prologue to The Book of You’re Lucky to Have a Job

  1. In the land of UK lived a man who was lucky to have a job. His name was Bob. He was a salt-of-the-earth, straight-up, say-it-how-it-is kinda geezer. Feared The Lord Tory and avoided Socialism in all its demonic forms. Supported West Ham, for his sins.
  2. Bob had a big family. Not Catholic, just careless.
  3. He was a butcher. Owned a nice house. Was doing alright, as it goes.
  4. His kids had all left home, but they lived local and still came round for a Sunday roast and what have you. Which was nice.
  5. One day, some City Angels and a dodgy geezer called Stan came before The Lord Tory. And The Lord Tory said Alright? And Stan and the angels said Not bad, as it goes. You? And The Lord Tory said ‘Can’t complain. And if I did, who’d listen? And Stan said Tell me about it, mate. And The Lord Tory said See that guy down there? That’s Bob. He’s well solid, Bob is. Puts in the hours, no matter what. You won’t find a worker like him.
  6. I bet you anything you like we can turn his sorry ass around, said Stan. You’re on! said The Lord Tory. Your loss, my friend. You can do whatever you like short of Covid.
  7. So Stan crashed the markets. Made energy so expensive Bob’s kids all froze. Bankrupted Bob’s business. Cut his benefits. Increased the cost of living so he couldn’t eat properly. Undermined the Health Service so Bob had to wait hours for an ambulance when he was having a stress-related heart attack. Sold off anything that wasn’t nailed down. Turned the public purse into a cashpoint for foreign interests. Corrupted the government. Passed repressive legislation to keep it that way. Supported brutal regimes internationally, then bragged about being world leaders in everything with absolutely nothing to back it up, to the extent that the country Bob loved became an international laughing stock, or an illustration of what not to do. Drove Bob insane reading about it all on social media.
  8. Till Bob sank to his knees in the street as the bailiffs repossessed his house, wailing and crying, tearing at his beard and his clothes, saying: ‘The Lord Tory gave, and The Lord Tory has taken away! May the name of The Lord Tory be praised!’
  9. At which point The Lord Tory smacked his hands together and sayeth: See what I mean, boys? Lovely jubbly! C’mon you horny red devils – cough up…

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