OVER the last year, I have been left aghast by the selfishness of Britons politicians and people in their wilful, egocentric behaviour.
After I nobly stood down, having delivered Brexit to a grateful public, I expected no plaudits. I knew that, humbly and without thought for my own gain, I had served my country well.
But since that day – the last of a golden era in British politics – I have been horrified by the toxic self-interest displayed by those who question the majesty and wonder of austerity.
Whether critics are thinking of their own careers, like Boris Johnson, or unable to see past their own stomachs, like nurses who believe they are too good to enjoy the simple charity of food banks, they’re all looking after number one.
I had no thought of myself when founding austerity. That I, and my investments, and my family and their investments, and coincidentally everyone I went to school with, did extremely well out of it only proved it was the right course.
But now that great policy which has brought so much to so few is in danger. This towering monument to my own modest humility could be demolished.
And as I sit here in my lowly bespoke £25,000 writing hut, preparing my memoirs as a gift to the nation, I despair for the England I love, and the other bits, to ever find a man as selfless, as moral, as altruistic as I.
This is exactly why the Big Society failed. You’re nothing but a bunch of grabbing bastards.
