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Baroness Warsi accuses Labour of trying to make political capital out of the news that a woman suffered 40% burns when petrol ignited as she was decanting it in her kitchen.
When two gas people came to work for six hours into the night to repair a leak in the pavement of over 52 LEL (explosive level), I gave them mugs of tea. I knew that it wasn't a job I could do. I would be surprised if they were on anything like the same rate of pay as tanker drivers. Of course, I could be wrong.
Declaration of result in Chipping Barnet Constituency (Reginald Maudling) and interviews between Sir Robin Day with Margaret Thatcher (Finchley) and Reginald...
I'm not sure why a tanker driver's salary should be an issue here, as ferrying around several thousand litres of highly flammable fuel must be one of the more dangerous jobs around. I gather they are concerned that supplier incentives to get more deliveries more quickly has raised safety concerns as well.
Or perhaps, the granny's version of this old poem:
Come into the garage, Maude
And listen to a granny's moan.
Come into the garage, Maude
For a crack on the funny bone.
For the petrol all has gone to hoard
And the car's as dry as a stone.
No longer drift hot pasty smells
Through streets and homes up 'ere.
Those nasty Tory toffs and swells
Have taxed our pies and black beer.
We'd gladly all knock seven bells
Out of yon cronies drear.
I can't be doing with such as Maude
Who care for those with cash and bling.
Their City pals get fat with fraud,
While folks for their suppers sing.
How long before he's made a Lord?
And here no pasties, petrol, anything!
Come into the garage, Maude
And listen to a granny's moan.
Come into the garage, Maude
For a crack on the funny bone.
For the petrol all has gone to hoard
And the car's as dry as a stone.
No longer drift hot pasty smells
Through streets and homes up 'ere.
Those nasty Tory toffs and swells
Have taxed our pies and black beer.
We'd gladly all knock seven bells
Out of yon cronies drear.
I can't be doing with such as Maude
Who care for those with cash and bling.
Their City pals get fat with fraud,
While folks for their suppers sing.
How long before he's made a Lord?
And here no pasties, petrol, anything!
..and one might end, "I am here at the pump a-(top C, glissando down) lone."
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