The Prime Minister’s statement on his father’s tax avoidance

by articulatedsheep

This evening, it has emerged that the Prime Minister personally profited from an investment vehicle that his father, Ian, established to manage his cash in the Bahamas. Mr. Cameron has published a statement which we publish in full below. In doing so, we would like to make the caveat that what follows is entirely made up.

I would like the refute the baseless allegations that, in setting up his offshore investment vehicle Blairmore, my Dad was somehow hoping to avoid paying tax.

Nothing could be further from the truth. The notion that my family could be interested in the acquisition of yet more wealth evokes in me a sense of bitter irony.

In fact, the reality speaks to a dark time in my family’s history.

My Dad – like many once-active men entering their twilight years – was a hoarder. It was, perhaps, less obvious to his children and friends at first. In part, this was due to our family home being enormously palatial. But in time, we became to notice the wads of £50 notes crammed into cupboards, the attaché cases full of bearer bonds under the bed, and the crates of high-denomination US dollars that, gradually, filled the bedrooms.

The urge to gather large amounts of money became stronger and stronger in him. We tried to intervene – to make him see sense. But week after week, vans and lorries stuffed to the gunwhales with crisp new twenties and fifties would make their way to his door. We seemed powerless to stop it.

Eventually, Sam and I, while on a double-date with George and a woman who George did not, at the time, know to be a prostitute, tried to run through some plans for what to do with this simply colossal amount of cash. Initially, Sam and George suggested that we use it to buy vast quantities of cocaine, much of which we would then sell on to our rich, boring friends. This was a compelling idea – but such a drug operation would only end us with making even more money. Clearly, that was a non-starter. We investigated the possibility of putting into black bags onto onto the kerb for the council to collect with the rubbish collection, but one call to our local authority revealed that they would levy a hefty bulk waste collection fee.

George suggested that we donate it to charity, or perhaps give it to the poor and needy. I told him in no uncertain terms that the suggestion was in poor taste. To his credit, he apologised for his flippancy. It was, as I said, a difficult time.

Sam suggested that we use the cash to buy large amount of jewels, fine art and so on. While they would have the benefit of having less volume than hard cash, I nonetheless bridled at this suggestion. Using my father’s money to buy such items would encourage artists and jewellers to create yet more of them. Could I be part of a plan which involved the creation of aesthetically beautiful items, leading to the cultural enrichment of our society and a potential burgeoning of the fine arts? It would go against everything I have ever believed in. I could not in good conscience countenance the idea.

After a while, we hit upon the obvious solution. We would send the money as a freight shipment to the Bahamas, where some of our friends and business associates would rake it up into a big pile and burn it.

In arranging this, we discovered to our astonishment that many of our friends’ parents also suffered from the same affliction. Older gentlemen, beset by an insatiable urge to gather huge quantities of cash around themselves, came to us, sobbing with relief. “Please!” they cried as one. “Take this terrible money off our hands! We don’t care what you do with it!” We were only too happy to oblige.

I hope that this explains the very difficult decisions I had to make. Our intention was always to put my Dad’s money beyond use, not to avoid tax but to remove the terrible burden of immense wealth from an old, frail man.

The coda to this sorry story is the tale of my own profit from the sale of my holdings in Blairmore. I remember when the money arrived in a huge brown jiffy bag. I took it through to the kitchen, where Sam was using her face to carefully sweep up some sugar she seemed to have spilled on the table. I casually opened a kitchen cupboard and popped the bag in. I suddenly stopped. I looked at Sam. She looked at me. We knew what had just started. Would I end up like my father, drowning in an ocean of 500 euro notes?

No. That very night, I took that money. I found a tramp sleeping a doorway. I woke him up, and set fire to that money right in front of him.

From the tears in his eyes, I could tell that he agreed with me that it was the right thing to do. Both for myself, and by extension, for Britain.

Thank you for reading.

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