These are tough times, and us fast-living, hard working entrepreneurs have begun to appreciate that some of the population are not enjoying the benefits of the capitalist system to the same extent as us.
To show what a nice guy I am, I am offering an olive branch to the locals who I upset with my resi plans. I’ve pulled the lads off site on all our RC Residential schemes in Cheshire. This has been done with the encouragement of our funders, Kaupthing Bank.
I then threw a big party in the garden of Cashman Towers for my special birthday. Mrs C got Paul Young to sing a few numbers – I think he snogged her sister round the back of the Altrincham Grammar School disco circa 1979. Mrs C even held a raffle round the council estates in Alderley and Knutsford so one lucky family could come and join in the fun on the night – well, to see the sound check and have a free can of wifebeater before the proper guests arrived.
And with tickets at £10 a pop we made a few quid. I tell you what though, these simpletons just never read the small print do they? As we were herding them out some of them tried to say they thought they were tickets to see a concert. Come on, get real. As if. It’s just what the banks have had to deal with when they started giving mortgages to the audience on Jeremy Kyle.
I’ve also invested millions to tidy the area up a bit. A mate put me on to getting a Woodland Creation Grant, which paid for a few trees – and we’ve tried to protect the locals from certain hazards. We bought the house next door, which had some land, a duck pond and a boggy field in the grounds. Obviously Mrs C was worried little kiddies could wander in and drown in the pond, or get stuck in the field, so I put a fence around it and made it clear they weren’t to enter. I was nice about it. You know me, I like a joke, but these in-breds just didn’t understand I WAS JOKING when I put up a sign saying “trespassers will be shot”.
The masterplan is to organise some community activities. Sadly, our first go backfired. Literally. A few of the lads came over for a duck shoot. I invited my MP George Osborne and a couple of Russian lads with a few quid to throw about. There we were, popping away, having a great time, feathers everywhere, before the rozzers turned up because the locals had complained. It was bedlam. But this is not about animal rights. It’s class war.
The bitter stench of envy hangs heavy in the air over Cheshire these days. The hand of peace is still outstretched. But so, friends, is my patience.