Dear Ms Thornberry,

I read in The Sun about the way you sneered at Dan from Rochester on Twitter and it made me sick, it made me want to give you a piece of my mind too. Before I start my rant at you, I’ll admit I’ve used a ghost writer for this. Why? I didn’t want you sneering at my poor written English. Before you mock me for that admission, I’ll tell you why it’s poor.

My Dad did a flit before I went to school. We lived in the East End of London, and mum struggled with no maintenance. She had no choice which school I went to, unlike you with your University Professor dad and Teacher mum. They could afford to send you to private school or live in the right area to get a good school. But I went to cr*p schools, the ones you Westminster politicians decided we had to have with no choice. And while I went to school, more and more immigrants came into our class: the teachers spent all their time with them, struggling with language and keeping up with the rest of the class. I lost interest, played up and left school with nothing, just about able to read The Sun and not a lot more.

After a few years of wasting my life, including a bit of time inside (you do know what that means lady, don’t you?) for a bit of petty thieving, I got a sexy girlfriend. I sharpened up, got a job, working as a chippie, learning my trade the hard way: humping and dumping and making the tea, but getting a City and Guilds for Joinery in the end.  I was really proud of that for the rubbish start I’d had in life, and dragging myself up by my bootstraps. Proud, like you would have been when you got your fancy degree in Law.

I started working as a contractor on the sites: it was good money in those days, and I started thinking about marrying my gorgeous girlfriend, settling down and raising a family.

When we started looking at houses, we couldn’t find a council house, sh*t, I mean social housing, so I thought about buying on a mortgage. But even then, in London, property prices were way too high, let alone the crazy prices now. So, we moved outside London, to Essex, near the sea and countryside, but close enough to London to still work on juicy contracts in the City. And, we managed to escape from being surrounded by the United Nations – the ghost writer tells me I mustn’t swear about some of the effing ‘orrible things those people did, ‘cos I might be called a racist. I’m no racist, but if they want to live in my country, I expect them to respect the law, to join in the community and not want it all their own way.

So, we settled down, we had two great kids, the contracts kept coming, the rates stayed high, but slowly things started to get worse. When all those Poles and Hungarians were allowed in, on top of the Asians already taking some of the jobs, the hourly rates started dropping. I started working longer hours, the traffic got worse and worse, and my days got longer and longer – I was knackered by the time I got home and needed the whole weekend just to recover.

Then the bankers b*ggered it all up in 2008 – contracts were few and far between, and work was stop-start. But, as a self-employed contractor, I couldn’t get unemployment pay, and things got tougher and tougher – thank God the mortgage rates came down, but prices kept going up. Pay rates kept going down, East Europeans happy to work for less than us Brits, and some were a safety liability with language issues.

And it got worse, as work picked up, I noticed that immigrants were beginning to move into our town. The roads were now getting more and more clogged – I sit in traffic jams at 5:30 in the morning now going into London, and all it takes is an evening rush hour accident, and there’s effing grid lock. The government are clamping down on us contractors too, trying to get more and more tax from us, but they don’t care we can’t claim benefits and have to pay for our own training and sickness.

Oh, and the kids are struggling at school, now the classes are so overcrowded with immigrants who need extra help – bigger classes, less teacher time for the English speaking kids. And my mum was very ill – the NHS treated her really badly, the doctors and nurses seemed more interested in paperwork rather than caring for patients, and the hospital treated her like she was sh*t.  In fact, they killed her: she caught an infection, dying of it. I tried to complain, but the whole thing got whitewashed.

And we’re really struggling paying the heating bills with all these windmills on rich people’s land we’re getting, and my mates at work say there will be power cuts this winter when they shut down the coal-fired power stations. Is the government stupid, or something?

You know what, Ms Thornberry, this is all your fault, your party’s fault till 2010, and then Posh Dave and his lot since then pretending to be New Labour.  You know what you’ve done, as a barrister you must be an intelligent person and I don’t need to spell it out, but you’ve let all these extra people in who drive down wages, make work harder to get, and fill up our schools, hospitals and roads. You’ve also messed up the economy, raised taxes and increased prices .

Other than the family, the one bit of happiness in my life is when my team wins. If West Ham thrash Spurs, or England slaughters the Krauts, I’m a happy bunny, so that’s why the English flag also flies outside my house like it does Dan’s. AND, I’m proud to be English. Got that, lady?

And there you are, living in your posh expensive houses, with overpaid jobs, snouts in the politics trough while the ordinary working man and his family suffers… and you sneer at us. Call yourself a LABOUR MP? Fighting for the rights of the working man? Understand our problems? Like hell you do!

I hope I never hear about you again. I’ve never been interested in politics but after what you did to White Van Man Dan, I’m going to vote UKIP, not only to stick two fingers up to you, Mili-whatsit (another one in a classy expensive Islington house), Posh Dave and that Clegg bloke, but because now I’m listening to Nigel Farage, and he makes a lot of sense to me.

Lady, don’t you ever dare take a picture of my van outside my house….

Yours very sincerely,

(Name withheld)

 

(Note: This letter is entirely fictional, but we’d like to believe it’s what the genuine article might be like if another White Man Van did send a letter to Emily Thornberry)

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