LORD BIRMINGHAM AT UKIP
An' I'm not kiddin' ya, moi dinner wuz this fuckin' big.
I'm a kid from Birmingham, Digby wheezed, hauling his bloated and doubtless sclerotic carcase around the UKIP conference stage, sweating and blowharding with his pitifully few wraithlike locks dangling faintly over his shoulder, so CBI rock'n'roll. I'm from the wrong side of the tracks and I wonder what me old man would've said if he'd seen me get me peerage.
His modestness LordBeefDripping of Birmingham
Actually, though, Derek Jones, as well as being a groping, bra-strap-twanging, sexist beast was a Senior Probation Officer in Selly Oak
and he sent his son to Bromsgrove Grammar School. Hardly the wrong side of the tracks but Digby and the Truth are long estranged. Business, that's Digby's thing, he used to run business's trade union, trade unions, right? The enemy within.
It's the Asian century, he told us, like some omnivisionary messenger from the future, we must wake up and smell the curry, only by following his canny nose might we outcompete billions of low-wage chinks, nignogs, ragheads and South American shemales. I am sure the Lord Sweaty goes down a storm at Rotary and Masonic dinners but on the Kippers' platform he looked like a whore at a hockey match. But then he looks like that in the Lords, too.
Work fer you? Blimey, mate,
Oi'll work fer any cunt as pays me.
Sometimes you look at Gordon Snot's appointments and proteges and bumboys - Greaseboy, here, the Ballses, the Milibands, the harpy Caroline fucking Flint - and wish fervently that he wasn't now working two days a week - putting something back - in the Kirkcaldie Oxfam shop. Those other volunteers are pretty vulnerable people and Gordon, as well as eating their snot when they're not looking, will be giving them delusions of grandeur, just like he did with old Digby, the amazing Whaleman.
Must be said, though, that he was amongst friends at UKIP, was Diggers; they're all delusional geriatric nutters, no more nutteresque than, say, William The Warrior Hague or FrenzyMan, Michael Gove, or the clodhopping, shitbrained nincompoop, Ian Wotsisname Smith and certainly no more mentally
impaired than the impertinent buffoon, Miliband or the jumped-up rentboy, Cleggie the Kingmaker.
But there was something comically deranged about big, shouty, smokey, beery Nige and his ancient virgin stalwarts, standing on the edge of TakingTheWorldByStorm greatness whilst clearly lacking the organisational skill to manage a piss-up in a brewery. Part of the presentational gaucheness was due to the PBC only sending one camera - there were no cutaways to other Kippers, either BigBossMen or the slavish audience of ageing would-be stormtroopers - there might not even have been an audience there, I watched the show for hours, days and I never once saw an audience member. It was just one constant, unchanging view of the lectern, probably not even a cameraman, assorted apocalypsians wandering on and off giving their own particular set of lamentations, some tongue-tied biddy announcing them as the hero of this or that unprecedented psephological advance, somewhere, sometime, pre-Nige.
And by the standard set by the Kippers themselves Lord ChipFat was good value, proper Brummie musichall. Shame that his worldview is so nineteenth century, a bit like Jerry Clarkson's, all about trickle-down wealth created by great men to whom the plebs should be humbly grateful; Digby's view is that without business there would be no infrastructure, no public services, clearly no-one has ever advised him that the opposite, too, is axiomatic; shit, in other words, is Digby's message, impossible, undesirable and irrelevant in a world such as ours. As though the energy wars and the water wars and the Mohammedan wars and the breakouts from Africa are going to be stopped by a Victorian work ethic, led by the great and the good, ie his own sweet fat self. He's what he looks like, Digby, a stupid, fat cunt, peddling a peurile, tub-thumping, outdated, after dinner speech to anyone who'll pay him. His old man was a cunt and he's a cunt, too.
That Farage chose Jones the Fat to promote whatever it is he thinks the Kippers are up to - and it's certainly nothing to do with an Asian Century, fuck me, no - is illustrative of a gabshite, clutching at straws. But touching, in a way, both entertaining in their fashion, both going nowhere.