Hey sugar moobs,
You know, I got in big trouble after my last letter to you for not mentioning the wonderful tax cuts that hardworking people will enjoy as a result of the latest budget. The thing is though, that really, umm, it’s not much so I didn’t think it was really worth congratulating you on. In truth I was a little embarrassed on your behalf and didn’t want to draw attention to it.
In fact, these tax cuts have been nothing but a bit of a pain in my bum, since the folk I know who will benefit from it are having their housing benefit decreased accordingly. A perfect example is a good friend of mine (who I’ve mentioned before) who works full time as a carer (NVQ Level 3 qualified). The last time she was given a pay-rise, taking her up to the princely sum of £7.10 per hour, she called the Tax Credits folk and the housing benefit folk, and the extra £40 a month she would be earning was immediately deducted from her benefits. Unfortunately she’s now in a bit of a pickle. Her daughter is planning on moving out in September, which means my friend will be liable for the bed-umm-spare room subsidy. We did some maths and worked out that she will be left with around £20 a week to feed her and her teenage son.
I of course pointed out that she could simply transfer to a smaller house, but what is it with these people and their damn sentimentality? Having waited for five years in emergency housing, and then having maxed out a catalogue account to wallpaper and make her small council house beautiful (not to mention the strawberry plants) she refuses point blank to move. She would rather not eat.
Let me tell you though, it’s not a bad thing. She could do with dropping a few pounds and anyway, perhaps this would put some positive spin on the ol’ SRS, by citing it as a useful diet aid.
Funny, you know, I was just thinking the other night about her £7.10 per hour wage. My first ever office job when I was 18 and had no work experience whatsoever paid me £7.50 an hour. That was in the 90s. What a shame that Labour messed everything up so badly that you are forced to keep minimum wage so far below the cost of living. It must keep you awake at night, you poor, sweet, loving man.
Anyway, it doesn’t really matter about my friend because she’s not even English. She turned to me and said: “This f**king government want to kill me, Katy,” to which I replied: “Bugger off back to Poland then. There’s no f**ker there because you’re all here stealing our jobs.” (Or so some of the popular press would have us believe.)