Dear so-called ‘Prime Minister’
Let me start by saying I did not vote for you and I remain confident that the current police investigation in South Thanet will uncover your vast web of electoral fraud and see you imprisoned as our rightful PM enters number 10 (I voted UKIP, and so did everybody I know!)
That said, my hearty congratulations on being returned as Prime Minister. At least you’re not one of those bloody lefties! And, credit it where it’s due, you have started out by dealing with the four horsemen of the left-wing apocalypse, which have blighted English life since the days of Kier Hardie; Europe, unions, human rights and foxes. I wish you every success in assuring that these things are, respectively, left, broken, repealed and left broken and peeled.
Unfortunately myself and the 4 million others who voted UKIP are today reduced to watching some of our chaps deliver a petition to you, with the added humiliation of having to share the stage with those awful Scotch, the green Australian lady and the Welsh lass who used to do the numbers on Countdown, whilst begging you to bring in an electoral system that would be a lot worse for you and a lot better for us. I don’t believe that even we in UKIP think that’s going to work, and we’re the ones who thought that banning puffs would reverse climate change.
What I’m asking is simply that you recognise that the 12% of the voters who voted UKIP account for 90% of the common sense in this country and heed us now when we warn you that a new and terrible evil is spreading like a plague over our fair nation. I refer, of course, to self-service checkouts in supermarkets. These robotic demons came to us as friends and many, myself included, were initially delighted at the prospect of no longer having to suffer the indignity of horny-handed Romanian check-out girls carelessly fingering our peaches, but how maddening these so-called technological marvels have turned out to be.
Shopping with the so-called wife last week at one of the better supermarkets (one of the ones that doesn’t hand out free food to the scrounging immigrants at the food bank) we decided to try using one of these machines. We may be in our 70s, but we consider ourselves to belong to the so-called ‘silver surfers’ and I’m a bit of a dab hand with those video-plus codes. Not to bore you with the details, as you’re a busy man, but the argument about whether my Daily Express constituted an ‘unexpected item in the bagging area’ or not got me into such a tizz that several people, doubtless single-parents, complained about my language and then about my aggressive response to them and, in the end, I had to be removed from the shop by the Iranian doctor who collects in the trolleys. As you can imagine this was an undignified situation for a golf club ex-president, such as myself.
Thus I find myself urging you, through the modern medium of the open letter, to focus not just on UKIP’s pre-election manifesto, but also to turn your Prime Ministerial eyes to getting rid of Morrison’s bloody self-so-called-service tills!