Paul Malpas

Paddy Ashdown, ex-leader of the Liberal Party and the only person  in the House of Commons who has ever been trained to kill, so he jokingly says of his pre-political days as a Captain in the Royal Marines; as Margaret Thatcher trained herself.  Paddy prised the parliamentary seat of Yeovil from Tory hands in 1983, a seat they had held since the constituency was formed in 1918.  In 1992 he was proud enough to regale us with the details of an affair he had with his secretary, Tricia Howard,  in1986.

So he would have been more than pleased with the news that his successor in the seat, Mr. David Laws, started an affair in 2001 that is still thriving to-day.  Parliamentary lobbyist Mr. James Lundie is the happy recipient of Mr. Laws’s amours and he also happens to be Mr. Laws’s landlord and Mr. Laws has been claiming up to £12,000 per year expenses for sharing the joys of Mr. Lundie’s sheets.  Now, it is alright giving your landlord one on a Friday night after a few pints, but to claim he is not your partner or spouse after nine years of jiggery pokery is rimming it a little, even if they say they have different bank accounts and social circles.  You see when you have a spouse or partner you cannot claim the payment of rent to that person as a parliamentary expense.  If you are lucky, you might get away with the odd bunch of red roses but not £12,000 per year.

Mr. Laws, for those who do not know, was highly thought of in the Liberal Party, despite his proclivities which seem highly prized in political circles, so come coalition with the Tories after the recent General Election, David (Laws) that is, was made the Chief Secretary to the Treasury and was given the task of immediately finding £6 billion in cuts in public spending.  He has already drawn up a list of new rules limiting the pay and expenses of hundreds and thousands of civil servants.  He has been a very busy man.  So busy that straight away after being found out by the Daily Telegraph’s intreprid reporters, he offered to set the ball rolling towards the £6 billion target by giving back £40,000 of his hard and pleasurably earned expenses.

Mr. Laws does not think he has broken any rules.  He does not think, by forgetting to tell the parliamentary stewards that Mr. Shagnasty Lundie was his lover and partner and spouse as well as his landlord,  he has done anything wrong.  Well what is he doing as Chief Secretary to the Treasury then.

A friend, in mitigation, has said that Mr. Laws is a man of great integrity, it has not been about profit but privacy.  Tell that to the poor buggers who every week get thrown into the slammer for stealing a loaf of bread.  What a great defence for any thief  “Sorry me lud, but this bird I was shagging wanted a few quid to buy some chips, I did not have it, so I stole a fiver out of the till, I did it first of all for privacy because I had no cash and secondly so I could have another go at her tonight”  “That is okay my private friend and man of great integrity.  Run along and do not do it again, this week at least” says the judge.

What is it about this British establishment that appears to allow them to do what they like when they like and lets them think that it does not matter.  Just keep the people down and treat them like sheep, for it could be said that sheep-shagging is not a crime, especially if done in private and that is what Mr Laws has been doing for years.  He has shagged us to the tune of £12,000 per year for the last  eight years.

Surely Mr. David Cameron you will have to use your muscle and get shut, we cannot have these Mandelson types clogging up the avenues along which you are giving power to the people.

This morning I woke up determined to let the world know my secret.  This secret, which I have been juggling with for some days now and which I eventually put properly into place last night as I lay in bed, will solve all the worlds financial woes, will put the banks to right, give the Liberal Party a resounding success in the coming election in England, make all your jobs safe for the next thousand years and probably double your salaries within six months and it will certainly send property prices soaring again.

I came down early and took the young fellow to school, rubbing my hands at the titillation I was going to bring to the world.  I returned home in the best mood I have been in for months at the thought of this munificent knowledge I was going to share with mankind.  It was early, not quite 9.00 am, I thought I would leave it a little, let everyone get into work and then rejuvenate their day.  I went into the garden and tinkered with my vegetable patch, lifting the odd weed, planting out a few cabbage, picking up a few small stones that the hard winter’s frost had brought to the surface.  I was at one with my maker and he because of the lovely day he had sent us, seemed at least to be at one with me.

It was just after 10.00 when I came back into the kitchen, made a small kedgeree for my loved one, plated it and took it upstairs with a cup of freshly brewed green tea and placed it at her side and gently shook her so has not to arouse her from her dreams too quickly.  I looked out of the window and saw the colours on this fine Spring day.  The grass which up until last week was brown, scorched by the hard frosts of the winter, had suddenly thrown  off its overcoat and was now the finest emerald.  The sky was azure and not at all like the murky grey of the English sky that could just be seen in the far eastern horizon, tainted with volcanic fall out from northern regions and who, I ruminated could well do with the recent knowledge which I was about to pour onto the world through the web.  The lake, a few hundred yards away, twinkled in the morning light, a different blue from the sky but a welcoming blue just the same.  At this time of year there is no country more blessed than Ireland and no part more beautiful than North Roscommon, with its lakes and rivers, hills and rolling archaeological landscapes exploding in a hundred shades of blues and greens and tinted with dabs of yellow and red from the golden daffodils and proud tulips that seem to have sprung up in readiness for God’s bounty.

I thought “fuck it”, fuck the collapsing chair and the computer that as a will of its own, “fuck it” I repeated and my wife stirred in her repose, “I will launch the boat and have a days fishing on the lake, I hear their biting and refreshed with a few cold tinnies, it will do me good” It is now gone 11.00am I should get six hours out there, drifting from the edge of Erris Bay over to Church Island on the lazy current, I might even catch my supper.

I will have to leave this old contraption of a computer for something a lot more worthy, a boat, a rod and a line.  They have been doing that for eight thousand years round here,  there must be something in it.  So while I consider the afternoon, the early evening comes to mind.  You need something to wash the tonsils with after a hard day and what better than a couple or three pints of the finest Guiness in Ireland in the cleanest and friendliest pub in Boyle, The  Patrick’s Well,

I have not left the house yet and I am slavering at the prospect.  April in Ireland.  Fishing on Loch Ce.  Drinking Guiness in Patrick’s Well.  All my dreams have come true.