Those of a nervous disposition should look away now, maybe come back in a day or two when I’ve posted something more considered.

For the rest of you, I must warn you that I’m about to go Clarkson, which is not dissimilar to going postal apart from the fact that you have to be middle aged - or getting there - and wear jeans that are two sizes to small and that went of fashion in the 1980s.

I think that I’ve finally reached the end of my tether with bureaucrats - no not just any old bureaucrats but the very worst kind of pencil-necked pen-pushing low grade morons that stalk the festering corridors of the bureaucratosphere. You know very well the ones I’m talking about, the ones with big desks and even bigger job titles, the ones who believe themselves to be experts, and worse still professional experts - the ones who think that they know best because that’s their job.

I want you all to die. No seriously I do. I want you to go out this evening, go into the garage, fit a hosepipe to the exhaust of your car, run it in through the sunroof, turn on the ignition and sit there until you breath your last breath.

You think I’m joking here, right? Of course I’m fucking joking - that kind of death’s way too fucking good for you, way too pain-free and easy. That’s right I don’t just want you all to die, I want it to be painful, really fucking excruciatingly painful, worse than 24 hours straight watching Galloway prancing around in a red fucking leotard painful.

Why do I feel like this you want to know? Of course you want to know, its your fucking job to want to know these things, makes you feel all warm and squidgy and fucking self-important doesn’t it?

Look, I’m 40 years old this year. I have a long-term partner, two kids and a family home. I work full time, I pay the bills etc. etc.

In short I’m an adult and while I’m certainly no angel I’ve managed to get this far in life without either killing myself or killing anyone else.

I smoke, sure, but then I know what the risks are and I may or may not get around to quitting at some point - when I fucking choose to.

I do my best to bring up my kids to be decent, reasonably respectable people who think for themselves. I don’t, as a rule, smack them and I certainly don’t batter the shit out of them, but on occasions it has been necessary to use a bit mild physical chastisement to pull them up short and only ever when its been in their best interests - like stopping them running out into the road in front of a fucking car.

On the whole I consider myself a fairly decent if average human being. I’m probably no more honest than most people, but I’m also no more venal or corrupt than anyone else either.

In short - leave me and my fucking family alone.

Look, this isn’t difficult.

If I want to be on one of your fucking databases, I’ll ask. Likewise, if I want your advice about my health or about how I bring up my kids or about anything else in my personal life which doesn’t concern you, then I will fucking well ask.

To borrow one of your infuriatingly pissy little eupehisms, get with the fucking programme here. I am all grown up now, have been for a good twenty years and I really don’t need people like you telling me what to do, especially not for my own fucking good. I’m something’s for my own good then I’ll be the one to fucking decide on that. Okay?

Look I can see this isn’t really sinking in is it? Is there any way I can explain it better? Someway I can put this over so you will get it, short of engraving it into a baseball bat and then forcibly embossing it into your fucking forehead?

How about this? When I was younger and a little wilder and more reckless, and certainly rather more idealistic, I used to joke with my friends down the pub about the kind of people who would be first against the wall when the revolution comes? Remember having those kind of jokey, alcohol fuelled conversations when you were younger? Good.

Right, well understand this. When the revolution comes - and I tell you it can’t come soon enough at this rate - you are absolutely, postively, definitively, fucking first, the whole fucking lot of you.

I keep hearing all the time about how the government need to save money and make things more efficient as though that’s fucking difficult - it isn’t, all we need to do is kill all the fucking bureaucrats. Let’s face it, its not fucking difflcult - lead’s cheap enough and few extra rounds on the army’s regular order’s nothing to what we’re going to save in salaries, redundancy payments and index-linked fucking pensions. So why not, what fucking use are you all anyway? You’re not fucking productive in any way shape or form, you’re just a bunch of fucking purposeless parasites. Who’d miss you anyway?

What the hell, we could even legalise hunting bureaucrats with packs of dogs and keep the Countryside Alliance lot in gainful employment at the same time. Anything’s better that putting up with you arseholes a moment longer.

I think that’s it for now, just remember one end of the hose pipe goes on the end of the exhaust and the other in the sunroof… and don’t forget to close the garage doors. Wouldn’t want you to survive simply becuase you’re too fucking incompetent to even top yourself properly.

UPDATE:

It’s been pointed out to me by a friend that no civilised society would countenance culling bureaucrats in much the same way that we disapprove of culling baby seals…

Don’t you fucking bet on it. Given the choice I’ll take the baby seals any day - they’re cute, cuddly and to my knowledge have have never once reamed me for a shed load of tax or told me to give up smoking.

In fact while we’re on, you can happily put me down for a new bureaucrat-skin jacket - executive model naturally - and leave the seals alone. They don’t fuck with me, so I see no reason at all to fuck with them.

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