More observations from touring British Conservative MP Sir Giles Fortescue-Snoot.

I say the chaps on the West Coast of the South Island are a queer lot. And I don’t mean queer like cousin Bertie (or Bertrice, as he now insists upon being called). No I mean rum, peculiar, curious, singular. I’m certain that a more dedicated in-breeding programme would iron out some of these oddities.

The local chaps are excited at the news that one of their MPs has done something important. It seems that Labour MP Damien O’Connor has finally stood up for the long-persecuted white heterosexual male. Hear him! Hear him! The man speaks wisdom when he says that white males are becoming an endangered species. If we’re not careful we may soon be left with only 80% of the world’s wealth and power.

Damien O’Connor would have my vote if I lived on the West Coast. Like all lunatic socialists his politics may be anathema to me, but due to a terrifying childhood incident involving a small rodent and a plunger I just wouldn’t be able to vote for someone with the word “vole” in his last name.

I read in the news that the couple from Dannevirke who won $17 million playing the lottery had been “on the bones of their arses”. My driver tells me this phrase is a vulgarity used by the hoi-polloi to describe abject poverty

It’s always a delight to see a big lottery win going to someone truly deserving. So it was a shame to learn that the people who won were so poor. People who’ve never had any money just don’t know how wonderful it is. That’s why I never give to charities, unless they’re dedicated to helping Tory MPs who’ve fallen on hard times after being caught with their pants down and their hands in the till.

I’ve no sympathy for those who complain about being unable to pay the bills or make ends meet. How is it they can’t manage their affairs and yet the rest of us do just splendidly? You won’t hear me complaining about how rough life is. I manage to survive just fine on the two million pound annual allowance Daddy gives me.

All the same, a few million extra would be handy. The roof of my country home needs to be regilded, and it simply isn’t reasonable to expect a man of my standing to make savings by cutting down on high-class rent-boys or crates of 18th century French wine.

I was most distressed to read that the news media have been insolently questioning the Governor General’s spending. The journalists who wrote this article ought to be stripped naked and horsewhipped. Yes, I’d pay good money to see that thong striking their naked soft flesh and making their bodies writhe rhythmically again and again in unison with the strap as they bent over and took what they deserved.

Goodness me, now look what I’ve done! Luckily Mummy packed me plenty of spare trousers. Goodbye for now!