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Hazel Blears and the No Claims Bonus of Despair

“For me the words ’slash’ and ‘rubber’ have entirely different meanings,” I explained to the cop as he surveyed the destroyed tyres of my Citroen Xsara Picasso. “Know what I mean?”

The cop looked unimpressed and stared at my headlamps. “I’m afraid the chances of finding who did this to your car are slim to none,” he said bluntly. “But you’re a private investigator, maybe you should put your headlamps away, find the perpetrators of this heinous crime and bring them to justice.”

I reluctantly zipped up my leather catsuit and covered up my voluptuous 32A headlamps, then set about examining the area of interest. “Hey! Stop touching me there,” the cop said and scurried off.

My car was a mess. The damage to the windscreen had taken out my limited edition “If this Picasso is rockin’, don’t bother knockin’ because I’m having sex” car sticker, and somebody had written ‘BITCH’ across the bonnet, though I was pretty sure that hadn’t been there before the cop arrived. Not that I needed him, or his tight uniform. I already knew who was responsible: sailors. Once again I was going to have to go down to the bar at the docks and pound them until they gave me what I needed.

I took a cab to the docks and tried to pay the driver with the contents of my pocket. He declined and demanded money instead. I entered the bar that had become so familiar to me over the years and watched 20 drunken sailors attempt to slink away like sexy, sexy rats as they noticed my entrance.

“Come on now boys,” I said, “Don’t go for the back door just yet. There are vital things I need to extract from you first.”

I saw the barman approach. “Hey Blears, we don’t need any trouble. If you cause any more bruised bones around here I’m gonna have to close down.”

I stood on a chair and looked him in the groin. “I can’t help that this place is a magnet for the kind of guy that likes to try and shaft me,” I said. I gave him some money. “Have whatever these boys are having, or just buy yourself a drink.”

I turned and addressed the patrons. “I need to know which of you rats trashed my Citroen Xsara Picasso,” I said. “I’m offering the usual reward, as long as you’ve had the antibiotics.”

“You’re the big dick,” cried a voice from the back, “You figure it out.”

I pulled out my whip and got serious. “I could pick a cocktail sausage from between two tinned tomatoes at 50 paces with this,” I said. “Now you start talking or you’ll be on vegetarian breakfasts for the rest of your life.”

“You’re all mouth and no trousers, Blears,” a sailor near me said. “That’s why we wouldn’t damage your precious car. You wanna know who did it, maybe you’d better go ask… Le Merde.”

I gasped. Then moaned, then went weak at the knees, then lit a cigarette. “Le… Le Merde? But he’s dead! I finished him off six months ago when I resigned from his cabinet!”

“That’s what you think, Blears,” the barman growled. “You only wounded him. He’s still alive, and he wants you severely inconvenienced.”

“That’s right, Hazel,” said a familiar Scottish voice behind me. “I thought I’d find you here, where you always do your gruntwork.”

“Le Merde!” I gasped, gasping, moaning, and lighting another cigarette. “What do you want?”

“I just came to tell you we’re even now, Hazel. You trashed my reputation, I trashed your beloved Citroen Xsara Picasso. An eye for an eye, you might say.”

With that, he left. I sat down, stunned. A sailor, sensing what I needed, whipped out his prized possession. I grabbed it firmly in my hand and dialled my insurance company.

THE END

Ex-minister Blears’ car attacked