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A Serious Complaint

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matt:
its outragous

part time burglars indeed

im not part time, im full time, today i just climbed through a window and took a 32" widescreen TV, DVD player and surround sound kit

the best part of it is, i cleaned the windows, and will be calling in thursday evening to collect my 11 quid

11 quid and a TV system, what more can i ask

---- for the record, the above was a JOKE, i will only get paid 10 quid ----

NB. the above was alos a joke, i am a professional window cleaner and DO NOT steal TV's, especially the BUSH TV they had  ;D ;D

Old_Master:
The Article is Satire another name for a joke!

--- Quote ---A Chill wind blows through the trophy-lined corridors of Beelzebub Mansions, due mainly to the fact that we are entering December without a roof over our heads. Have I mentioned that we've had the builders in of late?

It has long been the ambition of the Beelzebub dynasty to rebuild the transept of the East Wing, so cruelly destroyed by a rabble of Roundheads in 1643 after Colonel Bartholomew Beelzebub unwisely offered their wenches a job at his prototype lap-dancing establishment.

And now, thanks to an extremely profitable booze cruise excursion and the soaraway success of my man Whittaker's EasyCat business (release stray cats with 0898 numbers on their tags and then wait for old ladies to phone up), we have finally amassed sufficient funds to fulfil this family obligation.

It also helped that Mrs Beelzebub required a new Shoe Room, her own shrine to Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik, after running out of space in the old one. I was happy enough with this proposal and planned to install a bar, a juke box, a 42-inch plasma TV and a full-size snooker table in the space that formerly housed her collection. And maybe a five-a-side pitch as well.

I wrote a couple of weeks back about how difficult it is to find qualified tradesmen in the building game now that Mr Blah has encouraged every thick kid to demand their own place at university.

(Where, instead of learning a valuable trade, they spend three years picking their noses and watching Countdown and then drop out just before their exams.) Let me tell you, the real difficulty starts once the so-called tradesmen have been located. In recent weeks the East Wing has had nincompoops of varying degrees of stupidity swarming all over it, each one claiming to know what they were doing while singularly failing to achieve anything of note. It has not been a happy experience for anyone concerned.

Mrs B, who was overseeing the extension of the kitchens with a hawk-like eye and a ruthless spirit level, had ordered in sufficient limestone and granite to build a replica of Fred Flintstone's quarry.

(We will not mention the gold-plated Aga that arrived on a crane. Well, I presume that it's gold-plated, having just written a tear-inducing cheque.) She, quite reasonably, expected the floors and worktops to be installed to a reasonable standard. Reasonable standard does not, in her book, mean cracked, scratched and generally buggered up.

Similarly the carpets for the hallway and spiral tower. Woven from wool plucked by hand from specially-reared Merino sheep, these do not come cheap. It would have been marginally less expensive to have made a carpet out of used fivers. It would surely have been reasonable then to have them fitted so that they were adjacent to the skirting board in places. And that the fitter might remove his muddy boots before commencing his task.

Never, in the history of human conflict, have I come across so much indolence, idiocy and idleness. And if dumb insolence was a civil offence, a certain Welsh plumber would now be doing seven years with no parole.

Deciding to meet fire with more fire, Mrs B has taken to addressing the mumbling, drooling assembly each morning in stentorian tones, threatening dire consequences should another spanner come into contact with a piece of Spode or welding torch set fire to a Whistler. Not since the Blessed Dame Margaret's time have the working classes been so abused.

It has had an effect. One by one, they've all cleared off - probably to go to university to watch Countdown for three years. Consequently, we have no roof and the transept of the East Wing looks rather worse than it did when the Roundheads had finished. It's going to be a long, hard winter.

IT'S NOT as if I could even attempt to finish some of the work myself. In another Nanny State missive, we are informed that from January 1, any electrical work we might desire to carry out in the privacy of our own homes will have to be inspected by a Man From The Council or will have to be undertaken by a qualified electrician.

For a start, this is just a thieves' charter. They already try to charge you £1,000 for installing a gold-plated Aga; now it's going to be £100 for changing the fuse on the vibrating foot spa. The alternative is to submit yourself to a brown-coated, clipboard-carrying jobsworth, who will suck his pencil, shake his head, condemn the property and also probably shop you to the Powers That Be for being in possession of a lit cigarette during daylight hours.

And anyway, isn't electrical DIY a kind of Darwinesque natural selection process? Those who know what they're doing survive and prosper; those who don't eventually fry and spend the rest of eternity haunting the high-voltage junction box section of B &Q.
--- End quote ---

Old_Master:
Part 2 of the satirical piece

--- Quote ---I KNOW it's hard to believe, but there are some kids so stupid that they can't even get a place at one of Mr Blah's special thicko universities. These youths go off to be window cleaners.

But even there, with only a bucket of water, a ladder and a chamois leather to co-ordinate, they're not safe from the degree-dispensing NuLabour social engineers.

I am indebted to a reader of this column for sending me the following advert for . . . wait for it . . . the British Window Cleaning Academy where, for a small fee of £95, aspiring chamois-wielders can take a one-day intensive course resulting in the award of a Level 2 NVQ in Window Cleaning. No, really.

"Learn to squeegee like a pro, " they urge, promising detailed instruction in "Waterfed Pole Use and Basic Health and Safety".

Now call me elitist, but how thick do you have to be to need an intensive course in window cleaning? "Dip rag in bucket, rub window, do not fall off ladder" seems to be about it.

And anyway, what are window cleaners apart from off-duty burglars? The whole thing is probably just a sinister front for teaching criminals the latest house-breaking techniques. I think Officer Dibble should take a look.

SO WHAT of my man Whittaker, I hear you ask. Well, he's still living in a bush in the Lower Meadow, naked apart from camouflage paint and a bandana, but there have been signs of improvement in his condition of late.

Mrs B bumped into him while she was setting fire to a joiner's van the other morning and he told her that he was going to make an effort to adjust his lifestyle, which, seeing as he was skinning a rabbit with his bare teeth at the time, might be a good idea.

Yes, he might have been driven semi-loony by the Government's decision to ban hunting with dogs, but democracy had spoken and he would do his best to comply. So he was going to try one of the suggested alter natives.

I should have know it would end in tears. Two days later I saw him trotting up the drive on his trusty steed wearing fishnet stockings and a mini skirt, and with two grapefruit thrust down a second-hand Wonderbra. A jaunty feather hat sat above his hideously made-up face. He looked like a cross between Les Dawson and Paul Burrell.

His bottom lip, painted blood red (with blood, probably) quivered with humiliation. A tear rolled down a rouged cheek. He'd been sent home early. . . from the drag hunting.

I WOULD have mentioned this last week, had I not been busy bailing Mrs B out of the nick after an unfortunate bricklayer/trowel incident, but how can Mr Blah have the sheer gall to turn up at Ken Bigley's memorial service when he can't be arsed to attend the funeral of a single soldier who died in pursuit of his politically-motivated jaunt to Iraq?

Do you think the self-serving, hand-wringing, egotistical creep can actually sleep at night?

The views of Mr Beelzebub are purely personal and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the Editor or staff of this newspaper, of anyone who doesn't think Paul Burrell needs a kick in the Jacobs, of anyone who's ever taken a lie detector test on Trisha , or of anyone who doesn't fervently hope that most of the 3,000 jobs to be axed by the BBC come from local radio. It's the broadcast version of the Valium trolley in an old folks' home
--- End quote ---

Old_Master:

Part 3 see above

Thank God
We are not Estate Agents, Builders, Police officers or Traffic Wardens or we would be prompted into writing complaints all the time to the press, television producers and other forms of media every time they produced a satirical piece.

marcinos:
off -duty burglars?
so why then they let us in into their 750k houses and dont even bother to check while we leaving?
it is trust ,isnt?

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