Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Now wash your hands please

As my closest fans will know, I recently passed the landmark indicative of being six sevenths on the way to my allotted term in this body. I enjoyed a quiet celebration, once the super models, Hollywood sirens and the duchess of Cornwall had been fought off, the interviews for the Tatler and “Twilight Twinks” given, and gallons of Mrs Heckmondwike’s Herbal Infusion consumed.

I naively expected that achieving this age would bring me some recognition of my status, and there would be some modest financial benefits coming my way. I believed that the caring, loving and compassionate government we all didn’t elect last year would be keen to enlist my support by, at the minimum, sending informative and interesting information my way.

I was soon disabused of this idea. Have no fear, dear reader, my spirits have not been dampened. My cheery disposition is unaffected. I can still be observed skipping gaily and energetically down the byways of North East Hampshire, a smile on my lips and a cheery greeting exchanged with fellow residents. But a lesser being may not have survived the disappointment of opening the first official missive that arrived after my birthday. What, you may be keen to discover, were the contents of this communication? Well, I might reply, they were these. I received a pamphlet outlining the danger of bowel cancer. “Happy birthday, Scurra!”, they exclaimed, “you are evidently not much longer for this earth, here’s our first guess at the disgusting ailment that might provide the finishing nudge towards the eternal abyss.”

In short, those nice people in charge want me to send them some excrement via the royal mail. I had some Conservative party leaflets nearby, and was tempted to forward them, but then considered how thoroughly miserable it must be to have a job in the postroom at the screening programme headquarters without subjecting them to vile photographs of slimy Dave. Turds not Tories is their motto.

This is our fine Big Society. Serve your time, work for most of your active life completing (or not) meaningless tasks, pay your taxes, contribute to the economy, and, just as you round the final bend and the finishing line is in sight, we will invite you to shit in a bag. 


Richard said...

Shit in a bag? You were lucky. We never had bags.

Scarlet Blue said...

What else do they want... blood???

Z said...

Happy birthday.

Vicus Scurra said...

Thank you, Z, but I am in mourning for the earlier comments that blogger killed. Maybe they will come back some day.

broken biro said...

Brings whole new meaning to the phrase 'going through the motions'.

Dave said...

I seem to have missed this post. I shall blame Blogger's 24-hour loss of all records.

I don't think I need add anything, need I?

Vicus Scurra said...

BB - if you are in BUPA they send someone round to do it for you.
Dave. No.

broken biro said...

Does this make you an Enema of the State?