Inchies Letters to LOMM 5


03 01Dear LOMM,

I recently went to visit my Uncle Inchcock in Nottingham.GCpoorly

I was desperately worried after this visit.

When I arrived in England from Lithuania, where I was working for Tony Blair, to assess the business opportunities’ and desperate need for more immigrants from that country in England, the first thing I did was to phone Uncle Inchcock to let him know I’d arrived.

The recorded message I got, informed me that the line had been cut-off due to non-payment.

I hired a car, and made my way to Nottingham, and found his house, a very old two-up two-down end terrace dwelling in a dilapidated state, more cause for concern.

No answer to my knocking on the door, I daren’t have knocked any harder for fear of the building collapsing. His next door neighbour appeared and said: “Wotta you want eh?” I explained I was looking for the old gentleman who lives at number 36. The man said; “We no talka to ‘im!” and slammed the door shut as he went back into his house.

Someone across the road came out and asked if he could help. I explained everything again, and the man showed some concern in his voice as he told me; “Oh… Inchy, yes he’ll be at the hospital, it’s his renal treatment day today, tomorrow is his INR Warfarin level tests, and Wednesday is his day at the clap clinic. He’s usually back around two o’clockish”

“Oh good” I replied.

He then gave me the descriptions of the local muggers and who to avoid, and I thanked him and asked if he was a friend of Inchy.

“Oh by gawd yer, he lends me money every week yer know, I’m not working…”

I got back in the car and found an area that did not have used condoms, broken lager bottles and gangs of yobs lurking about, to park up and return later.

I returned and parked near his hovel. I could not believe my eyes when I saw him limping around the corner, wearing thicker lensed glasses as I recall, hearing aids, he was bald, his knees bent out of shape… yet he was whistling as he hobbled along. Oh dear I thought, more reasons to worry about him.

He didn’t seem to recognise me when I spoke, but that didn’t stop him bidding me; “Come in and have a cuppa tea, would you like a biscuit?” I ansered, but he couldn’t hear me.

Once inside the house, the smell almost made me puke, the old food laying about, tons of it out of date, magazines from the 1970’s, dirty pots, stacks of old crap he obviously wanted to keep for some reason. A laptop that ran on Windows 3.1, curtains rotting, and more medications that I’ve seen at a chemists!

I felt he needed some help here, not that I could do anything, with my having to get to Brussels for a meeting with Gordon Brown, Angela Merkel and Tony Blair next week.

His speech was inconsistent, slurred, and he kept forgetting what he was talking about.

His skin was blotched and spotty. I discovered he’s had recently had a new heart valve fitted, had angina, a dodgy reflux valve, arthritis in his hand legs and feet, his body was skinny but with a pot belly, bleeding haemorrhoids, only eight teeth left, was practically deaf, had dizzy spells, and stuttered a lot… but that didn’t last too long, cause as I said earlier, he keeps forgetting what it was he was struggling to say anyway.

My anxiety for this pensioner was growing.

Until I found out he had not got the £50 he owed me!

The little…


Yours Faithfully:

Wilberforce Churchill-Cameron

Lecture Advisor to Tony Blair

c/o The Kuwaiti Consulate

Saudi Arabia

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Inchies Letter to LOMM 4

03 01Dear LOMM,

I fear I have to abnegate my past actions involving members of the opposite sex.

This, due to the Doctors telling me after my last operation, that I would find such actions impossible due to various ailments, disfigurements and mental afflictions that I seem to have contacted over the years.

One girl told me that size doesn’t matter – then when we tried it, she changed her mind?

I have always had one of three answers to my naked body approaching women’s, “Ah.. int it cute!” “Oh dearie me…” and “Hahahahahahahaha!”, with the occasional “Sod off” (or similar) thrown in here and there.

I have found this difficult to the least, why only a short while ago, a very nice plump hairy muscular young lady, Lottie Ingals, asked me if I was interested in going to her flat and seeing her collection of photographs of her families contributions to the Wehrmacht’s efforts 1939 to 1945. Now I really did take to this gal, and did my best for her in every department.

But, as I was sat on her knees twiddling her underarm hairs, we were discussing the Tobruk raids, suddenly she seemed rather annoyed that I said it was the 19th Panzer Division that led the attack, and not as she quoted, the 21st Panzer Division, she went right off me, treading on me foibles as she did.


And it cost a fortune too!

She threw me out, chucking me walking stick and hearing aids out after me. It was so late, I couldn’t use me Pensioners bus pass, and I’d spend the last of me money earlier buying a present for her, a nice replica leather holster for her to keep her Luger P08 in. So I had to walk (hobble) home.

Where I ate some me seaweed, made a cuppa, took me medications then penned this letter in frustration, to ask if any advice could be given me please?

Thank you.

Reverend Arbuthnot Verioften, Save the League of Mental Men Mission, Nagasaki, Japan


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Inchcock Today – Thur 31 July 2014

GCaAwoke around 0500hrs, and greeted another wonderful day of excitement, jubilation, hopes, dreams, adventure, hysteria, passion and happiness – Or, if you want the real truth, depression, accidents, frustration, discomfiture, vexation, pain, chagrin, nervousness, fear, loneliness, faux pas and decay. But I wont mention them.


Me hole…

Gorrup and entangled wiv me blog posting graphics and creations.

When I went out to take some stuff to the bins, I noticed the Virgin Media hole in the pavement was gerrin bigger… oh dear!


The cunning step that moves?

Then after feedin’ the birds, on my return to the hovel, I managed to trip ‘Up’ the step to the door. I now have a very pretty scrape down me right shin, and a bruised chin. Oh, that rhymed. Tsk!

Put some cream on me wounds, and while doing so, the tube burst!

Still, it didn’t bleed much, which means me Warfarin level might be a bit low… or is that high? Never mind.

While bending to clean up the antiseptic cream wot I squirted on the floor, Arthur Itis made an appearance in me knees. (Huh, and it had been so good up until then today)

Knees too painful fer meto pick up the seeds wot I split when ups-a-daisying up the door-step wot I swear moved on its own.

Received an email from me mate in America, Andy, with a funny in it that I thought deserved graphicalisating ( I know, no such word, but I like it) a bit:

04 01

I wonder who the modelled for the original artist/photographer?

Went off to town to see if HMV had got DVD I ordered in yet. “The Big Job” Made around 1959 I think, can’t find a date on the box. Comedy with Sid James, Sylvia Syms, Dick Emery, Jim Dale and other old comedy actors. Looking forward to watching it later on next week. after a long walk around Victoria Centre looking for the store that had relocated, I found someone official and asked him where it had moved to, naturally had moved to the only part I’d not walked through looking, at the far end of here I stopped and asked the bloke.

Feet humming a bit now, despite this I had a walk around town with the intention of taking some photo’s for putting on here. I remembered to take the camera, but early this morning when I was taking some off of it to put on here, I left the flippin’ thing on and it went flat… oh what a superior nit-wit I am.

 Termination of compilation of the days activities at 1610hrs. Will commence tomorrows Inchy Today from that time, providing I remember to, the BT connection does not fail again, and the old laptop doesn’t die a sad death of course.

Made a cuppa and finished this off. TTFN all…

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As a raging alcoholic with just the one arm may I just say how very, very relieved I am to read that driverless cars will be allowed on UK roads shortly.

I live ten miles from my favourite boozer and since receiving a life time driving ban and custodial sentence for being 22 times over the legal limit 4 years ago I had to give the pub a miss.

Now all I have to do is to get one of these driverless cars off the soft touch Mobility people and ‘Bob’s your uncle’ I’m back in the game! Oh the sheer joy of not having to worry about being at the wheel pissed as a rat – it fairly warms the cockles of my heart.

This new proposal is, in my opinion a major boon to serious drinkers across the UK.

Yours faithfully,

Thomas Barleycorn








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Part 19: A Nottingham Lad’s True Tales of Woe

The Dart team’s out of season weekend trip to Southport

W19 03 house
The Digs, as they are today

There was 15 of us, all looking forward hopefully to sampling the Lancashire ales and lassies, as we climbed into the battered old AEC Regal coach – and set out for the ‘Gladstone Pub’ Darts Team Annual Outing – this year, a weekend stay at Southport.

As seemed traditional, we got lost on the way there, and our ETA of 1800hrs, was actually 2100hrs at the hotel on the seafront road.

W19 02 bus
AEC Regal – long gone nowadays

The place was deserted, not a single person in sight, apart from our motley crew, as we exited the warmth of the bus, out into the, oh so cold wind blowing in from the sea, and we each grabbed our luggage and ran into the hotel foyer.

We were dispersed in three bedrooms, five beds in each, and were soon washed, changed, and back down to meet the others in the foyer, ready and eager for the quenching of our need for ale, as we hurriedly (it was getting late, and the pubs there closed at eleven) walked into the centre of the city, to find a pub to sample.

After my fifth pint, I think our group were playing dominoes, or trying to, things get a bit fuzzy memory-wise, and the next clear but painful recollection was of the next morning.

I awoke, and was gripped by a panic; I could not open my eyes! As I moved to find the edge of the bed, I hit my head on something solid – now I was really confused… then one of the lads said (over the cheering of the other lads) “Hang on, hang on, Christ I’m sorry Inchy, I thought it was a tube of shaving lather…”?)

It seemed that I had opened the door of the wardrobe, and got my head down with my feet sticking out the night before, and one of the lads thought it would be an amusing prank, if he covered my face in shaving lather, but in his inebriated state, he thought the tube of my toothpaste was Palmolive shaving cream, and he covered my face in it, thus I could not open my eyes this morning when it had dried like concrete!

They were now concerned for my predicament, despite their hangovers, and took me into the bathroom, and dipped my head in and out of some hot water, until the toothpaste was soft enough to be picked off in lumps, much to their amusement. They managed to take off a third of my moustache at the same time!

We all decided it would be a good idea, to go for a bracing walk along the seafront road to help clear our heads, and so in a short while there we were, fifteen of ambling along the centre of the road, shuddering in the wind, with me bringing up the rear – when I noticed the lads in front split up to either side of the road, to reveal this little dog, belting though them, only to stop at me, and decided to have a chew of my ankle, much to the merriment of the lads! I still cannot work out why this beast should have ran passed fourteen lads, and twenty-eight ankles, to get to mine for his breakfast?

That being the last night there, we set out to enjoy the amenities on offer at the ale providing hostelries of Southport, not at that time concerned that we had foolishly arranged for the coach to pick us up at 0500hrs in the morning!

W19 05 simulat
The Flight Simulator

We then entered an amusement complex; There was a massive new machine, that for 2/6d (12.5p), one could test ones skills at trying to land Concorde. There was if I remember right, controls for speed, left right, up, down, braking etc. And a crude map of London to guide you in. A read-out was produced after the game was over, with estimated damage caused in cost and casualties.

A few of the lads had a go, and really made a mess off it, nearly all of them crashing on the landing. This caused the usual gambling instinct among them to come to the fore, and about eight of us put 10/- in the kitty, to go to the lad who had the least number of casualties, we assumed none of us would actually get to land the thing! (And we were right)

I went last, feeling sure I could do no worse than the others had, they produced end figures like, Cost: £1m Casualties: Deaths 75 Injuries 102.

The map, I thought was the secret, I had to use it to guide myself near enough to any airport, (the scenario chosen for me by the machine, was that the plane had to land within so many minutes of the game starting)

I espied a ‘Greenwich sign location early in the game, and tried, even when it was taken off the map, to keep an eye out for it at all times.

As the plane descended, there at the bottom corner of the screen I could see the word Greenwich again, and moved hastily in its direction, turned, and made what I thought was a spot on landing on it!

It turned out to be Greenwich Power Station! (They tell me that even if it was the airport, the landing strips were too short for the plane to land on anyway)

So, with a read-out of Cost: £150 billion (The machine could not record anything higher) Casualties: Deaths 445,765 Injuries 901,808, I did not win the bet.

Afterwards we split into little groups, and again I lose many facts of what occurred after that, again until the morning.

With much effort and pain, we slowly got ourselves up, after the coach driver had been allowed to come up to our rooms to offer encouragement to us!

W19 04 ER
ER: The victim of drunken behaviour… Tsk!

As we assembled a sorry looking bunch indeed, it came to light that we were short of two bodies… Clive, and Frank. It later transpired that Clive was in local nick, and Frank was in hospital with something broken, after he’d apparently in his intoxicated revelry thought it a good idea to nick a ladder and decorate Queen Victoria’s statue, with a beer filled condom, and a bottle of Mackeson. His leg was broken in two places as he lost his balance and fell to the ground. The fool!

All I had was a part-missing moustache, a bloodied ankle, and a massive headache. So compared to some of the lads, I’d done well.

That was until it came to alighting from the coach, as I missed my footing on the steps, and joined Frank with a broken leg.

Hey-ho, young and impulsive I was… nowadays I’m old and repulsive!


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Inchcock Today Wed 30th July 2014

03 01

I decided, as I haven’t been insulted or sneered at for a while, I’d call in where these antisocial facets would be guaranteed – the local Lidl.

I  was in decent form to start with, checked I’d got me shoes and not slippers on, me spectacles on, me hearing aids in, me hat on, me dressings on me ‘Inch’ were secure, I’d got some money wimmie, I locked the door behind me, and checked to see if any local yobs were about before I left the flea-pit.

03 02I hobbled down to the shop, having to take a longer route because the police had blocked off a road due to an RTC (Road Traffic Collision), just behind the New Inn where that bloke got stabbed last Wednesday.

03 03I got onto Mansfield Road, and entered the shop. No baskets again, had to fetch one from the till area, as did other customers.

But I was in a fair mood, so said nothing, and carried on with shopping for me bits.

At the greengrocer stand, I looked at the tomatoes on offer. There was on lot of decent looking tomatoes, but there was no country of origin on them.

I ought to remind you wonderful, enigmatic, attractive readers that; I worked on the food retail business for years, and I thought they might have they disposed with the ruling that the country of origin must clearly be stated on all products nowadays?

There was this young shop assistant, nearly moving to, but I caught up with him while he stopped to chat up a bimbo while she was shopping, and asked him; (Nicely like!) “Excuse me, can you tell me where the tomatoes next to the end come from, as I thought it was a legal requirement to put the country of origin on all produce?” The reply; “Huh?” – I said never mind and carried on.

When I got to the fridges at the back of the store, I observed I was being observed by the security guard.

03 04I couldn’t find the Krakowska meat that I like, and after only ten minutes searching for one, I found a member of staff to ask if they had any in stock. Before I’d got to mentioning the product I was after, she’s said; “If there is none there, we havva gotta any!” and was off like, just like Clivey Boy when he is with 500 yards of a boozer and his nose picks the scent of the ale, fast!

I got to the checkout, joined the queue and the till lady said; “Owston klaird funk poonds ten?” I thought she was going to give me a Hitler salute, but no. So after checking with the reading on the cash register, I gave her a fiver to pay the four pound ten bill. And got ten 1p pieces in the change!

I exited the premises, again telling myself not to go there again (Lidl), and the security guard followed me out. So I turned and walked towards him, and he went back in the shop?!?!

Now I was not in a good mood.

Limped home, opening the door, I saw laying there on the carpet, a letter from the City Homes people.

My heart leapt with joy… Have they got a home for me to go to… No! – It just told me I had been downgraded in the waiting list to classification Five, the bottom one.

Now usually, I would have sworn and cursed a bit at this, but as I lifted the nosh tray off the bin to throw the letter in, I dropped the tray with all the stuff on it…

So I cursed and swore a bit at that instead!

03 05 OsbI’ve just read that George Osborne shops at Lidl? In this photo off the web, he isn’t shopping; he’s filling up the cob basket… and without his disposable gloves on too!

Suppose he’s got shares in Lidl?

Now I’ve really pissed missen off!

Life eh?

TTFN all.


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Inchy’s Letters to LOMM 3

03 01

Dear Clivey LOMM,

I have long had the urge to send a letter to you, in fact for many years now. Gawd knows why.

I first thought about thinking of the possibility perhaps of considering sending a letter, when I was only 54 years of age.

Since that time, I have been away at her Majesties Pleasure, innocent of course, but set up and arrested by the ATF when I was at a Football match in Woolwich.

When I came back to the UK, within weeks I was arrested for throwing a nub end away in the town centre. They carried out many tests, and decided I was unfit to plead through insanitary habits, and loss of hair.

They also claimed I had lost my marbles. Huh! I told ‘em I’ve never had any marbles, but they wouldn’t listen to me. Of course, there was nothing wrong with me at all, it was the others.

My physical health eroded along with my mind, and I was looked after at the Ex-Gas Lamp Lighters and Snuffer Outerers Retirement Home in Nottingham for twenty years or so.

When Mr Cameron cut me benefits, they threw me out, and since then I’ve wandered the streets by day, and stayed at the Hilton Hotel at night. Still, begging can be profitable yer know, you’ve got to do it right.

So, I always add some nutmeg when making a Marmite meringue, gives it a little extra bite. That’s another thing, what few teeth I have left ore rotting.

But I’ve got me bus pass, and I can still pass urine… I don’t been walk passed it like, I mean through me diddler.

And they thought I wus mad?

Anyway, I was never any good at chess.

So I’ll make a cup of tea, and answer your letter ASAP Mrs Tattersall, as soon as the wife gets home… hang on she’s passed away isn’t she…

Hello, there’s a van with two men in white coming towards me cardboard box…

Oh dear…


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“Crikey it’s been a couple of months has it not H? Thought you’d died and gone to rummage off in the bins of utopia.”

“True Ron I’ve not been putting myself about much lately. You know me…..when I get the urge to have a jolly good rummage all else takes second place. And rummage I have been doing old chap.”

“So you’ve had a bit of luck on that front then?”

“Oh yes Ron I certainly have mate – cop a gander at this snap I located just yesterday in a cast iron bin in Halifax.”

“What’s that then H…’s just a photograph of a slug. What on earth is so special about that?”

“Not a slug mate….no, no, no, no, no. This, my friend is a first. My anthropologist chums will be rubbing their hands together with glee over it. This is Pandora Snail in the raw i. fucking e. without her shell on!”

“Fucking hold it there H you are off your head it’s a slug – nothing more; nothing less.”

“Oh it gets better Ron mate for this photograph is a guaranteed piece of gastropod mollusc ‘Revenge Porn’ – what a handsome find on my part. The boffins at The Natural History Museum will be positively begging me to hand this little beauty over.”

“OK H let’s just say hypothetically it is a naked snail how do you work out firstly that she’s called Pandora and secondly that it is indeed ‘Revenge Porn’?”

“Sometimes Ron you so disappoint me. Turn the photo over and read what’s on the back and all will be revealed – Pandora’esque so to speak!”

“Right then H what is written on the back is hardly conclusive evidence in my book. It says, ‘Pandora my dear I shall be posting a copy of this on Facebook so your friends can see and have a laugh. Yours, your ex-lover, Sydney Snail.’ Also I don’t recall that in the 42 years I’ve lived on this planet that I’ve ever – not even fucking once – seen a snail with a camera let alone one with the brains to take a picture of his bird naked either post or even pre a jolly good shag and thereafter open a Facebook account and upload the photo thereon on account of the fact she has left him angry and in the lurch.”

“Shows what you know Ron – there’s more to snails than you will ever know, that much is clear. Anyhow it might not have been a regular camera; Sydney might have had an IPhone for all we know.”

“Jesus H you don’t half talk some bollocks mate.”

“You may well say bollocks but when I return from the National History Museum with a certificate of authentication that’ll wipe the smile off your smug face.”

“That’ll never happen H.”

“I’m telling you it will. Whatever, I’ve a train to catch for Professor Arkwright is awaiting my arrival at the museum. Catch you later Ron – you doubting Thomas you.”






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Inchcock’s Beloved Grizelda – Part 1

My Beloved Grizelda

01 cupid

Part 1  The Beginning

It all started, when a work colleague, Horace, invited me to a wedding anniversary meal at his home in Wilford, Nottingham many years ago.

His wife Susan, had also invited her German pen friend, Grizelda Freudenberger from Saarland.

I arrived at his cottage early and soon found myself being accepted within the family, despite my horrendous features and appearance (Just finished work).

Susan asked if I could go and pick up Grizelda at the Nottingham train station in a couple of hours, and I willingly said yes.

An hour or so later, we heard a taxi pull up outside, it was Grizelda, who had arrived early at the station, and caught the cab to the cottage.

Susan and I trotted up the garden path to the taxi. I watched as Grizelda climbed out of the taxi and it rose creakingly by a good three inches higher from the ground. She was a big girl.

Giselda was about 5’11” tall, around 15 stone (solid with it), a lovely dark head of hair (I later found out she had some in other places too!) Gorgeous wide hips, tree trunk legs that I instantly wanted to wrap myself around for a month or two.

Susan and Grizelda were talking excitedly in German, as the taxi driver was struggling to get the luggage out of the boot, I was just about to help him, when Grizelda strolled over and lifted the cases single handedly out of the boot, and placed them on the drive-way, returning to Susan, she cast me a quick glance up and down, and smiled at me!

My inside’s wobbled, and my extremities were girded into action, as I realised this was love at first sight! I had never known such an instant frenzy in my undies before. It actually hurt me.

It was also lust, aphrodisia, and instant arousal, passion, desire, a painful hunger… an itch that just had to be satisfied or suicide would have to be considered.

Such previously unknown to me emotions frenziedly tore away at my innards… and although they confused me somewhat, it felt good!

Horace came out to help carry the luggage in, I took a case, and Horace another, Grizelda, biceps bulging out from her short sleeved pink blouse, carried the other two big ones up the path, and we entered the house.

I sat myself down, and watched as they introduced the kids, and talked and talked about each other so merrily and happily together, as I sat cross legged.

I must admit I concentrated on the shape, words, (I knew a bit of German) actions, and innuendos of Grizelda really – and was sure she kept giving me a sly glance, again looking me up and down, and a discrete smile coming from the scar near her top lip.

Understandably with all the talking, on their first face-to-face meeting, by the time we were ready to eat, the meal was burnt a little, and Horace suggested they go and fetch a take-away instead.

We all agreed, and Grizelda said she would sort out her things in the bedroom she was to use, so Horace and Susan could fetch the food, and she would be ready, refreshed and changed by the time they got back with it.

Grizelda’s next words, were heaven for me to hear, and I knew something was in the air, perhaps romance (And I hoped rampant sex) wise.

“Perhaps Gerry could help me with my luggage and t’ings while you two go for food… yes?”

They took the kids and went off to fetch the food.

I stood facing Grizelda, my nose touching her hairy breasts, and we smiled at each other – no words seemed necessary or needed, and were not used initially.

We almost ran into the bedroom, threw the things out of her suitcases into the cupboards and drawers, and got into the shower together – (and she did not mention the microscopic size of my appendage once all the time I was with her, how sensitive she was!)

We fiddled, fumbled, sucked, and caressed in the falling water, as passion grew between us, she carried me to the bed and threw me on it.

The following explorations of each others foibles, desires, and needs was soon over, and the, fervent activity of intimate copulate followed, as she placed me between her tremendously desirous, muscular and hirsute legs.

It was intense, consuming, poignant and hot-blooded in the extreme. (Although I had to be careful not to catch the boils on her neck during the activities.)

She carried me back to the shower, and who would have thought that washing each other could have been so pleasurable, interesting, and entertaining. She taught me a lot that first day, bless her.

As we were getting dressed after our pulsating pleasures, we realised that Susan and Horace were expected back – we went into the living room and found them there, having eaten their take-away, sat besides our now cold take-away fodder on the table.

They had arrived back and saw our activities taking place in the bedroom, and had quietly returned to the living room, so as not to disturb us – what understanding and kind friends they were.

As I left that night, I arranged to pick Grizelda up on the Tuesday, and with the greatest of expectations and bodily excitement, take her home with me to my flat!

She smiled and gently squeezed my meat-and-two-veg as we departed.

I suffered the pain quiet gladly.

She put me down, and off I went, full of yearning for our next meeting!

As I walked along, full of satisfaction, and realising this was the best time of my life, pondering deeply about the good fortune and sex I’d just enjoyed – I realised I’d gone to the cottage in the car – so went back to collect it.

That woman had certainly got to me in a big way – thank heavens!

 Keep an eye out for Part Two of Inchcock’s Beloved Grizelda – I’ll gerrit dun when I gerrova these redundant long defunct urges the body is demanding me to parttake of after writing this one and rekindling long dead aspirations… Tut!

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Inchcock’s (Unanswered) Letter to David William Donald Cameron


L2Cam 01

Inchcock, with his newly acquired night cramps in his feet joining his angina, reflux valve, haemorrhoids, depression, duodenal ulcer, cancer of the bladder, Aorta heart replacement valve, deafness, bad eyesight, bald head, Arthur Itis riddled knees and hands, lack of education, unsanitary habits, nightmares and impetigo in causing him some hassle, found himself (he does tend to lose himself occasionally too) unable to resist penning a letter to Downing Street, re the qualities of David William Donald Campbell – after he did a bit of research first like. Here it is…

Dear Nihilist,

I understand that you are of a superior class, intellect and magnificence, with an ostentatious streak that must be the envy of many a politician throughout the world.

I also appreciate that your rise to become the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom – without a majority vote, First Lord of the Treasury, Minister for the Civil Service and Leader of the Conservative Party, representing Witney as its Member of Parliament, has been gained through your troubled upbringing by your millionaire stockbroker father Ian Donald Cameron, your mater Mary Fleur-Cameron, second daughter of Sir William Mount, 2nd Baronet, and your Nanny who tenderly cared for you.

I also appreciate that your early childhood was one of nannies, matrons and tennis courts

In further acknowledgement of your standing worth and praiseworthiness, you are a great-great-great-great-great grandson of King William IV and his mistress Dorothea Jordan. This illegitimate line consists of five generations of women on your father’s maternal side starting with Elizabeth Hay, Countess of Erroll née FitzClarence, William and Jordan’s sixth child, your father’s maternal grandmother, Stephanie Levita, daughter of Sir Alfred Cooper and Lady Agnes Duff (sister of Alexander Duff, 1st Duke of Fife) and was a sister of Duff Cooper, 1st Viscount Norwich, GCMG, DSO, PC, a Liberal democrat statesman and author.

Your paternal grandmother, Enid Levita, who married secondly in 1961 a younger son of 1st Baron Manton was the niece of Sir Cecil Levita, KCVO CBE, Chairman of London County Council in 1928. Through the Mantons, Cameron also has kinship with Alexander Fermor-Hesketh, 3rd Baron Hesketh, KBE, PC, and Conservative Chief Whip in the House of Lords-93.

Your maternal grandfather was Sir William Mount, 2nd Baronet, an army officer and the High Sheriff of Berkshire, and your maternal great-grandfather was Sir William Mount, 1st Baronet, CBE, Labour MP for Newbury 1918-1922. Lady Ida Matilde Alice Fielding, Your great-great grandmother, was the daughter of William Feilding, 7th Earl of Denbigh, GCH, PC, a courtier and Gentleman of the Bedchamber.

You are also a great great-nephew of Admiral Sir James Hanway Plumridge KCB MP (c. 1788 – 29 November 1863) who was a British naval officer whose career extended from Trafalgar to the Crimean War, and a Liberal Party Member of Parliament.

Your forebears have a long history in finance, which in turn should naturally make you wise and learned in such matters. (Hehehe!… sorry)

Your father Ian was senior partner of the stockbrokers Panmure Gordon, in which firm partnerships had long been held by Cameron’s ancestors, including your grandfather and great-grandfather.

Your great-great grandfather Emil Levita, a German-Jewish financier who obtained British citizenship in 1871, was the director of the Chartered Bank of India, Australia and China which became Standard Chartered Bank in 1969. (No surprise then that you are involved in banking yourself and letting them get away with murder is it?)

Your wife’s great-great grandmother was a descendant of the wealthy Danish Jewish Rée family, whose ancestors originated from Altona, Hamburg, Germany and Głogów, Poland. (Another reason perhaps that you fail to get to grips with the mass immigration?) One of Emile’s sons, Arthur Francis Levita (d.1910) (brother of Sir Cecil Levita), of Panmure Gordon stockbrokers, together with great-great-grandfather Sir Ewen Cameron, London head of the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank, played key roles in arranging loans supplied by the Rothschilds to the Japanese central banker (later Prime Minister) Takahashi Korekiyo for the financing of the Japanese Government in the Russo-Japanese war. (No surprise then that you are involved in banking yourself and letting them get away with murder is it?)

Another great-grandfather, Ewen Allan Cameron, was senior partner of Panmure Gordon stockbrokers and served on the Council for Foreign Bondholders, and the Committee for Chinese Bondholders (set up by the then-Governor of the Bank of England Montagu Norman in November 1935).

Add to this wonderful history, your own contributions to the country and your excellent missing leadership qualities, no doubt gained in your years being pampered by nanny, and your upper class prancing about learning to be superior at Eton, and it becomes plain for all to see, that you are probably the one man in the country to understand about Cornish pasties, bus-passes, turning off heating because one cannot afford to run it, being made redundant, sick patients who cannot afford private medical bills, being unemployed, and living in comparative poverty! Innit?

In the highly unlikely event that this letter should reach your eyes, I’ll add that the venom with which I hate you has no match!

Your unblinking ability to lie and fail on your promises also has no match, and would currently be of a superior quality, and more frequent than those of Herr Hitler, Joseph Stalin, and Tony Blair! At least Blair was voted into office!

If (although highly unlikely in your case) you were wondering how you have managed to get your party through the last few years, the answer might be; A YouGov poll for the Sunday Times found that two-thirds of people think Miliband isn’t providing an effective opposition. And this is very true.

On a lighter note, you can’t live forever despite your inherited wealth and plutomania, your aloof presumptuousness, nihilism and superior conceit, you will croak out one day. I hope to be there to welcome you through the gates… without your privileges’.

I wish you a harrowing, uncomfortable remainder of your life. And to those suffering through your monitory actions, I pray for.


Juan Inchcock Chambers

Please send reply to: The Ex-Gas-lamp Lighters and Snuffer Outers Retirement Home, Muggers Lane, Nottingham.


Filed under Humour, Politics, Satire, The League Of Mental Men