There's no business like Show business

It’s not easy being a celebrity dears.

As you know in recent months my life has been a heady whirlwind of radio appearances, interviews and recently my move into television as the "Now,Then, Britain" newest roving reporter.

I hardly need tell you all the story of my rise from humble housewife to major star but it is a wonderful story of hardwork and determination, of the cream rising to the top and it is an inspiring tale of triumph over adversity.   So I will repeat it here for those who enjoy a tale of a rather humble star of our little Isle that is Great Britain.

It all started with one of my typical no nonsense letters to the paper where, as is my way, from my position of wealth and power, I gave my opinion on something that neither affected me nor which I had more than a rudimentary knowledge of. 

In this case it was about a family of benefit cheats who were draining the hard working tax payer funded system.

As you no doubt know, I was hailed a hero for my letter, and given the nick name “Mrs Mountable, Massive Matriarch” then as word spread and it made the nationals the children of the family were taken into care and all the windows in their house were smashed by bricks bearing the word “SCUM”

People feel very strongly about this subject and WHO CAN BLAME THEM.

Tiresomely for me it transpired that they weren’t claiming benefits at all. They both were working two jobs in order to pay for their seven children some of whom also had jobs and one of whom, irritatingly has some heart condition or other. 

But by this time I was a celebrity and bringing my truth and light to a twice monthly presenting job on “Now, Then, Britain” Show, which as you all know has me meeting the great unwashed in the local community, weeding out a target and leading a mob of their neighbours to their door where we confront them with the facts on camera. Then viewers phone into to vote who gets tarred and feathered and the runners up get an ASBO. It's hugley popular ratings wise. People love justice you see.

Anyway the original benefit cheat  family (The TV Company solicitors wish to stress the family  were absolved of all charges) were too busy fighting to regain custody of their children, to bother trying to sue me. Not that they could afford to anyway, so fortunately it died a death. Rather like the wife, who had a heart attack from all the stress.

Anyway let's not dwell on that. The point is that no publicity is bad publicity and the producers of "Now, Then, Britain" saw me as just the, 'shooting from the hip PC hating', presenter they were looking for.

The British Public know what they like and they like what they know, and my dears they definitely liked me and before I knew where I was, I was a star.

Little old humble, kind hearted, straight talking, no nonsense, feminist fulminating, scrounger deriding, benefit cheat exposing, communist loathing, Tory Trumpeting, true blue, me.

I’m now the nations favourite truth talking, internet sensation and to be honest, it was about time.

And I’ll tell you for why.

I uphold the greatest aspect of all Great Britain’s greatest aspects. Free Speech.

I met with my newly acquired Management Company for a 'brainstorming session' recently and it was an eye opener, I can tell you that for nothing.

“Hey Mrs M” said Ben online reputation management guru, part time DJ, skate boarding champion and stunt kite demonstrator par excellence “We need to talk branding”

I wasn’t familiar but I waited patiently.

“Ok so the deal as I see it with you is exposure.  I’m thinking 'if you want to crack some mother fucking eggs you better be making a rationalised mother fucking omelette' You get me?”

No but I ignored that.

He unveiled his ten-point strategy. 

“We need to totally maximise your appeal. You’re a mother and a housewife and we need to sex that straight to the heart of the public. Are you with me? BUT we also need to maximise your compassion as a mother fucking priority, because and this is crucial, that way you can say and do whatever the fuck you like and still get away with it. Like with that family of benefit cheats (Again completely cleared of all charges and our sympathy goes to the family at this difficult time) Now how would you feel about getting a facelift on live TV?”

My familiarity with his concept was as far removed as he appeared to be, from a good shave and a decent haircut. However I remained stoically silent.

“I’ll tell you what I told all my other clients the future is compassion, compassion, compassion because that is now where the really big money lies. I’m thinking “Thadcher” but with a heart as big as the queues for the food banks. We need to talk “stradegy” and we need to talk “charidee”. You’re on “Twidder” right?”

I nodded yet found his pronunciation of the letter T, as the letter D odd.

“Well that is A-FUCKING- MAZING. what are you seventy, eighty? Doesn't "madder" forget age it's just a mother fucking number, Social networking is where it’s at now. 
We get to control your online reputation. Get to the people. Straight to the people and mother fucking DO IT NOW.

Get to those bastards, before your competition does do, you know?. Change the online conversation, you get me?  Because those dull Twats who AREN’T talking about you NEED to be TALKING ABOUT YOU? YOU GET ME?

 Someone’s writing a shitty blog? We manage it. Fucked up PC language wise? We manage it. Have you ever saved a life? Prevented a crime? Performed open-heart surgery on a cross channel ferry with nothing but a crochet hook and memories of an episode of Holby City to reference? Well you mother fucking will now because. We MANAGE it.

 We flood the mother fucking online conversational traffic with those little gems until the mother fucking masses are wanking themselves into a repetitive strain injury. YOU GET ME???”

This last was repeatedly punctuated by an annoying and repeated sniff, which I assumed meant he had both an adenoid condition and a nanny who hadn’t reminded him that Master Handkerchief was his dearest friend.

“I see, “ I said not seeing at all but wishing I'd brought my breath mints to offer him, or at least my miniature fan.

“Let’s get you allied to tragedy ASAP. Know any unfortunates?” His assistant Elspeth coughed loudly.  Ben eyed her wildly “Oh yeah… I fucking mean know any disableds? It's just disability is so in, since the paralympics it's really hot? And so now? Compassion wise? I mean don't bother with the adults unless they're a paralympian no offence but no- one wants to see that, but if you could find a child BINGO. Mischief mother fucking managed negative benefit cheat family wise (Completely absolved of all charges and again apologies and deepest sympathies) You get me?"

Rather fortunately for everyone my friend Susan has a handicapped “grandchild” and so I asked them all to have lunch with me at the photographers. When they arrived, I explained there was no lunch but I would so love to have a photo with them all. Except that when I said "all" that didn't include Susan and the child's mother.

It's all very awkward but I must be honest dears.

As darling Piers is a Tory Councillor sadly on occasion we have to meet the public who are like this and although they have my pity, one doesn't like to prolong these conversations. 

Sooner or later they start to complain or they start to tell you their stories.

You can barely finish explaining about the fabulous celebrity bash-wise you’ve been to or recount a hilarious Amanda Holden themed mix up baguette-wise; before they plough into some dull tale of benefits or pain management or the such like.

Also they just make having a good laugh so much more difficult when they're around.The numbers of people we are allowed to openly laugh at is diminishing by the day, dears.
Ben has shown me the list now.
Fortunately there are still some who the nation permits us to mock and  If I want to laugh at the disabled I will, but not to their faces because they get so annoyed.

As I say, I don’t like to complain we needed to find a disabled child to limit the damage of those scroungers (Again totally exhonerated), after the mother died (Deepest sympathy) so up Susan pitched with little Sophie, and the child's awful mother.

Sophie’s mother, I forget her name, looked like she needed a decent night's sleep and definitely needed to be taken down a peg or two. People like her are really nothing in the grand scheme of things, yet think they can instruct the rest of us, need reminding who is the real power in this country. 

She began pleasantly enough knowing her place and not bothering me unless spoken to first, but then as our time together wore on, she started speaking to me at will.

She took a very dim view of my thorough knowledge of diversity. When I asked a harmless question about whether or not Sophie was likely to bite me and if so whether she had been recently vaccinated against Tetanus, she was incredibly rude.

And it went from bad to worse as I realised this woman was simply not shutting up and kept bothering me incessantly with her opinions. As if they matter to me.  

Her job was to show up, get the child photographed with me, which is actually doing her a huge favour, then as Ben put it in his crude, Olde Worlde Vernacular "Fuck OFF"

Eventually we got there. We managed to wrestle a wonderful photo-op of me as mother-earth against all odds and the child was finally still enough, to make me look interested. The mother had been holding it’s favourite toy Thomas the Tank engine, out of shot and predictably took a loudly dim view of my helpfully suggesting using gaffer tape to ensure the child remained in it’s place.

You simply can’t say anything these days.  

The mother really was an odd sort of person.

When she wasn’t crying that Sophie was in her strange opinion “being amazing” and how great it was that we "were all doing this", as if we cared; she was holding forth on her opinions on everything from the government, to hate crime (whatever that means) to disability benefits. When we took a short break and I clicked my fingers at Elspeth, indicating I was ready for my Daily Mail and a latte, the woman utterly broke with the pre-explained protocol and sat beside me telling me how awful the Daily Mail is for hounding benefit claimants.The very idea. 

When she began to lecture me on the Holocaust and the treatment of disableds I’m very afraid dears, I had, had my fill. So I raised a hand and explained that if she was going to continue with this, I was going to be sick.

I mean honestly why not simply ignore these things? Why people have to be so determined to be offended by every little thing is beyond me. And who on earth wants to know about that part of history? 

We know everything we need to know about disabled people these days, thank you. 

Most of them as I've learnt now are faking their conditions for benefits. 

She was also furious and raised her voice to me when I suggested that if we returned to the good old days of institutions. then they wouldn’t be out and about getting friends who beat them up in the first place, would they? I have a right to express my opinion. She had no right to disagree with that.

Very thin skinned woman that one and I'm not at all entirely sure completely stable, because eventually I lost my temper and put her straight on a few things which she definitely needed pointing out. It really was for her own good.

She looked at me as though for the first time said "Oh I see now" and started crying.

I've no idea how she expected me to respond. I was saved her boring answer and instead turned my back, as we all should on attention seekers and told Sophie’s grandma Susan about Ben’s determination to get me on the Jonathan Ross show. Oddly she appeared not to hear.

Anyway “Brand Mountable”  ploughed on to the best of all our abilities, which in little Sophie’s case was tiresomely small. Unless you count screaming as ability and I definitely don’t.

My necessarily “compassion-close” proximity to the child was much harder for me than her. Ben had insisted that it was great for the “whole, image-visualisation, brand focussed, delivery package”.

The child has no right to scream that way anyway, because she reacts very badly when others do it. It's poor mothering pure and simple.When I learned that my car had gone to the wrong photographic studio and I would now be 10 minutes late for lunch I was justifiably furious.

I was stooped and ready to hug Sophie for the camera when the car news came and rightly I upbraided Elspeth. I screamed “I want it outside in the disabled parking bay ASAP or they will be looking for another job by morning”

I was, as always, proved correct when bizarrely little Sophie clamped her hands over her ears firmly and started to cry. The little hypocrite. I told her to stop it immediately, so she screamed in my face and ran off outside, with her mother dramatically running after her. I don’t remember that in Rainman.

Anyway as this prompted another short break, I was doing a rather funny impression of little Sophie’s mannerisms, to much hilarity. But it was all ruined because everyone heard the mother shouting like the hysteric that she is. This was followed by a screech of brakes which made everyone rush to the door.

Elspeth screamed and Ben shouted “Oh Fuck it’s Mrs M’s driver, Christ what if they SUE” . I dislike attention seekers, so I ignored it all and checked my make up.

It’s not as though the car actually hit her anyway. It just grazed the mother slightly. 

At the post photoshoot brainstorm, Ben was suitable forthright. Unfortunately he chose to massage my shoulders as he spoke. I really don't like it when the little people touch me. But he's part of my team so I have to be nice to him.

“Fuck it Mrs M" He drawled "We’ll find one that sits still next time. Don’t worry about it there’s a million of them out there. They should be mother-fucking grateful that you gave them any time at all. You’re Mrs fucking Mountable who the fuck are they? If anything surfaces we’ll just deny it,  or ignore it. Who’s going to believe some nobody fucking carer anyway. She’ll probably top herself soon. God knows, I would if I had to put up with that shit, day after day?”

Anyway I remain as ever, committed and determined to bringing my compassion and kindhearted understanding, straight talking and no nonsense back to our great nation.

To maintain my assurances that my humbly enjoyed, yet compassionately deployed and publicly placed, celebrity persona, is shining brighter than ever. Because ultimately dears who needs truth these days? As hairy Ben quite rightly told me “Bollocks to the truth Mrs M. We dole it out and the ignorant fuckers lap it up. It’s their own fault really. Sure a few get trampled in the wake, but fuck 'em, life's cruel”

Dear Ben, I’m really starting to like him and he has been extraordinarily helpful. But he is rather expensive and if he doesn’t get me my own reality TV show by Christmas he will, as he would say, be “Mother fucking fired”

The wonderful Daily Mail

Dears I've been so saddened that once again the communists are spreading their depressingly dull rants about a British Institution which has gladdened the hearts of many a conservative lady such as myself in a vain attempt to bring us to our knees.

So I say loud and proud to the cynics and hairy layabouts out there, you will take our Daily Mail only from our cold dead hands.

The Daily Mail has for many a year led the way on truth and information in this country.

Whilst the exposed toes of the sandal wearing, tofu eating, poor people championing, "mate of a mate is something in the third sector" referencing, Guardian readers may curl in pleasure at some Gay marriage story this or Benefit scrounger story that; The Daily Mail has remained unyielding in its dogged pursuit of the truth and the light and the vulnerable and the unaware.

I'm now fully acquainted with the hundreds of potentially cancer causing dangers, which stalk my every waking hour, and fully abreast with which celebrity has let herself go in the cellulite department.

The daily antics of the Middletons, blushing bride,  pleasingly bottomed sister and middle class mother too. Speaking of stalked pregnancies how would I know who has bounced back from motherhood with a pleasingly flat stomach and who has tempted divorce-fate by venturing from the house make up free and bingo wings a dangle, without the Daily Mail and their long lenses?

Well the truth is dears I wouldn't and I'll tell you for why.

The Daily Mail is super-vigilant of many potential dangers so I don't have to be.

From, Gay lifestyles, to decent tax-payer immigrant supporting horror, through to fake wheelchair occupants. I'm up to speed, dears. I didn't see them unable to walk a few yards last summer. They were running and jumping and bouncing around no end for a gold medal, so they can jolly well earn their benefits and stack shelves in Poundland now, like some of the rest of us.

Why I wouldn't even understand that benefit dependence is a factor in murder, if it wasn't for the Daily Mail bringing me my news in a crisply framed headline and a woman judging online sidebar.

It's all there. Showbiz, make up tips, political news and many, many articles on how women have let themselves age, gained weight and caused the breakdown of society by not remaining at home to raise their offspring or indeed not having children at all, which is of course very wrong of them.

Then there are the columnists like dear Samantha Brick who many ugly women hate because she is so pretty and my own poster girl for the straight talking brigade, Melanie Phillips.
Dear Liz Jones too offers her eccentricity in a perfectly digestible way. She may have been known to purloin the contents of a spent prophylactic, but who hasn't dears?

At least she WANTED a baby. Unlike so many of these hirsute feminists who rant on about women's rights ad nauseum and who seem to be wanting to making abortion COMPULSORY.  No dears, feminism isn't for myself or my friends we'd much rather read the Daily Mail.

In conclusion I will leave you with an urgent plea for reason. Don't spend your day filling your head with liberal leftist nonsense and guff. Step away from that Guardian PUT DOWN THE DAILY MIRROR.

Especially ignore that hideous HUGH GRANT. What a huge disappointment he has turned out to be . He has turned his back on his own and sided with the bearded trots.  WELL GOOD RIDDANCE HUGH.

Embrace the good sense and PC free Daily Mail. Let your heart swell and imagine our rolling hills, close your eyes to the sound of a summers day on the cricket veranda, of smiling blue eyed, blonde haired children, of an England to be proud of. Mummy in the kitchen in her apron checking on Daddy's dinner as she dutifully awaits his return. Of the caravan club, and the WI and the cheerful bobby on the beat, playfully punching a scamp around the head for some misdemeanour.
People didn't care about human rights then, they were too busy earning a decent crust, drink driving with impunity and digging for Victory.

THOSE WERE THE DAYS and The Daily Mail just wants them back . Then know the enemies to this vision, this England, OUR ENGLAND ANDTHEY REMAIN VIGILENT!!!!!!

God bless the Daily Mail ignore your critics and detractors.

I've been reading you for years and it certainly hasn't done me any harm.

Stop bullying, Ian (Iain) Duncan Smith

It's a struggle being an internet sensation dears but I'm breaking away from my hectic schedule to share more of my thoughts. Here is my Question to all communists and whingers

Why on Earth is everyone being so horrible to lovely, Iain Duncan Smith.

I suppose common sense against the wall of hysterical nonsense is to be expected, as a TRUE BLUE conservative my hackles are raised and I’m wading into the fray. I’m a champion of truth and justice and irrespective of my own personal TORMENT, I heard the call for assistance so I’m coming dears.

Let’s leave aside for the moment that the poor man can’t spell his own name correctly and focus instead on a FANTASTIC interview he gave to the equally fantastic BBC news people  who quite rightly illustrated their own piece on benefit scroungers with a photo of hoodlums.

It maybe unpopular with namby pamby lefties but Ian (I’ve corrected for him) is absolutely correct. People who drain the decent, kind hearted, unselfish, right thinking, tax payers filled coffers of this great country such as my Tory husband, need to be reminded of a few FACTS.

And I’ll tell you for why

1)   Ian is a good person who is working hard (commuting from his £2million home which his father in law generously lent to him ) on this bank holiday not answering any questions about benefit changes affecting millions of people. Why should he it’s his DAY OFF.

2)   Everything is Labours fault. Poor people often vote Labour ergo Poor people caused the economic meltdown.

3)   I know of many many, rumours which have reached my ears of mansions and chauffeur driven limousines at tax payers expense. But the cabinet need those in order to TARGET THE POOR

4)   Poor people smell. Therefore what decent minded, nasally functional Minister for The Department of Work and Pensions would want to spend time in the company of those who will be challenging.

5)   Poor people often live in the North and in the Midlands.

6)   Disabled people are easier to attack as many of them fake things and even genuine ones can’t necessarily fight back. You do the maths dears.

To those who claim that this government is cynically targeting poor and sick and disabled people, populated as it is with highly educated privileged white men, making decisions for the rest of us , I say this.

They know best

Firstly and most importantly they are all men and secondly  they have been able to understand the challenges of poverty from the distance of wealth and therefore understand better. When it comes to poor people it's often better to view them from a distance I find.

 Ian himself has said he could live on £7 a day. Why on earth would anyone question that? I have absolutely no idea other than overt communism. 

What would some complaining harridan, raising 6 children alone, trying to decide between heating and eating, whilst she struggles to attend appointments for her chemotherapy and caring also for elderly relatives with dementia, know of the busy life of our leaders?

What on earth could she possibly know of how hard it is to struggle with real life problems like the 50 pence rate of tax, or the children's nanny suddenly announcing she has been asked to be maid of honour at her twin sisters wedding DURING WIMBLEDON FORTNIGHT? 

Nothing that’s what. She doesn’t have a clue.

She doesn't have a clue about the real problems faced by the the most marginalised group in our society, super rich people .

This is why I urge you all to join with me in thanking Ian Duncan Smith for being a dedicated champion of those who really need him now more than ever.

The rich.

It is them who need our understanding pity and help more than ever before. It’s the same as  the bankers who will flee our glorious shores if we expect them to act like the rest of us. A million pound bonus doesn’t go that far dears when you have overheads. But will you communists listen? No you will not.

As for those on benefits or whingeing about the spare room subsidy, I have (like dear, sensible and pretty Louise Mention) absolutely no pity at all.  My cleaner is often tired at the end of a 7 day week cleaning one of our houses. You will benefit from the break if you just LISTEN TO THE CONSERVATIVES

I simply don't see the problem.

Remember dears, if they have nothing, they have nothing to lose .

I'll leave you with a song which Amelia has internetted over to me. It's rare for the two of us to be in agreement on the issues of politics but she sent it with the words "here's one for you and all your mates" 

I can't make the film work , you all may have more luck with that, but as I sat here listening to his pure sweet voice soaring through our vestibule He reminded me so of Piers as a young chorister with his vision of a political future just a distant dream.

I'm sure you'll agree, the words were so inspirational.

I'd never heard it before but it's a rather wonderful song of hope for the future. Most importantly In my humble opinion, it sends a clear message echoing the aspiration that many in the cabinet talk of so often.