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Iain Duncan Smith caught in the act!


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ians1

Tue Aug 16 2011, 04:53AM

Registered Member #2

Joined: Sat Sep 12 2009, 06:42AM

Posts: 59

You will all love this story, from a friend of mine, and yes, it is
true.
Please feel free to spread the story as wide as you like, the society
daily 15.08.11 in the Guardian has picked up on it, Kaliya blogged it.

Enjoy the irony and hypocrisy!!!

A lovely 'you-couldn't make-it-up' incident presented itself to me
tonight. Earlier on this evening I took part in Channel 4's 'Street
Riots: The Live Debate' over in a studio in Endell Street, Covent
Garden. It's nice being picked up by a chauffeur driven car; deposited
into the heart of the West End; and, by-passing queues to be admitted
into the green room for free nosh and drinks.

But, I deviate.

Anyway, back on track. Eventually we're herded into the studio and the
warm-up guy does his warm-up stuff, and we gingerly laugh at his not-
so-funny patter. Krishan Guru-Murthy, a lot smaller in real life
(wears Cuban heels), then gives the SP of the show and introduces us
to Iain Duncan-Smith, Hilary Benn, MP, Adrian Mills an Ealing
restaurateur (his restaurant was ransacked and looted), Paul Gladstone
Reid a composer, pianist, singer-songwriter and producer, and a rather
taciturn policeman who referred to all explanations and views contrary
to his as 'excuses'.

The debate went fairly well. Duncan-Smith and the businessman holding
the old law-and-order line; people-have-to-take-personal-
responsibility-for-their-own-

actions was intimated several times by
Duncan-Smith in relation to cutting benefits and evicting, even,
parents of children convicted of looting.

The Tory line when confronted with problems is always to fall back on
the old chestnut of family values and personal responsibility. And
Duncan-Smith ensured that nobody, whether they agreed with him or not,
left the studio without his message messing around with more pleasant
thoughts, such as those ice cold bottles of Peroni waiting for me when
I get home.

The show ended and the floor manager wanted us, wheelchair users, to
wait until the studio was cleared. No way Pedro! I'd sat for an-hour-
and-a-half in a lot of pain, and I needed to pee, quite quickly. So, I
got out first, or so I thought, and headed for the lift to take me to
the ground floor and the adapted toilet.

Up we went. Out of the lift, throw a right. Bob's your uncle, there's
the 'special' loo waiting to accept yours truly. No. I can't use the
thing says a young geezer all skinny jeans, Loake's brogues and Ralph
Lauren cardy. "Sorry sir, there's someone in there. He won't be a
minute" instructs this trendy clothes horse, probably a TV researcher.
"Ok mate" I say; relief, hopefully, a minute or two away.

Three minutes later the door to the disabled toilet, the one with the
big sign announcing in pictogram the universal symbol of disability,
and out strolls Iain Duncan-Smith!

Oh glory! Hallelujah! My peeing need seemed to vanish from my mind as
I mentally uncrossed my legs and said to Duncan-Smith: "This is an
adapted toilet, see the sign?" Which he acknowledged uncomfortably.
"Why are you abusing this facility? I've had to wait in extreme pain
and discomfort because you think you're above the rules that everyone
else accepts!"

Duncan-Smith, is somewhat trapped, because I've placed my wheelchair
between him and the door, and my PA is standing by my legs, so the
trapped rat can't vault over me and do a runner.

Then as I have him on the ropes waiting to deliver my coup de grace
down drop his gloves his guard is gone as he splutters out "I'm sorry,
but somebody told me I could use it".
Gotcha! "So, if someone told you to pick up that TV because it was
going begging. You'd pick up the TV?" I asked. "What's happened to
your sense of personal responsibility for your own action?" I pressed.
"Are you exempt from the rules and regulations you spent the past hour
telling us we must adhere to because that's how we maintain an orderly
society?" I finished pushing my way into the loo.

Duncan-Smith, thinking he could do a runner took full advantage of my
cessation of the harangue and just as he thought he'd escaped the
loony wheely, I looked into the bowl and spotted he hadn't flushed the
loo.

"Oy!" I called, arresting ADS's flight: "Do you know it's customary to
flush the khazy after use?"

I can still picture his look, a mixture of abject contempt and 'beam-
me-up-Scotty', as he drew an embarrassed grin across his Chevy while
abruptly turning a corner to the safety of the street.


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