather fascinating. And that grass? You know what? It was…green. Yep, it was absolutely riveting.

Ah, I’m being a tad cruel; I really rather enjoyed it; especially as Mrs T is really rather fond of a bit of ball play from time to time.

Anyhow, on the subject of football, I think I should inform you that I am at present putting together a CD of footballing songs which we will soon be available for very little money from your nearest charity shop. Here are some of the tracks;

Another Window Bites the Dust. (Rock) by Queen

Another Football over the Wall (progressive Rock) by Pink Floyd

Oops I did it again (over the Neighbour’s Wall), (Rap version) by Britney Spears.

Ten Green Footballs sitting on the Neighbour’s Grass, (Traditional) Anonymous.

The Sound of Footballs (Musical) by Julie Andrews and the Von Trapp Family.

Last Christmas I gave you my Football (Traditional Xmas) by George (I used to fancy him until I knew it wasn’t just footballs I was interested in) Michaels and three other talent less people.

Gimme, Gimme, Gimme a Football after Midnight (Sick perversion) by Abba featuring Gary Linekar.

I’m not in Love (with a Football) (Classic love) by 10cc featuring …Gary Linekar.

You’re the one Football that I want (Even sicker perversion) by Olivia Newton John and… Gary Linekar.

I wanna hold your Foo…oo…otball (Sixties shite) by the Beatles and you’ve guessed it… Gary Linekar.

Let me entertain you (with some Footballs) (Raunchy rock) by Robbie Williams.

Two Little Boys had Two Wooden Footballs (and boy did their toes hurt) (Traditional Folk) by Rolf Harris and a psychotic parent.

Tears of a Clown (more sixties shite) by Smokey Robinson and Paul Gascoigne.

It’s Raining Footballs, Halleluiah! (Pathetic cover version) by Geri Halliwell.

Don’t Cry for me Sven Goran Eriksson… the truth is I’m only after your money (Duet) by Elaine Paige and Nancy Dell’ Olio.

F-F-F-F- Football (Classic stutter) by Paul Hardcastle.

I’ve got a Brand New Combine harvester… and I’ll swap it for a football (Just for the hell of it) by the Tribute Worzels featuring, Gary Linekar, Alan Hanson and Mark Lawrenson.

I appreciate some of these songs might go unrecognised by some of you folks abroad who don’t perhaps have the same dedication to football as we British. (Oh yes... apart from Mr Intrepidideas who seems to have a fetish for 80s British music including Duran Duran …to which I say…someone pass me the sick bucket.) So apologies if these marvellous songs pass you by.

Now if anyone would like to add to this collection please leave a comment. In the meantime I’d like to dedicate this CD not in the true artistic fashion to a long lost love (or possibly a prepubescent crush) but to Master Sy and Dear Floogie being as they're English and they're blokes. (Well I hope so …but you never know these days…)

In the meantime friends I leave you with this thought…

Should I go for the chocolate covered digestives or the chocolate chip cookies? Hmmm… tricky…maybe I should sample both…….

Yours,

Mrs T.

Ps..Before you all think I'm incrediably shallow, I realise that I don't really have much to whinge about and that millions of people the world over would probably like to be in my shoes. However, as a premenopausal woman with a severe personality disorder and a love of naughtiness it is my duty to point out the failings of the government, especially Mr Brown.( But I try to be subtle about it.)

Copyright Jane Turley 2008