Send A Shirt To Gordon Campaign

The Rt Hon James Gordon Brown MP
10 Downing Street
LONDON
SW1A 2AA

Dear Gordon
Budget 2009
Please forgive the over-familiarity in referring to you as ‘Gordon’ – I felt that this was slightly more acceptable than referring to you as ‘thieving cnut’.

You will be delighted to hear that I have already analysed in detail the minutiae of your Government’s Budget, delivered by your darling Alistair. All I can say is, ‘thank you’.
Thank you for shafting my generation, who will now be paying to you and your like every penny that we earn between now and our retirement, irrespective of how hard we work, how much we try to save, how many jobs we create, or how much wealth we generate for the country.

Thank you for pissing all over my children. They, too, will be unlikely to live long enough to see the repayment of the £1.4 trillion of debt that you have borrowed. Borrowing money is a funny thing. You borrow, you spend, and you pay interest on what you borrowed. And you then pay the money back. Yes, pay it back. It doesn’t come free, for ever, no strings; and you can’t just print more and more and more. You (or more correctly, the generations which follow) must eventually pay it back. You prick.

Thank you for continuing to pay huge swathes of my money to work-shy slobs. By that I do not, of course, mean those that sit on their fat arses watching Cash in the Attic day after day. No, the real ‘work-shy slobs’ that you waste my money on are the armies of public sector layabouts that have never done a real day’s work in their lives. But moan like nothing else about how they are over-worked, under-paid, and under-valued. Well of course they are under-valued; it’s because they do bugger all work in the first place. Sitting about doing hee haw, just waiting on their fat, guaranteed, taxpayer-funded, pension at 52. And did your darling Alistair do anything about it? Bollocks he did.

Thank you for bankrupting our once-great country. See when you need to give the IMF a call, just let me know. I’ll drive over to your grace-and-favour gaff in Downing Street (which I pay for) in my car, which I finance out of the pennies left after I pay you fortunes in income tax and national insurance – a car for which I pay you VAT, road tax, insurance premium tax, fuel tax (and probably a rubber and paint tax if you thought you could get away with it) – and drive you to the IMF myself. I have in the boot a long piece of rope, a bag of cement, and some rather tasty sweeties. Don’t be afraid.

You know, Gordon, we have a lot in common. You are Scottish, so am I; you are a member of the Kirk, so am I; you are a Bluenose (despite your misguided attempts to hide it), so am I. Where perhaps we differ is that you are a podgy, baggy-eyed, lying, immoral, closet homosexual – thankfully I can only lay claim to the podginess. I trust that your convenient marriage to Sarah does not interfere with your previously frequent jaunts to the leather bars of Amsterdam.

I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I am enclosing my shirt. That’s right – the shirt off my back. You might as well have it now as you are going to get it, come hell or high water, anyway. I do hope it fits and is not too whiffy. Not that an arrogant, ignorant, incompetent runt like you would care.
Peace and love, you turd.