This might not be to everyones taste, but hey! Its a snippet from a weekly column in an evening newspaper. Another chav-hater...

Anyone who doesn't think the royal family is funny should probably not read on: and don't blame me... i didn't write it!

I've always been somewhat ambivalent about the National Lottery.

It's always struck me as a good way of conning stupid poor people into funding stupid middle class arts projects like that £10,000 upside down dead tree now "growing" in Knowle West, Bristol. (Obviously, us middle classes can't afford such things ourselves - we've been repeatedly mugged by Gordon Brown to the point where prostitution seems the best proposition when it comes to paying the school fees.)

But Mrs B is a convert. Every Saturday afternoon, while I'm enjoying port and cigars in a football ground boardroom somewhere in the country, off she goes to wager her pound. Sometimes my man Whittaker will drive her, but if he's busy strangling stoats in the Lower Meadow she'll happily yomp the seven miles or so to the nearest 24-hour ScroteShop (purveyors of microwave meals and cheap cider to the Giro-wielding classes).

Once there, she'll take her place in the lengthy queue amid the slack-jawed, gum-chewing, knuckle-dragging dross of society, the shiny golden coins saved religiously from their crack allowance clutched in their sweaty, tattooed, sovereign ring-encrusted paws.

Bear with me. I can feel a digression coming on.

Who are these people, these Burberry Apes with their back-to-front baseball caps, their silly technicolour trainers and their boom-boom Vauxhall Astras with the windows down and the volume set at max? From whence did they spring? We didn't have them when I was a lad.

Back then, poor people knew their place. They had bread and dripping and coin-operated televisions. They had too many children and a mangle in the back yard. They had vests and chilblains. They had sterilised milk bottles on their kitchen table and torn up newspaper hanging on a hook in their outside toilet.

But they knew who they were, and they knew that one day it might be the pools man banging on the front door rather than the tally man. At least they lived in hope, however misplaced it might have been.

Our current welfare classes have no idea how to behave. They somehow think that they're as good as the rest of us, the honest working people who fund their indulgent, selfish lifestyles.

The male of the species is a feckless, workshy scrote, devoid of responsibility or ambition and drip-fed lager and Lacoste by a frightened government. He will never work. His father (should he be able to identify him from the men in his immediate community who are 14 years older than him) never worked, so why should he?

Anyway, having a job means getting up, going to work and following instructions. It requires discipline and a sense of self-respect. Why bother with that when Trisha's on the telly and the bookies opens in half an hour?

The female of the species is an even more simplistic specimen. With their bejewelled kebab bellies rising unopposed above their elasticated waistbands, their builders' bottom thongs and their babies with pierced ears, these young women no longer look upon raising a child as a labour of love but as a career opportunity. Kids equal council houses, and benefits, and a lifetime diet of Lambert and Butler and Pot Noodles. And the more the merrier.

And if a Friday night fumble with a stranger up a night club back alley, a bag of chips clutched in one hand and a bottle of alcopops in the other, results in yet another pregnancy, then so what? Just don't spill my chips, sweetheart. And what's your name again?

And do you know what's really scary? We're on a downward spiral. Think about it. The average couple, with two jobs and a mortgage, can barely afford to feed themselves, never mind finance a pair of expensive offspring. Meanwhile the shell-suit mob are at it like rabbits. Just ask Lizzie Bardsley.

Decent society, however you might care to define it, is under siege from a burgeoning underclass that breeds like rats and is gradually taking over by sheer weight of numbers. And while we might sneer at their so-called fashion sense, at least they're readily identifiable as they lurk smoking and spitting outside Poundstretcher and Argos.

It's now the school holidays, right? And every day, another school burns to the ground. Who do you think is doing it? Henry and George from the fee-paying prep school? Or Dwayne and Wayne from the excluded gang outside the amusement arcade? I think you know the answer.

Maybe we should be more proactive. Perhaps we should have a council-funded ScroteCatcher van that goes around picking up no-marks of either sex and forcibly sterilising them. Then we can look at ways of barcoding their existing offspring at birth, perhaps by inserting a microchip condemning them to lifelong expatriation to Wales.

Maybe we should be even more radical than that. You know those laboratories where evil scientists routinely scalpel the eyelids off kittens for fun? Let's get them to come up with a kind of Myxomatosis for scrotes. A deadly disease only transmitted through polyester sportswear, microwave chips and tin jewellery.

Let's face it. You'd only have to plant the bug on a Post Office counter on a Thursday morning and the problem would be solved.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the Lottery.

I think we have established by now that any idiot can win the Lottery. Solicitor or scrote, the fickle finger of fate is indiscriminate in its pointing.... [and so on....]


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