The tube and train strikes where overpaid train drivers and staff who earn over £65,000 per year to simply sit in a seat on a train with many automated functions may be causing havoc for commuters but certainly not for the militant Marxist shit bag RMT chief Mick Lynch who earns over £160,000 per annum including benefits.
What is an ordinary day like for the RMT supreme comrade?
“I wake up in the morning to the sound of the Russian soviet anthem on my phone at about 10.30am.
“I ring the bell and my personal butler, Comrade Jeeveski comes into my room with my breakfast consisting of imported Balik salmon, two duck eggs, Oscetra caviar, crème fraiche and mini brioche washed down with a glass of Laurent Perrier champagne.
“The butler opens the curtains and prepares one of my bespoke Savile Row suits which I have customised to have an RMT logo with a hammer and sickle logo on the inside pocket label. The average price for each suit I own is, I don’t know, in the region of 5-10,000 pounds. Today I will be wearing some tweed, I think this one was £6,500. If some of my Berluti shoes are slightly scuffed, Jeeveski will polish them before he dresses me.
“By 12am I am ready to depart, summoning one of the maids to clean my room, and also give me some relief before my stressful day of causing chaos on the rail networks ruining the journeys of millions of commuters. Today, I summon Daisy, a gentle fresh English rose with fellatial skills that would make even Meghan Markle baulk in awe.
“After I finish, it is time to summon my chauffeur to fire up the Bentley, and I make final arrangements to leave home. Maybe a final glass of champagne or toot of snuff. Sometimes I light up a Cuban soviet cigar, only the best Arturo Fuente Opus X will sate my Marxist sensibilities and at £38,000 per box they are well worth the cost to the taxpayer.
“The journey to the RMT HQ is curiously long because of the train and tube strike I have called. Even though the distance is short from my Mayfair home, there is definitely a huge increase in traffic as the roads are basically car parks adorned with thousands of buses, taxis and of course vans, lorries, cars. This is a show of my ultimate Marxist power to shut down the capital. I fire up comrade Sadiq Khan’s number and enjoy the view as we talk about the wonderful train strike. Comrade Sadiq is a great friend and congratulates me on ruining London’s transport system even further than even he has. He promises the RMT even more TfL funding by increasing taxation and penalties on Londoners.
“By the time I arrive at the RMT HQ it is time for lunch, so I order the driver to take me to Claridges. For starters, I enjoy the delights of Terrine of foie gras and pistachio spiced apricot, Sauternes jelly on toasted brioche. For the main, the very special Claridge’s Cornish lobster and risotto truffle sauce suffices. I give a soviet burp to the waiter and fart loudly to show my approval. Dessert is simply sumptuous, a Valrhona dark chocolate fondant with Earl Grey cream, chocolate sauce and opalys sorbet. I add an additional fart to signal my blessing. All of this was of course washed down with a few limited edition jeroboams of the 2002 vintage Louis Roederer Cristal ‘Gold Medalion’ Orfevres Brut Millesime.
“I must do some work, it is nearly 4pm. It is time to go back to the RMT HQ. After I bill the RMT expenses account for my lunch, my chauffeur picks me up at the back entrance of Claridges. I certainly do not want our RMT members or any of the press to see me exiting from such a symbolic place of capitalist indulgence.
“Arriving again at the RMT HQ the time is already 5.30pm. It is time to return home for supper. I receive a few phone calls on the way back. One from Comrade Starmer who congratulates me on calling more strikes, and another from the London Mayor congratulating me again for another hard day’s of non-work conducting the train and tube strike.
“At home after another hard day of no work, my personal chef Jean Pierre concocts another exquisite creation. Cherry tomatoes, filled with burrata and basil, Nice olives with tomato sauce infused with fig leaves, Mackerel, cooked the escabèche way, crunchy fennel with bottarga, octopus with an amazing olive oil confit, beetroot declination with rose from Grasse…et voila, the catch of the day fresh from Billingsgate served with barbecued artichokes, anchovy butter, fish soup, and then some delightful roasted lamb avec niçoise zucchini and cherries with harissa. For dessert, I enjoy a delightful rhubarb concoction with different textures and sage, along with a serving of Guanaja chocolate layers with raspberries and Madagascar vanilla. I want to keep some of my working class routes, so I wash all of this shit down with sixteen bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale emitting a burp that lasts for at least 1 minute 45 seconds.
“Ah, after a long and fruitful day, it is time for a shower and bed. I summon up another one of the maids, this time Janice to ruffle up my pillows and provide me with some much-needed hand relief. I remember, I have to arrange another £85,000 trip to the Maldives billed to TfL, of course. Finally, I have the finest cognac delivered to my bedroom as I switch on the news to see my handy work on all the channels. Another successful day of chaos. I giggle uncontrollably as I put my head on the pillow as I realise my pay packet will also rise next year, possibly by another 20%. Praise Das Kapital. Sweet dreams…”
