"Don't panic. I've just put £400k on black."

LET’S IMAGINE that you’ve come home from work, slumped at the dinner table in front of the starter of Findus Crispy Pancakes followed by the main course of Vesta Beef Curry, and you say to the Missus: “Oh, by the way love, I’ve re-mortgaged the house for £400,000.”

What do you think she’s going to say? “No problem, dearest. I’m sure you know best. Now where do I sign?”

Or: “You’ve what? Are you quite mad? How are we going to pay that back? And what’s the money for – wine, cigarettes and football as usual? Well you can forget about any of that bedroom nonsense until you’ve paid it off …”

Which brings us to Culture Minister Tessa Jowell. Now I’ve already given up on trying to keep track of her financial arrangements, which seem to involve multiple mortgages worth several millions of pounds, so I’ll just concentrate on that £400,000.

Are we really meant to believe that she simply didn’t ask her husband about the reason for the increased debt? And are we really meant to believe that he didn’t tell her that we was planning to pay it off a month later with a £350,000 “gift” from an Italian well-wisher?

It beggars belief. We’ve grown accustomed to NuLabour politicians thinking they can lie to us with impunity. And I’ve usually lost my voice long before Question Time rolls round on a Thursday evening after spending four days shouting at the telly or the Today programme as Minister after Minister refuses point blank to answer a simple question. Their utter contempt for the voter is obvious.

Now I’m not saying that Ms Jowell should resign because she’s a liar. That would be utterly untrue and potentially libellous. But I am saying that she should resign because she is, by her own admission, so patently stupid that she can’t be bothered to ask her husband why he’s put the family in hock for another £400k. And anyone that daft – and so cavalier with her own finances – doesn’t deserve to hold high public office.

WE CONTINUE our Scrote of the Year competition – first prize, free fags for life and the best parking space at Tesco – with Mr Stephen Sinnott from, you’ve guessed it, Merseyside.

Mr Sinnott claimed a total of £23,000 in disability benefits by convincing the gullible clowns at the DHSS that he was unable to walk more than 45 yards in one hike and that he needed help to get dressed and to prepare meals.

It was therefore unfortunate that after being shopped by an outraged neighbour, he was caught on video running the Chester half-marathon in a creditable 1hr 9mins. He now faces a maximum seven years in prison, but will obviously get off with community service, and spend a couple of days painting an old lady’s fence.

Meanwhile, given the buckets of abuse this column pours on those perceived to be taking the honest majority for a ride, we should pay tribute to the multi-kidded Beadle family from North Yorkshire.

This family of 14, with children ranging in ages from five to 31, works for a living. Every one of them over school-leaving age has a job. Their parents had four jobs between them until the father, Chris, had a heart attack. Even so, he refuses to claim benefit for his condition.

If all of the Beadles jacked it in and relied on the State, they would actually be £2,600 a year better off than they are now. It is to their credit, and to the shame of millions of others, that they choose not to take this route. I always knew that it would take Northerners to get this nation back on the moral high ground.

SO WHEN did this country really start going down the pan? You can cite the downfall of Her Royal Highness, St Maggie of Grantham. You can blame decimalisation, the day they put cheese and onion crisps in blue bags, or even Jordan. But for me it was the day England cricketers started flying home from Test series just because their wives were about to give birth.

I mean, what’s all that about? You work all your young life to earn your place amongst the nation’s finest cricketers, you fly halfway around the world, you stave off dysentery and flies and, just as their demon fast bowler starts his run up, you bugger off back to Blighty because the wife is about to pup. Can you imagine Ian Botham doing that? It’s madness.

(And what about the lads in Iraq and Afghanistan? Can you imagine them ducking the next firefight because of an urgent appointment on the maternity ward?)

These blokes are on good money now. I don’t want our best batsman to be stuck in the delivery ward amid blood, snot and histrionics, watching a miniature Winston Churchill emerging from his wife’s front bottom when he should instead be working out how to spot the googly when it comes out of the back of the hand against a sinking sun. Who pays their wages anyway? We do.

Fortunately, one bloke has decided to buck the trend. The wonderful Andrew Flintoff, who already carries England’s batting, bowling and fielding, has had to assume the captain’s job after injuries and whining womenfolk reduced our Test squad in India to an under-manned schoolboy rabble. And, as such, he has announced that his wife will have to produce sprog number two without his doubtful assistance.

Well done, that man. I knew it would take a Northerner to get the nation back on the moral high ground.

O The views of Mr Beelzebub are purely personal and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the Editor or staff of this website, of anyone not wanting to strangle that appalling woman off The Apprentice, of anyone who’s already bought tickets for Gary Glitter’s Christmas show this year, or of anyone even remotely surprised that Cherie Booth QC has found time in her busy schedule to write a book called The Negligence Liability of Public Authorities (a.k.a. How To Sue The Council) in her spare time. The grasping, two-faced cow.