I have decided to take over the running of the village. I will control the finances of the whole area and education will be in the hands of little Mike Gove - I'm sure some of you remember the shop he used to have selling pictures of himself and the Queen. Well, I know him from school and he's a sound chap, good exam results though a bit of a tick on the games field. I've asked George to step down from his role as landlord of the village pub (more of this anon) and he'll keep hold of the tin in which the PC stores the rates money. I'll keep hold of foreign affairs myself - I have some experience here with our Filipino nanny (I think she's Filipino - there's a touch of the tar brush anyway).
Now, parish income and expenditure. Those of us who live in barn conversions with at least four bedrooms and a window going from roof to ground level will be exempt from rates, on the basis that we put quite enough into the economy already, what with nannies and gardeners and chauffeurs. Yes, I know my chauffeur's a Pole - he fixed the heating last winter - but he contributes to the local economy daily by buying the Sun. The poor people living in those rather nice cottages by the river will be moving out, to Birmingham or somewhere else in the North. They'll be happier up there without grandchildren around to babysit at their age and one of the Northern cities still has a day care centre where they can drink tea and play whist.
The village shop. This has long been pretty poor, with its unattractive range of cheap foods - but not a jar of pesto or pack of arborio to be found. I've done a deal with a nice American chap (the one who'll be supplying the village school with textbooks like "Kill a commie for Christ" and "Poor, black? We have a cross for you, and a match"). He'll be bringing in a range of artisan breads, Italian hams and other goodies. This does mean that there won't be room for the Post Office counter any more but you should all be using email anyway - and that nice Ms Brooks will be running a class on email and security for anyone interested.
Ah, the pub. I think we can all say that we've seen problems with Goerge as a landlord, so I'm promoting him to handle the village finances. This is in no way a punishment for not putting my children in a taxi and sending them home when I forget them. George too is a busy man and can't be expected to keep track of so many things. Unlike me.
As a sidenote: do you know what little Nancy said to me the other day? "Daddy, we're shits but we're rich shits, aren't we?" Bless her little heart.
Back to the pub: this will be recast as a gastropub. No more public bar where the feckless poor drink beer at our expense. They won't need it anyway, they'll be too busy walking the twelve miles to the Job Centre each day. Might stop a few of them breeding like rabbits as well. When god told people to go forth and multiply he was talking about hedge funds, not rugrats.
Now, the vicar. He's a kindly man but getting on a bit in years. That last parish newsletter was frankly embarrassing. To accuse me of megalomania and mixed-up thinking is, quite honestly, pretty cheeky - especially as he bases his philosophy on ancient religious scribblings while my thoughts come from up to date sources like Mr Murdoch's organs. I've spoken to his superiors, who one knows from school, and he's being given a wonderful opportunity. I didn't know there were such things as leper colonies any more (perhaps public hospitals are the nearest we have in Britain) but he's off to South America, if we can find an airline to take him at his age. Ryanair may do, if he can find his way from Dallas.
The church and associated buildings won't be wasted - much of the stone will be reclaimed by the builders.
But enough of the serious stuff: I know you uneducated people like your "telly" and your "fun". The Village Fair will be bigger and better than ever this year. We're flying a couple of members of a boy band in from the Caymans to open proceedings and there'll be the usual funny vegetable contests. I'm entering Baroness Warsi as a turnip! Sir Alan Sugar will be judging the cake competition, with some decent, modern entries ensured through his witty catchphrase "You're old, eff off" to anyone who submits a fruit cake. WI, raise your game or perish.
A sad note, the builders tell me there's nothing worth reclaiming from the soon-to-close old folks centre. Still, not to worry, the coffin dodgers have Birmingham to look forward to.
Now, more good news. The savings I've already identified, plus those from the stopping of the mobile library and meals on wheels (we can all afford to buy books and have people to cook for us, let alone our new gastropub and trustworthy creche), these savings are enough to pay for the resurfacing of the newly-adopted road to my barn conversion. So that's alright then. Capitalism working the way I want it to.
Update: as an unforeseen consequence of some of the improvements implemented by Mr Cameron and the Bullshit Club, most young people - locals, that is, not educated young people with fathers in the City - moved out. Several farms couldn't find labourers and, as the gastropub and village shop bought only Italian produce, went bankrupt. The unlicenced road repairs collapsed and Mr Cameron fell from his horse, injuring himself severely. [Author's note: would a joke about "losing all feeling" be over the top?] He has been certified as able to work full time and continues to hold several directorships, though leadership of the Conservative party passed on to someone nobody had ever heard of, elected under the slogan "a poor person getting benefits? Shoot the bugger." This also becaame a hit TV programme on BSky-bbc.