The Pointless-Cretin arrived to collect Annabelle for her fortnightly ‘Audience With Her Father’ yesterday.
I spent the next half an hour assuming the crash position. Head between my knees, fighting an attractive blend of pure rage, nausea and oxygen deficiency.
This is not because of the fact that he arrived late.
Nor is it because, on arriving outside the house he ignorantly ‘beep-beep-beep-ed’ his horn instead of going to the effort of unfurling his designer clad leggies, and actually alighting from his vehicle to ring on the doorbell of our dwelling.
The reason that blood began pouring out of my ears is that he swept into our little close driving a brand new, eighty grand Range Rover.
Six pounds a week he contributes to Annabelle’s life, and I had to fight tooth and nail to mobilise the Child Support Agency (CSA), or whatever it is they call themselves these days, to insist on that.
Apparently he doesn’t earn enough to offer a single penny more than that.
In actual fact he earns plenty.
Utilising a loop-hole created by the setting up of his own business, he (as a Director) gets to pay himself a pepper-corn salary and extract the rest of his wonga via directors dividends and other under-the-table manouvres.
When you’re a director, the purchase of a three foot wide plasma screen becomes ‘a new computer monitor,’ the sixteenth shopping trip to New York becomes ‘a business trip’, meals out, new designer threads for himself, iPads, iPods and iPhones, become money extracted straight from his business as expenses, and tax-free at that.
The CSA are only interested in his ‘payslip.’
Since he writes that to himself and is probably around twenty pounds a month or somesuch, it’s all a bit of a farce.
The Government seem to be singularly incapable of acting in any meaningful way to force McDads to pony up and financially support their children. What I want to know is, in this day and age, with these times of austerity upon us, how can Cameron and Clegg justify tax-payers up and down the country being asked to foot the bill for helping struggling single-mums in the raising of these discarded children?
Statisticians frequently let us know how much it costs to raise a child from birth to eighteen years old, it’s a quantifiable sum of money.
It isn’t a ‘how long is a piece of string’ equation.
From John ‘O’ Groats to Lands End, kids don’t need to eat less, nor do they need fewer clothes or baths.
Kids need food, shelter, clothing, heat and light, not to mention childcare so that Mum can go back to work and not be constantly labelled ‘a drain on society’ by the very same lofty Government officials who are happily standing by as this absolute travesty continues.
Calculate how much that costs, divide it in two and make the lazy, irresponsible sods pay it.
In some states in America, failure to pay child support lands you in jail.
Priorities need to be gotten straight around here, and perhaps the threat of jail would encourage dead-beat dads the country over to hastily re-evalute whether a flashy motor, that extra pint of beer and Ibiza-ing it up real nice are worth the time they’ll spend behind bars if they continue to ignore the responsibility that they themselves created.
Someone has to foot the bill, why precisely should the average tax-payer whom, in addition to having quite enough on their own plates at the moment, never met Annabelle’s pointless cretin of a father and certainly didn’t agree to buy him a new Range Rover.
High time these men learned to lie in their beds as they made them, because, say what you like about single mums, (the fifty per cent of the child producing partnership that actually stayed with their kids) the reality is that the majority of them are just trying their best to bring their children up the best way they know how and more importantly, are financially able to.
It’s high-days and holidays for these so-called ‘fathers’ with nary a cloud in their blue, blue sky.
After all, they snigger behind their pints, who’s going to stop them?
Cameron, Clegg, over to you?
There’s an election in the distant future.
That’s all I’m saying.