17 August 2017
Lazy Bastards
A working man’s revenge.
By Chin Chin
Bastards, Corbynist-Tory-fascist-Marxist-racist-foreign bastards, have you heard what they’ve done? Who? Well, them of course. Those ghastly subhuman pieces of animal excrement who call themselves the editors of the Shaw Sheet. Haven’t you seen the announcement? There it is on page 1 – a two-week holiday in the second half of August. What on earth for? To rest the grubby talents of those who write the “comment” pieces! As if any of them had any talent to rest. We all know that they just produce padding for Chin Chin and the other “features” articles. Those are the ones that get the readers out of bed on a Thursday morning. Who really reads the obviously second rate observations on current news that have the cheek to appear above them on the Contents page?
Look, I’m not an unreasonable guy. I can see that writing probably doesn’t come easy to them, and they probably get a bit out of breath keeping up with me and the features writers. Like infantry marching with cavalry, if you see what I mean. If the editors had come to me in the proper way and mentioned, over a glass of something pleasant served with the odd tug of the forelock, that the comment writers were struggling a bit, then I’d have been the first to say that I wasn’t in the least surprised and to agree to a pause to let them revive. But did they hell? No, Chin Chin was not asked. Never mind that he holds the whole ragbag production together. Never mind that he is the one journalist of international calibre that they have got. No, the Editors write comment, so, as soon as they and their precious friends are a little tired, it’s off with the presses and away on vacation. What a set of lazy bums!
It’s like being back in the 70s, isn’t it? The days before Mrs Thatcher, when the country was dominated by closed shops and the National Dock Labour Scheme. Remember how it was? “Demarcation dispute? Go on strike!”, “Need longer loo breaks? Work-to-rule!”, “Feeling a bit tired? Demand a holiday!” Well, it has all started again and at the Shaw Sheet too. The question is what to do about it.
True, yet again we have a female Prime Minister which I suppose is a start, but she really isn’t up to Mrs T’s standards on this sort of thing. To whom, then, can I turn? If I went to Cable he would chunter on about not interfering with the press, and Corbyn, although charming enough, would probably suggest we move to Venezuela. That’s just nonsense. Murdoch may have moved “The Times” to Wapping, but how do you move a magazine which has no offices? Anyway, Venezuela is outside the M25. No, there’s no point in looking to any the British political parties for help.
What about over the Channel, though? The new French President has promised to clean up continental working practices. Perhaps he would like to try a test run here. What would he think of lazy editors betraying their readership by taking a couple of weeks off? You’re right. He wouldn’t think much of it at all, so I am going to ask him to intervene. Now, how do I get the number of the Élysée? I know, Directory Enquiries.
“‘Ello’Ello. Le numero de Palais Élysée, s’il vous plait”
“What?”
“Le maison du President Macron.”
“Who?”
“Look, my man, there’s no need to patronise me by speaking in English. What is that? Oh, you are English. What is the point of calling it International Directory Enquiries if you answer in English? Pretentious twerps!”
“What? No, I certainly didn’t say that. Just practicing my Hungarian. Oh I see, well it is an international number I want: Élysée? No, I quite understand that there may be a lot of girls with that name in France but it’s the palace I’m after. You know, the one in Paris. You can put me through? Wonderful.”
“Hello, êtes-vous the Élysée Palais? Je veux speaker avec M le President de les working practices. Je suis grand journalist Anglais, fort important. What, you speak English? Well, I think he will want to speak to me. No? What about the First Lady then? Ah yes, I had forgotten, she is still unofficial. One of the presidential maitresses, perhaps? Non, I said maitresses not mattresses; not the same thing at all.”
“Click”.
Swine, they have rung off. That is certainly the full macron glacé and no mistake. Well, the politicians are clearly useless so how can I get my revenge? I know. I could find out where the editors are going and go there too, staying in a slightly better room and supping at a nicer table. That shouldn’t be a problem, but I have to be having a better time too. That means I need to be there with a femme fatale and I don’t really know many of them. There’s that Dora in accounts of course but she ends every sentence with the words “you see”, even when I quite palpably don’t. She might look alright but night after night of sparkling conversation seems unlikely.
The trouble is that I don’t know many other women but I’m not going be to put off by that. It’ll be a new adventure going abroad and I must expect to innovate. Actually, I know exactly how to do it.
“Dring, dring. Hello, operator. You know that you mentioned that you have numbers for lots of girls in France called Élysée……”
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