Sunday, 23 November 2014




 Strikingly stylish and debonair, Nigel is in playful mood as he models his bespoke, Out Of Europe-style pimpcoat, featuring  a natty velvet collar, just the thing for promenading around Brussels' naughty red-light district, on expenses, naturally, I think you'll find that my  claims for sex-worker liaison meetings are all quite above board, snorts BigBoy Farage, quite above board; notice the feature ticket pocket to the wearer's right, just  ideal for Nigels' up-to-the-minute Ronson cigarette lighter with which he impresses the ladies, along with his funky, ashtray kisses; his smokey breath; his deep, sexy cough and his intriguingly yellowed fingers; a real man about town, is our Nigel, he'll show you ladies a good time.

 I'm a bit fussy, knoworramean, about whom it is wot  I model for, jokes debonair older gent, Arthur. Wot, not them riffraff from UKIP, wooden be cort dead wiv  'em. I mean, nuffin' but fuckin' spivs an' arse'oles, 'swot  they are; gits and tossers. To fink that we fought the bleedin' Nazis so's that smarmy fuckin' Berekely Hunt an' his fuckhead brethren can go dealin'  wiv  Adolf's fuckin' descendants. Need a right good fuckin' kickin if y'ask me. An' that's worre'llget if he comes rahnd Lahndun wiv' his fuckin' goosesteppers. That F'rage geezah, count yer bleedin' fingers is best, after you shook 'is 'and. And yer missus, best watch her, an' all, around them UKIP blokes, yeah, and the UKIP wimmen, too, swing both ways,  they do. Didyoo 'ear that fuckin' skrikin' cow on Any fuckin' Question,

 'er off UKIP, stone the fuckin' crows, thought she  was gonna 'ave a catfight with that Labour dyke, wossername, Angela Eagle, 'sin the bleedin family, mind, 'er an' 'er sister, 

both carpetmunchin' specialists. But that UKIP bint, she wants to lay orfa them tesosterone jabs, duntshe, else she'll be growin' a set a meat an' fuckin' potatoes. 

On the uvver 'and, 


looks like he might enjoy 'avin a ladyman or two in his gang, that  fuckin' ponce, F'rage. Well, stands to reason, dunnit, politicians, they're all wossanames, int they, degenerates, that's it.  And perverts;  too good for 'em, 'angin' is, if you ask me.

From our economy range, yet looking handsome and debonair, Paul, supervising  one of his staff, Marky, the Tory MP,  is featured wearing the His Master's Voice city pimpcoat. Unlike Nigel's executive-style example, Paul's is made from finest one hundred per cent recycled lemonade bottle fibre, whilst the collar is  fashioned from the highly regarded faux velveteen fabric which began its fashion life as a very desirable pedal-bin liner.  And you can take this stylish garment, the last word in debonairiness down to the laundrette on your estate, wash'n'spin it dry and wear it to your next torchlit rally, all the blood- and beer-stains disappeared out, like magic

Who said UKIP's fashion conscious men-about-town couldn't also be greensaving the planet whilst dressing like a stupid Teddy Boy, that's Paul Nuttall's message as he visits UKIP voters in Rochester, some of whom can read and write-down their own names and addresses.

 Dogshooter Debonair Jeremy, yet another politician who has joined our modelling ranks, displays the great sense of savoir faire felt when wearing this fine worsted garment, the Drop Dead, Norman.  See how Jeremy evokes that sense of Devil-May-Care, Get-Away-With-Murderism, marvel at his style, panache and elan. Formal  yet nonchalant, the Drop Dead, Norman gives the lucky wearer the confidence to do, well, just whatever he feels like, knowing that he'll get away with it.


Pink LeaderHosen are an essential wardrobe item for the busy yet debonair fascist-about-town, they have the advantage of having deep pockets, enabling the - ahum - trousering of Euro-monies to which I am one hundred per cent legally entitled, Oh, yes, all perfectly legal, I think you'll find, as a result of my perfectly legal political association with the European Alliance of JewBaiters, GayBashers,  NiggerLynchers and Fraulein Rapists also known as the Nein means Jah party.  No, no, I think you'll find, I think you'll find that our association with Herr ZyclonB is in the great tradition of European politics, entirely democratic and having the overwhelming and entirely democratic  support, democratic support, mind, never mind all this voting nonsense, which, as we know  only benefits tyrants, the Road to Hell, as we know so well, is paved with Human Rights

Supporters of Mr Farge's European Parliamentary Group.

 but at least my right-thinking colleague, the leader of the Eichmann Party, has  the democratic support of all decent people in the New Reich. I mean, to be dead honest with you, something you don't always get from other froth-at-the-mouth demagogues,  Herr Auschwitz may well say that wimmen are, quite honestly, just tarts who, when not in the bedroom,  belong in the kitchen but here in the Poundland Party we are a broad church and many of our members feel the very same way. I know I do. Wife in the kitchen, mistress in the bedroom, I mean, let's be honest, what's wrong with that?

Annabelle Fuller
Annabelle Fuller, pictured, was confronted by Kirsten Mehr, Nigel Farage's wife
The woman accused of having an affair with Nigel Farage has revealed she attempted to commit suicide after a furious row with his wife at Ukip’s victory party.
Annabelle Fuller, 32, said she woke up in hospital after taking an overdose and attempting to cut her wrists. It came hours after she was ordered to leave the party at Westminster’s Intercontinental Hotel thrown to celebrate Ukip’s triumph in the European elections by Kirsten Mehr, his wife.
She is said to have told her: "I will have security drag you out by your hair if you don't leave.”
Miss Fuller, a former press aide to Mr Farage, said: “I was escorted out in front of colleagues and friends I had known for years and I knew outside there were a load of television cameras and journalists.
“I was humiliated. I knew it had nothing to do with Nigel and I called him up he said, 'What the hell's going on?'
“He then comes along, he hugged me and I was in floods of tears - the floodgates opened like they had never opened.”
​She says Mr Farage told her: “I’m sorry.”



Pimp Neil and Slag Christine model outdoors jackets from the Poundlanders' Door-Knocking range.  Just the thing, darling, jokes feisty Christine, for stuffing Mr al Fayed's brown envelopes into the pockets of, not that you ever did. Well, only in exchange for questions asked in the House.  

Neil and Christine Hamilton-Poundland, seen here about to film themselves having SeniorSex, Poundland-style,  for Christine's latest Channel 5 porno-documentary series, are hoping to become the Poundlanders' first husband-and-wife team of MPs. Only Mr Fruitcake won't let them, 

Not on your fucking life, 
Those two cunts are too toxic, even for me.  I mean, nothing wrong, nothing wrong  whatsoever, in taking bribes from rich people, that's why most of us, I think you'll find, most of us, well me, anyway, it's why me, I mean I, it's why I came into politics in the first place. I mean, look, I'm a banker, me, and let's face it, bankers've never had it so good. And here, and let's be prefectly clear, here am I, a fully qualified, don't forget, a fully qualified  pimp, ponce and slag and I'm bumping along on less that half a million a year.  So let's be clear, let's be perfectly clear,  there is absolutely nothing wrong with me, and people like me taking bribes from rich people. Only not the Hamiltons. 

After a hard day spent in the 'pub, and trousering expenses and Nazi-group monies from European taxpayers' pockets, what does the busy spiv wear as he relaxes of an evening, giving himself cancer and setting such a good example to the young people?
  This is Nigel Poundland, modelling a luxurious, kimono-style  smoking jacket, worn over his lounge suit trousers, shirt and tie. I call it my Oscar Wilde look, jokes debonair Nigel, puffing furiously on his cigarette.  Not, of course, let's be quite clear, that I'm a homo, Gosh, no.  Not that we have anything against brown-hatters, in the Poundland Party;  we even have some as members, although, clearly,  and wisely, very wisely, they tend to keep quiet about it. And that, let me say, is just how it should be; no names, no brown-hats, no pack drill.  Same-sex marriage?  Yes, of course I'll repeal it.  Yes, of course, none of my best friends are faggots. Or foreigners.

Smoking? Bad for one's health.  No, I completely reject thatNo proof of that. No proof whatsoever. And I think you'll find, I said, I think you'll find that the tobacco companies make substantial donations to myself, I mean my party;  yes, I suppose so, yes, one and the same, even though, strictly speaking I have not won   a parliamentary seat, not myself,  I am nevertheless, I think you'll find, the prime minister designate.  Young people?  Children? Well, let's be clear for a moment, to be perfectly honest, I think you'll find that most young people want to smoke and quite frankly, and let's be absolutely clear, my party is not in the business of telling people what they should and should not do, especially not children. I mean, where would that end, telling children what's bad for them. Even though smoking isn't. Even though, as I think you'll find, once you stop believing all the European Health and Safety tyranny; I think you'll find that most experts agree that the sooner you start smoking, the safer you'll be. And to be quite frank, to be perfectly honest with you,  as I travel around the country, the common thing I hear, on the doorsteps of ordinary people, is the cry of Please,  UKIP, Help our kids catch lung cancer! Way to go, Nigel!!!

And in fact, in fact, as a matter of fact, one of the latest  policies I have just made-up for our....our  wotsaname...our manifold, is it manifold? No? Manifest? What? Manifest-Oh? Yes, for our manifest-oh;  yes, one of our clear policies is for the setting-up of safe smoking areas in our schools for the kids to smoke in safety.

I mean, I think you'll find that I am the only party offering such safeguards for our children's smoking futures. And, let's be perfectly clear, it's not as though it's harmful to children, smoking. That's why, when people say to me, when they say, Look, prime minister elect, aren't you setting kids a bad example, with all this glorifying of drug addiction, when people say that sort of nonsense to me, that sort of scarey, hysterical nonsense, dreamt-up by an army of health and safety Nazis, I simply say to them one thing, Freedom, our young people are already enslaved by too many regulations. And if they wanna, quite properly in my view, if they wanna smoke in the classroom, or in the playground, 

well, the Poundland Party is not gonna stand in their way.

Now, one of the things I am often asked about is my innate dress sense,  my effortless style

my, what would you call it,
 my nineteen-sixties suavity,

 my unerring sense of the lounge lizard, 

the spiv estate agent, 

The devoted husband, wossat?  
Yes, she is, as it happens, on expenses and tax-deductible.
But I assure you it's all perfectly legal.

the country gent,

the street-fighting man,  
No, let's be quite clear about this, I don't need the bodyguards, I can look after myself,  as I demonstrated in Scotland,  but my party says I'm too valuable to  risk.  It's not that I'm a one-man-band or anything, irreplaceable. Although to be quite frank with you, I am.

 the lounge-bar boor; 

Off y'go, girl and don't come back empty-handed.
the understated, tasteful  elegance of  the street-corner pimp, running his working girls; 

And you, girl; shake your moneymaker.
No, actually it's called corduroy, cord-du-roi, the cloth of kings, which, to be quite honest with you, is,  in my humble opinion, exactly right for me.

 raffish yet debonair, costly yet discreet,
 the sense of Everyman, but nicely turned out

A quinty-sential Englishman,
 not that there's anything wrong with not being English;
  let's be honest, someone has to be second-best.

A pimp for all seasons,
 well, I guess someone has to be. 
Corduroy, velvet, tweed, Viyella  and brogues, 
just about covers it, I should think,
 for a prime minister elect.

Well, I am flattered that my good taste is recognised on derelict housing estates and in BNP branch offices all over the country. It's often said that you can tell a lot about a man by his clothes, and Do you know what, I think mine say all that needs saying about me.

But we haven't mentioned the troops, our marvellous activists, what are they to wear? Well clearly, they can't wear the good stuff, not only do they not have my innate good sense, taste  and unforced debonairiness, how could they, they're as thick as pigshit, very few of them even went to a decent public school, stupid,  most of 'em but  even if they weren't, there's only so much money we can screw from  Europe's taxpayers, yes, yes, I suppose it does, if you wanna get technical about it, it does include British taxpayers' money, spent on my scarves and hats and lah-de-dahs, yes, my mistresses, too, yes, paid for by hard-pressed British taxpayers,  yes, if you want to split hairs, which, quite frankly I don't have time for, no, yes, that's right, that's why I want us out of Europe, so I can pay for my own clothes and tarts and drinks and travel  and houses and food,  that's exactly why I want out of Europe.  But that's in the future, a long way in the future if I have my way. And for now there's only so much money for my clothes and, let's face it, when it comes to the Poundland Party it's me that counts, no, l, me and  not the Tory MPs we have just had elected to the House of Commons, that's right, it's me they work for. Obviously. And so, given that I need all the money for myself,  I still thought that the stormtroopers should have a uniform. I mean, let's be clear, all great revolutionary movements have uniforms.  But it should be one that their wives or mistresses can run-up for them on the old Singer sewing machine. Something that's cheap to make, something they can afford to pay for out of their old-age pensions,  something they can wear'n'wash in the laundrette, yet something that identifies them proudly  as white Englishmen.  And what could be better than this.....

Available from any branch of Poundland
on interest-free payments of £2.99 per week, for life.
The new Poundland Party uniform,
timeless and traditional, like Poundland itself;

 hear the clack of Freeedom's jolly oaken sticks,

the jingle of Poundland's bells,

 the sweet melodies of Poundland's Squeezebox, 

hear her strong, proud voices, harmonising, 

fol-de-rohling and derry-down-daying, 
as we dance merrily
to White Man's Heaven.

Sorry, that should be White VanMan's Heaven. 
Course it should.

available shortly, the sunday ishmael, part two, Armageddon's Landscape, the political event horizon.

Friday, 21 November 2014


Stewart Lee on immigration, Paul Nuttall and UKIP by frankblock


 Good evening from Birmingham
 and let's start straight away with the question that has divided the nation;
 Should stanislav, a young, polish plumber, be deported?

It is simply outrageous, and morally indefensible, and ethically questionable and probably illegal and brings politics into further disrepute, not as though it occupied the moral high-ground to start with,

And let's face it, it's not as though you could sink much lower. 
 Speaking as a Muslim woman, I mean, if you deport stanislav, who's gonna fix my fucking shithouse? Cheap4Cash?
I mean, if you're stood at the bottom of the stairs and there's a flood of icy water coming down, with condoms and Tampaxes and turds and toilet paper and Allah, peace and blessing be upon his name, knows what the fuck else in it  then you don't need a fucking politician, you need a fucking plumber, innit, ToryBoyGoneBad? 

The whole stair carpet's ruined and the house reeking of piss and  menstrual blood and nappies and nuclear-strength curry-shit, eh?  And your wittering on like a cunt about quotas and skill sets and residency cri-fucking-teria? Good for fuck all, 'swhat you are;  need a quick rub-down with a fucking housebrick. UKIP? You'll have us all down on our knees in front of the khazi, up to our shoulders in our own shit.  Fucking useless bastards.

No-one in UKIP was suggesting that we round up foreigners and either put them in work camps or deport them. Much less exterminate them. 
Not yet, anyway.
Let's be absolutely clear about that, Yazza, lovely name by the way, Yazza, is it foreign,some of my best friends are foreigners, British foreigners but foreigners all the same; no, no, all that happened was that after an ubelieveably busy day, working, I might say, frightfully hard for the people of this country, as, might I say, do all of us in politics;  being quite incredibly tired, my colleague, Mark Dickless,  gave a slightly confused answer with regard to our policy on the Final solution, I mean UKIP's strategy for promoting harmonious integration...........Good God, look at that.......

 I say, Dimbleby, are there darkies allowed in the audience?

Look, there's another one, in the second row, a Paki.....

And there's another, on the end of the row, up there, 
you're not letting him ask a question are you.....??


 Calm down Douglas, old girl, don't get your knickers in a twist, you know what you're like.  No, it's quite simple, we wouldn't allow him to ask a question until he'd been here for three months. Or is it two years.......Play some really cool jazz, though, some of them,  blacker the better, tne blacker the dude, the cooler the tune,  as we jazz lovers say.....

 No,  Ken, no way, two years is far too long, we simply couldn't get 'em registered, not in two years......

    Registered, you mean eligible for NHS DeathCare,
 as happened on your watch, Andy, on your watch, in North Staffs.?

 No, Ken, registered to vote Labour...

The dreadful, the unspeakable PBC1 Question Time show came from Birmingham last night, a place, judging by the audience, wholly unmoved by Mr Fruitcake, his colour-it-in politics-for-morons  and his angry Poundlanders and contemptuous of turncoat MP,
Mr Douglas Gobswell, 

although not nearly as derisory as it was in response to the laughably shrill utterances of some pathetic little scrubber
belonging - and I use the word  keenly -  to whoever owns the so-called Taxpayers Alliance,

poor little fool, clearly a graduate of the Guido Fawkes School of Political Science,  had no idea of the scale of her self-ridicule, 
oughta be a law against that, people using the PBC to make of themselves irredeemable fools. 'Snot fair on them. Not fair on the viewers, either; even on my side of the screen,  I was tied in knots, Embarrassment's figures-of-eight contorting my limbs, Please-God-Make-It-Stop-ing for all I was worth. One of the most brazenly stupid people I have ever, ever, ever seen. And she thought she was clever, NowLet'sBeClear-ing her empty head off.

Anyway, a member of the audience, 

rather more grounded than the TaxMinx, completed her caustic assessment of the panel with the question, referring to  turncoat opportunist arsehole, Mr Mark Dickless 

- What, anyway, are we doing, 
even thinking about voting for a man who, 
when he gets tired, turns into  a racist?

If I was WysteriaDave I'd be on the 'phone to a tee-shirt printers, right now, ordering  thousands:



It was a gem of sharp, Brummy realism, sparkling on an ocean floor of trash, effluent  and wreckage, the panel was  a grim school of bottom-feeding professional parasites, juicily barracked by its audience, pointlessly circling itself,  excreting clouds of rhetoric and bombast, I-Know-Besting;  the audience, however, just for once, was - apart from a feeble sprinkling of Kippers - united in hard-baked scorn and derision against MediaMinster. If you didn't see it, it is available on the Ouija-Pad; there is a hint, there, from Birmingham, a glimmering, that all may not yet be lost to Knavery, Farage's or the others'.