17th October 2014


17 October 2014

Darling dearest,

I thought I’d write today to show you some support after you’ve come under so much public criticism for letting your Welfare Minister, the silver-haired but lead-tongued Lord Freud, remain Welfare Minister after revealing that he thought disabled workers weren’t worth the minimum wage.

I do understand he was just saying what many Tories feel, that some people just aren’t worth the time or money keeping alive. I mean, there are only so many resources on this planet, why waste it on the less able?
But he said sorry, right? Time to move on already. Having said that, another one of yours has actually come to his defence stating that minimum wage is a barrier to work for disabled people and that Lord Freud was just compassionately suggesting we remove that barrier. How thoughtful.

But the thing is, I understand, my darling. The real evil here is money. We’re all taught from an early age that money is the root of all evil. You are merely making sure you keep as much of this evil away from the people as you possibly can. (Though not from the people who already have lots of it, as they’re too far gone already.) You have to be cruel to be kind, especially as Prime Minister.

That’s why Britain is the fourth most unequal developed country on earth, where pay has fallen faster than in all but three EU countries, in which people work the third longest hours for the second lowest wages despite having the third highest housing costs, highest train fares and the second worst levels of fuel poverty.

But there is a strategy here that people just don’t see. If you add to those statistics the surprising facts that Britain also has the fourth poorest pensioners and the highest infant mortality rate in Western Europe, they might begin to understand. The poor and the weak need to stop breeding and the old need to die quicker! That way, there’ll be more for everyone else, and the people left would be much happier. Also, we’d all be Tories in a new blue world.

I guess you can’t really hang your campaign on a genocidal message, so we’ll just keep this one our little secret, my poppet.

All my love.

Katy Anchant


6th October 2014

6th October 2014
Oh, my love,

Can you ever forgive me for how long it’s been since I last wrote to you? Please my love, forgive me, for there is a good reason for my lack of correspondence. You see, it’s been a bit of a fraught summer. I had no oven or hob for a good couple of months, and also no bathroom basin, but that was okay. The bit that meant I was just too busy to write was my friend being made homeless with her young child and her cat and dog. Me, being mentally ill with a horrible disorder called empathy, gave her a place to live.

What this meant of course was that there were seven people living in my 2.5 bedroom house. (I mean, seriously, if this were social housing my third bedroom would not count. I lovingly refer to it as the ‘cupboard’.) So my friend and her child lived in my cupboard for three months while desperately trying to get some help from anywhere. I mean, anywhere.

No council would take responsibility for her, no homeless charities would assist, absolutely no one would help. She was originally one of your constituents but couldn’t get any help from your office, so I did consider giving her your number so that she could come and stay with you, but the insecurities set in. You see, my friend has skin of porcelain and absolutely beautiful eyes, and my love, I feared you might stray.

In the end I personally wrote to some charities (using my OMG awesomez lettor writing skillz) on her behalf and finally she was given enough money for a deposit on a tiny little house out in the sticks, two or three bus rides from her nearest newsagents.

Now, you’d probably say that all’s well that ends well, but darling, the trauma of housing a pleb. I should have known darling, but because of my mental illness I didn’t see it coming. In between frantically trying to find anywhere to live, anywhere that would give her a job, crying and feeling unbelievably guilty about living with me, what do you suppose she did? Yes, she smoked B&H, drank Special Brew and watched Jezza with her beer belly hanging out. Just kidding. She didn’t do that at all. She just sat around smoking crack.

Anyway, I have seen the error of my ways and am seeking counselling for my empathetic ways so that I can become more like IDS. In my position he would probably have told her that work pays and that she has to work hard and get on, and she would have died in a gutter somewhere having had her child removed from her.

That would have been far better.

I love you.

Katy Anchant