Massive deprivation and millions falling into poverty I can live with, but the price of petrol is beyond a joke

By Francesca Johnson

PAYING £100 to fill up your car should be a wake-up call to politicians. You’re alienating key voters like me who don’t give a shit about hardship so long as it happens to other people.

The bleeding hearts keep banging on about families who can’t afford to turn the oven on. But who’s highlighting the sad look on my face when I’m filling up my Range Rover? I need that car to get to aerobics and the Sainsbury’s in easy walking distance.

All these money-saving tips are patronising rubbish. How am I meant to use less petrol? I can’t go to work on public transport because it’s full of muggers and dirty people. I feel itchy just thinking about them.

Apparently poor children are crying because they’re hungry at school. You think that’s bad, kiddoes? When I’m paying for petrol I feel like crying too. Crying for all the white wine and garden furniture I could have spent it on.

It’s time for the government to act. I’d like to see an emergency payment to cope with the immediate crisis, say £800 for a Volkswagen Polo, going up to £2,500 for a Range Rover Evoque. These things guzzle petrol, even if you’re nipping to the supermarket for just one onion.

In the longer term there should be a windfall tax on the poor. Many of them don’t have the expense of running a car, so it’s only fair some of their benefits should go to me.

Without this sort of decisive action I’m sorry Boris, or possibly Keir, you’ve lost my vote. Utterly selfish people like me deserve help. You don’t find us demanding better trains or hospitals. I haven’t got cancer, so I literally don’t see the point of cancer treatment.  

So let’s ignore these people being made homeless and help the forgotten victims of petrol price rises – people like me and my family. Or, if push comes to shove, just me.

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I'm in such deep shit I'm launching policies to appeal to benefits scum

OF all the low points this year, this has to be the lowest. Launching housing policies explicitly targeted at scum claiming benefits.

The worst of the worst, the bottom-feeding filth who are barely functioning economic units, the ones we’d ship to Rwanda if they weren’t inconveniently white. They’re my new electoral demographic.

‘There’s loads of these worthless f**ks in the Red Wall,’ Dowden tells me. ’They voted for Brexit. They voted for you. Now they’re wondering why everything’s gone to shit.

‘So we’ve come up with this. It won’t work. Inflation’s ten per cent, none of them will be able to save even close enough for a deposit and there aren’t any houses anyway. But it’s Thatcherite.’

All of which explains why I’m in Blackpool, the nation’s prolapsed arsehole, wearing the old hard hat and telling an audience of absolute dregs that they are my government’s priority.

These people can’t even earn a f**king wage. Their cretinous choices of career, partner and place of birth, and subsequent deprivation, are their own fault. And they’re my last hope.

I should be standing behind that podium giving an incendiary speech about wiping these lowlifes out. Withdrawing every benefit. Taking their homes and children. Locking them up in prison ships and letting them drift out into the Atlantic. Good Tory stuff.

Instead I’m out here pandering to the vermin I normally only see getting bailiff visits on Channel 5. Surely this is rock bottom. I can’t sink lower. Until next week.