Aside from a of notable period of unemployment where I went redundancy-package bonkers and enjoyed an extended holiday that ensured my local branch of Threshers met their monthly sales targets for at least a year, I have always had a job of some kind. A couple of these were properly serious and involved things like ‘writing reports’, ‘analysis’ and ‘business travel’. Business travel is The Shizz, mainly because you get to go on planes, which means AIRPORTS. Airports are awesome because of the great shops, the dudely little champagne bars and the fact that it’s entirely possible (although not advisable) to get utterly spangled before 7am. Also, I absolutely love hotels and will never tire of gleefully flinging myself at the pristine bed every. single. time I enter the room and it’s freshly made. Also, the idea of having a spectacularly decadent, uninterrupted bathtime and leaving my wet towels on the floor with absolutely no sense of guilt whatsoever is up there with Duran Duran, Roast Beef Monster Munch and Lancôme Visionnaire as one of my Most Favourite Things EVER.
Business travel has only two downsides. Firstly, there’s the crashing inevitability of a complete and total deluded nonk interrupting your nice chilled ‘book and wine’ time because he mistakenly believes himself to be the Romeo Saviour of any unaccompanied female in the Holiday Inn. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve had to say ‘get fucked, dicknose’ to men wearing shiny cheap suits, stinking of Fahrenheit and wearing stupidly unnecessary and ostentatiously embarrassing wrist watches. Rolex rip-off-TASTIC.
The second one is Expenses. God almighty, doing expenses might be the worlds most tedious, yet stressful fucking job in the whole world. Filling out a spreadsheet that’s been put together by some anal retentive precisionist who can’t even insert the most basic Excel functionality into their form, but can put in place the worlds most exhaustive set of guidelines for what can and can’t be claimed, accompanied by the dark threat of disciplinary action for submission of claims that fall outside of the guidelines. It intimidates you into leaving your expenses until the last possible moment and then realising you’re mired in a gazillion receipts, half-remembrances and ‘where the bastard FUCK did I leave that flight confirmation???’.
It’s a hefty, heinous shitbag of a job. It’s the one task where erring on the side of caution is a must because that one erroneous entry on your expenses request can spell anything from a right old bollocking to a written warning. You either look totally slack or dishonest. Or both. And a bit of a nob to boot.
When your salary and expenses are paid by the taxpayer, you would imagine that ‘caution’ is a word that you live your life by. Ensuring that you do your job to the very best of your ability AND your professional conduct is exemplary is about the very minimum that any organisation expects. When you are voted for by and work for the taxpayer then your moral code is also very much up for assessment. The perfect MP would rock up to work butt-fucking-naked and publish their bank statements on Twitter. And we’d still give them shit for having abs that suggest they spend too much time at the gym and not enough on constituency matters. And quite rightly so.
Poor old Amazingstoke. Our Hampshire neighbours voted in Maria Miller and I’ll bet the two-thirds of them who didn’t vote for her want to give the 25,000 who did a right old genital shoeing. I wouldn’t mind joining them because whoever decided that she was the right person for the job were shocking judges of character and should probably have their ability to procreate seriously compromised for the safety of us all.
The very idea that someone who earns around £66k should be able to claim annual second home allowance of around half her salary again is fucking ludicrous to begin with, but to be able to do it year after year in the knowledge that her property was increasing in value at an incredible rate AND wrongfully suggests that a) she has no fucking scruples whatsoever and b) the system is inherently flawed. Had an opposition MP not submitted a formal complaint, Maria Miller would be on the receiving end of an allowance that is higher than the national average salary until only Christ/Allah/Vishnu/Lady Gaga knows when.
Given that the rest of us go through spasms and periods of near-alcoholism to ensure that our expenses are correct when they are a matter of a few hundred pounds, it sends my bullshit-dar spinning off into the cosmos that Maria couldn’t exercise the same level of precaution, regardless of whether I agree or disagree with WHAT she’s claiming for. The fact that it’s completely fucking batshit mental to allow someone to claim expenses on a second home that is around an hour away from her primary residence in Basingstoke, while pant-shittingingly anger-inducing is actually within the rules.
The reprimand for pushing through a prohibited bottle of wine on expenses in any corporate environment would be harsh and embarrassing. The same cannot be said for government when an MP can wrongfully claim FORTY THOUSAND POUNDS. So far she’s given a half-arsed thirty second non-apology and been ordered to pay back only £5,800. And here’s the arsenugget on the sticky turdcake: she just sold the house she was over-claiming for and made nearly one and a half million pounds.
So she’s essentially stolen £35,000. She had no right to receive the money. She claimed it against all the guidelines and it was never her money. But she’s somehow managed to keep it. She’s still in her job and walking around freely. The man who was imprisoned for six months after the London Riots for stealing something that cost TEN THOUSAND TIMES LESS must be feeling like stuffing his fist up her arsehole, pulling out her lower intestine and using her as a fucking skipping rope right about now.
These thousands of rules, guidelines, laws and moral codes don’t seem to apply for the duration of this political term. There is only one functioning mechanism to keep them honest. Vote the fuckers out. Ok, we’ll end up with another bunch of equally nauseating fuckers, but the more we exercise our right to vote, the more we can put the shit up them. And there’s nothing like a healthy dose of fear to keep people in line. I learnt that from the smug bastard who used to process my expenses…