We are all in this together – but some more so than others.
Here at How Inappropriate we like nothing more than a legendary bit of oration. Few modern speakers come close to the man we present to you today. As a Parliamentarian he is up there with Winston Churchill and Aneurin Bevan; ladies and gentlemen we give you the Shadow Chancellor - George Osborne at the Autumn 2009 Conservative Party Conference.
You talkin' to me?
"Friends, I come to you in a time of crisis. The referee's common-in-law wife has blown the final whistle on the game that has been New Labour economic policy, the last upper-lip pansy has been spatchcocked and we are well into extra-fisting time. I tell you now, I will put a stop to pensions for civil servants. In an economy where bankers go for a whole year without a £1m bonus, hedge fund managers have to sell their third Tuscan holiday home and Tory peers are forced to tell us whether they actually pay tax or not, it is madness to expect those earning less than £18,000 a year not to suffer horribly. Make no mistake, we are all in this together, and the public sector cannot be expected to be immune to the hardships faced by my Lithuanian housemaid Natasha who I was forced to sack without severance pay or notice just the other day.
As I asked my wife to do my laundry my only thought was of those council employees comfortable and secure in the knowledge that streets will always need sweeping - well not under a Conservative government! There is nothing more important than cutting the grotesque deficit that this Labour government leaves us with. It lies there quivering like flabby buttocks of loneliness and cannot be ignored any longer! If swingeing cuts to public sector services are what it takes to drag this country out of the chasm of debt Gordon Brown has left us with then rest assured, I will make those cuts.
Natasha - out on her ear.
And if those cuts turn out to be massively unpopular come election time, if the thought of frontline public services being slashed makes the voter think twice about voting Conservative, if it starts to look like those cuts will be as popular as the poll tax, then I tell you this: we won't do it! So for those waiting with baited breath for that favourite media catchphrase, "the u-turn", I have only one thing to say - you turn if you want to, and if the focus groups suggest you're headed in the right direction I'm right behind you like Speedy Gonzales on a bullet train.
My friends, we face difficult times. There are those who would tell you that a Conservative government will balance the budget on the backs of the poorest. Well I tell you this: it worked in the 80s, so why the hell not?"
A Day in the Charmed Life of Jeremy Kyle
Button it Yank, before I kick your face in on National Television!
Monday 25 January, 8.00 am: Kyle Mansions, Gaywood Village. A flunky hands me the phone: its a long-distance call from my US agent, Sally Atan. "We're gold Jeremy!" she drawls in her broad Californian accent. "We're solid gold baby! Just got off the phone from talking to Mort at Debmar-Mecury. We've bagged the deal to make your show in the states. You're gonna conquer another continent!" "Why don't you button it, Sally-boy?" I interrupt. This is my show we're talking about - The Jeremy Kyle Show!" "Yeah hun," she replies, falteringly, "we are talking about you. You best get your limey ass over here pronto darling!" "Don't you tell me what to do, chum," I explode, "on National Television!" "International, baby" she corrects me, mistakenly. "Shut up, you pathetic scrounging scum!" I conclude, with absolute authority. That fucking wanker agent of mine needs to learn some good English manners and ditch her dead-end job.
9.30 am "News 'n' Blues" Newsagents, Gaywood High Street. "How are you, Raj? Still struggling to get by?" I enquire, comfortingly, sitting with concerned familiarity on his counter. "Just the copy of Nuts?" Mr Paneer clarifies, holding up a DVD that seems to have fallen into my magazine by mistake. "I'm sorry sir, Midget Gangbang 7 doesn't come free with that publication. But if you want to purchase Greased Teen Pissers instead..." "Less of your lip, Newsy-mate!" I spit, instantly clambering over the counter and slamming his head repeatedly on the cash register to make my point clear. "Do you know who I am? I'm Jeremy Kyle, the frigging daytime menace! Why don't you stop doing drugs and find yourself a decent job? When I'm finished with you, my after-care team won't be able to identify you without your dental records. Just put it on my account, Sonny-jim!" And with that I storm out, pausing at the door to deliver my parting shot: "On National Television!"
Blake and Monty: burping cool new publicity ideas for Jeremy Kyle.
10.15 am: Flange Towers, where my publicists Blake Several and Monty Flip are holding an "Idea Burp" to generate cool new ideas to market my new show to the Yanks. "Word up, Jezza," Monty greets me, proffering a double demi-skinny vanilla lattecino. "What's happening in your crazy world of moral rectitude? Still fighting for truth, justice and the Kyle way?" "Am I mate?" say I. "Abso-posi-lutely. On National Television!" "Check", says co-founder Blake. "It must be hard being you, constantly twatting up really disadvantaged, uneducated chavs by airing their dirty laundry on National Television on a daily basis, and then forcing them to endure humiliating cod-psychotherapy!" "Spot on, Matey-jim", I concur, "it's bloody hard. Right Monty?" "Right" says Monty. "Right" says Blake. "Sure" says Monty. "Sure" says "Blake." "Laundry" says I. Stand up geezers, those two.
12.30 am: Chasers Wine Bar. "Nice to see you Jeremy!" the itinerant bar-keep greets me cheerfully. "Will it be your usual Salmon Teriyaki wrap and a half-pint of Tuborg?" The cheek of these service industry stalwarts working all hours to escape the poverty trap makes me want to gouge my own eyes out with a rusty spoon. I instantly jump over the counter, grab a bottle of WKD and smash it across his shit-eating mush. "Button it, you wine-stained arsehole!" I command. "This is the Jeremy Kyle show! You speak to the host when he speaks to you. Or when my after-care team tells you that I am ready to listen to your pathetic whining gripes. Now fuck off, Beery-chops, and get yourself a proper job!" How dare that wanker loser prick insult me? On National Television?
3.05 pm: Gaywood Village Green. Deep in thought, chewing over the various names for the new show that Monty and Blake cloud-burst for me: Jeremy Kyle / Kyle: Jeremy /The Jeremy Kyle Show: USA / Button it, Yank, Before I Kick Your Face in on National Television! Suddenly I see a callow youth mugging an old dear at knife point. I instinctively know how to handle the situation, because I'm confronted by this sort of pathetic crap, every day on my show. "Oi! What the hell do you think you are doing, Grandma-jim? This is The Jeremy Kyle Show: USA!" I bark at the old bird, and in a flash I'm perched on the park bench, consoling the confused juvenile. "Look, son, you don't need to take this crap from this scary-faced octogenarian. You've got a future ahead of you, Teeny-mate. I'm calling in my after-care team to help you through this situation." Then I turn to the malevolent old girl. "You're a shitting disgrace!" I scream in her face, in a whole new register specifically reserved for these arseholes. "I represent the silent moral majority in this village and you make me want to vomit my bloody guts out. Why don't you get off the smack and find yourself a job, for Christ's Sake? "I'm retired now, dear", the junkie harridan pleads. "I worked in the NHS for 45 years though." "I don't care if you worked in the freaking NHS!" I erupt. "Your type should know better than to terrorise some poor helpless kid. How could you do this?" I pause for emphasis. "On National Fucking Television??"