Grotesque, Unbelievable, Bizarre and Unprecedented

I must have been a complete bastard in a previous life because, unfortunately, I work for the Northern Ireland Civil Service, which is a bit like being back at school, except there's no Christian Brothers checking to see if you're 'wearing clean underwear'. So that makes the Oh Great Bronzed One, Northern Ireland Secretary (and for Wales, and for wherever the fuck else he feels like being in charge of this week) Peter Hain, my ultimate boss.

Now, Peter is a man of ambition. When Tony Blair pisses off to the lecture circuit and the House of Lords later this year, he'll take 'Two Shags' John Prescott with him; so when Gordon Brown takes over, he'll need a new deputy doormat, and our Pete wants to be the one that spunks his trunks when Gord says to him: 'Nip next door to the Spar and get me 20 Regal and the Daily Mirror, there's a good lad'.

So, in playing to the Old Labour gallery for support, our Pete decided to stick the boot into the whizz-kids in the City of London, criticising their £25 million bonuses. You won't get any complaints from me on that one. However, Hain goes on to say that 'Most people find it pretty grotesque that a couple of dozen City executives can share a billion pounds of bonuses between them'.

I'll tell you something else that most people, especially in our own Occupied Six Counties/This Here Pravince* (*delete as appropriate) find grotesque, Pete. They find the fact that you can pay your own employees just a fraction above the minimum wage 'grotesque'. They find the fact that someone doing the same job in the Welsh Office is paid more than someone in Northern Ireland 'grotesque'. They find the fact that you have given your top dogs in the NICS an £8000 backpay while ordinary Joe Soap gets a couple of hundred quid 'grotesque'. AND they find 'grotesque' the fact that you use that all that saved lolly to fund your sadist weekend naked mud-pit wrestling sessions with Carol Vorderman, Iris Robinson and Pat Butcher from Eastenders taking it in turns to pierce your bangle with a strap-on while wanking you off into Ronan Keating's gob. (OK, so I made the last bit up, but hey, it could explain why he looks so brown).

Let someone in London worry about the bonuses in the City. My only concern is my own backyard Pete, and you're not paying me a decent wage. So take your finger out of your fucking hole and do something about it.