Issue 254 of SOCIALIST REVIEW Published July 2001 Copyright © Socialist Review
Greetings from Tuscany. Having a lovely time. The sea is almost as blue as Robin Cook, and the sun almost as bright as a London Oratory pupil. I just wish Tony would stop shuffling the cabinet all over the house, and Euan would lay off the Sangria. Love Cherie.
Well, we have ended up at Blackpool. We were aiming for St Tropez, but what with losing the job and everything I thought I'd better be a bit frugal moneywise. Save the pennies and the pound will look after itself, if you know what I mean. The beer is cheap here, and I'm drinking plenty of it. I still don't know where it all went wrong. So I'm drinking to forget, which is annoying Ffni...Ffoin...my good lady wife whose name for the moment escapes me. Willie
Dear mater and pater,
Nepal is lovely at this time of year. I've had a chat with the new king about the death of the crown prince. Apparently his mater and pater said nasty things about him, his beloved, and whether he was fit to be king.
We both agreed that turning the gun on himself was a bit of an own goal. Otherwise there is much that interests me in his behaviour. Charles HRH and Camilla.
Dear Jeb and family,
Have decided to holiday in a place called Yourope this year in a town called Rushia. We are staying in a little village called Chernobyl, which appears to be lively, and has a great buzz and evening glow about it. I thank God those conservation cranks haven't got to it, and it remains as modern Mother Nature intended. The girls are hittin the vodka a bit hard though, and the television is dull--no live executions on any channel. Give my warmest to Florida. Dubya
Dear Fr Gilhooly,
Well, I took your advice and am doing the Clonmacnoise pilgrimage. You're right, it's wonderful. I walked in my bare feet for ten miles yesterday, reciting the psalm to St Benito the Extreme while wearing barbed wire underwear and beating myself with a jellied eel. A holiday camp like a prison, rather than the other way around. I have found the whole experience most uplifting, and nobody looks at me oddly when I walk around talking to myself the way they do back home. Thank God I found Catholicism. Yours in prayer, Widdecombe (Ann) (Miss).
Well Gordy, you git,
I'm at Bannockburn for the summer. Ya remember what happened at Bannockburn, ya treacherous wee shite. You'll get yours, don't worry, and that gutless little Christian living next door to you had better look out as well. Bannockburn will look like a Women's Institute picnic by the time I'm finished with the pair of ya. Ya don't mess with Robin. You've been warned. R.
To all my congregation,
I have taken two weeks vacation visiting my good friend the Reverend William Nutter from the Discordant Presbyterian Church of the Bigoted Redemptor in Ottawa. We pray together all day. In the evening for relaxation we defecate on pictures of the pope and play pass the papist. I will be back with you all in time to intimidate the papes in Portadown, but in the meantime remember, NO SURRENDER! And NO LINE DANCING! Ian Kyle Paisley.
I'm having a brief holiday in Transylvania. The party that you and I once loved lies in ruins. Almost destroyed completely by that half-witted Yorkshireman, it now cuddles up to gays and cosmopolitans. The next thing you know it will be run by blacks and Asians, refugees and politically correct lesbian single mothers. I met Cecil the other day and he was rather worried about you. Said he ran into you and you were slurring a lot, and ended up flat on your back shouting, 'Funny old world,' and, 'They want me back, you know, they want me back.' Do take it easy old girl. Norman T.
A copy of this postcard has been sent to every newspaper. I am back. I'm a fighter, not a quitter. You can knock me down, tramp on my face, scatter my name all over the place, but I'm back. Oh yes, what do you have to say to that, Mr Witchfinder General? I am innocent, I tell you, innocent. If you need a further statement of my innocence please contact me at the Hinduja residence. Yours in fighting and not quitting, Peter.
I know things haven't been the best for you since that slimy newt-lover took your natural birthright from under your nose. I'm holidaying in the Swiss Alps this year. Just me, the wife, and two of the lags. If I were you I'd take a foreign holiday this year, cos by next year I'll have privatised air traffic control, and there'll probably be big silver birds dropping out of the sky over Heathrow every few minutes. You won't get me in one of the buggers. Madness of course, but you don't get to be deputy prime minister and end up in the House of Lords by speaking out, do you? See you soon. Your old mate, Puncher.
You and old Blunkett should come here to Amsterdam. As foreign secretary you should travel to broaden your mind. For instance, they've got a great drugs policy. You'd hate it. I don't suppose you'd learn anything, but I'd just love to see the two of you shit faced. It would make a change from po faced. Your loving son.