21st December 2019
“Arbeit Macht Frei” as my old housemaster used to say after several ales in the back bar of ‘The Nanny and Spanker’ in Windsor. “Nothing works up a thirst more than a day’s heavy toil scratching away at the blackboard”. I’m all for the principle of a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work, and a chap of my abilities is, of course, worth the £275,000 a year for my dazzling, witty, insightful weekly columns in the Telegraph. After all, when Pater shook the box, I naturally a top cornflake, rose to the top.
When Jaz the Spazzer Javid gave that speech about us raising the national minimum wage, the hopes and dreams of the great unwashed were rightly drawing to us as natural guardians of their welfare. They ought to be grateful, for otherwise their obvious lack of talent, hard work and intelligence, would leave them festering at the bottom of the box earning a sixpence. They need an incentive, and there is nothing like poverty and disdain pouring down upon their heads like shit from a bucket to galvanise them into action.
When is a promise not a promise? When it is uttered just before an election. I once wrote that the modern British male is useless. If he is blue-collar, he is likely to be drunk, criminal, aimless, feckless and hopeless, and perhaps claiming to suffer from low self-esteem brought on by unemployment. I now know he is stupid as well. That get out clause “if economic conditions allow” is pure magic. I can wring my hands in mock sorrow when we announce that the national minimum wage is as likely to rise from the sea bed of my indifference to the working class as the Titanic is going to make an overdue appearance in New York harbour. By the time we get to it, the plebs will have forgotten, leaving them to weep in their piss stained trousers in the weekly queue at the food bank.
Does that sound heartless? It is the natural order of things and tampering with it is tantamount to not only putting a spanner in the works, it is throwing the contents of the whole toolbox, then the toolbox itself, into the gears, levers and cranks of the steam engine of industry while expecting rainbows and roses instead of a Chernobyl like ton of shit to explode into your face.
National Minimum Wage? They have to earn it first.
Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson.