UKIP SUZY, OUR VERY OWN GNASHER.

I thought UKIP Suzy was great. I promise, I was not watching the Poundland manifesto show, it was just on, mrs ishmael having watched Breakfast TeeVee with her breakfast and departed, heedless of  my discomfort. It doesn't matter how often I complain that I don't care what they say, about anything, she insists on telling me what they've just said about the latest scandal, abduction, health or fashion fad, although, this morning she was also bemoaning their clumsy language- what do they mean, ahead of the election?

It was still on, anyway, as I carefully prepared my  spinach and soya breakfast roulade and I couldn't help but be struck at how comprehensive and entirely  achievable were her remedies for the nations ills.

All we have to do is leave the EU and we'll all be fully-costed millionaires, tended by a superior health service in public ownership, guarded by the best army since the Roman Empire and best of all NO WOGS.

 Suzy and Sid's Great Book of Shite.

  

Well, to be honest  with you,  and although Suzanne has done a great job making-up my manifesto for me, we don't actually mean no wogs, we want the right sort of wogs.

No, no racists in my party, absolutely none.

And just to prove it I will, quite frankly, let's be honest, do you know what, close the show with a little cabaret, dedicated to the many black members of my party. 
They've been a bit noisy today but that's just the way they are. 
Have to shout to be heard in the jungle, where they come from. 
Anyway, a-one-two-three......

If U-Kip Suzy, like I-kip Suzy,
Oh, Oh, Oh what a gal.

She was very good, I thought, UKIP Suzy, as these things go, especially on foreign aid and cutting ministries but  most especially when compared to Sid, himself, who looked and sounded knackered.

The sharpest televisual contrast of this morning, however, was not between Suzy and Sid but between Suzy and Nick Clegg.  If you saw and heard someone, down the library, say, if you still had one, ranting like NickClegg was, you'd contact the Community Psychiatric Nurse, if you still had one.

I know she's just another hustler, Suzy, but she made a good fist of it this morning.  

Sid must be hoping she doesn't shove it up his arse.

THE SUNDAY ISHMAEL. PART ONE, THE FASHION PAGES

HOW TO DRESS LIKE THE STARS.
YOUR CHANCE TO LEARN

WHAT THE OVERDRESSED
 PIMP-ABOUT-TOWN IS WEARING,

 THIS SEASON.

FIT FOR A PRIME MINISTER ELECT

THE CITYBANKER PIMPCOAT
AVAILABLE FROM SELECT KNIGHTSBRIDGE GENTS OUTFITTERS. 
THIS DEBONAIR OUT-OF-EUROPE PIMPCOAT IS AVAILABLE TO PARTY LEADERS AND THEIR DEPUTIES ONLY,
PRICE ON APPLICATION.

 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.

SALTA THE BLEEDIN' EARF, ME.
NONE A THAT POUNDLAND BOLLOCKS ROUND 'ERE.

 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,

JUST FUCKING SHUT THE FUCK UP, 
YOU FUCKING LOT OF FUCKERS.

 '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, 

SHAVED HER LEGS AND THEN HE WAS A SHE.

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.

NATTY NUTTALL
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 green,  saving 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.

THE LEADER'S TROUSERS

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?

FROM THE FILTH-O-GRAPH, UNE 2014

Annabelle Fuller, pictured, was confronted by Kirsten Mehr, Nigel Farage's wife

By Matthew Holehouse, Political Correspondent

5:39PM BST 08 Jun 2014

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.”

POUNDLAND CANVASSING WEAR.

THE HAMILTONS.
THANK FUCK FOR POUNDLAND, 
WE FINALLY FOUND A PARTY THAT'S CHEAPER, MORE CROOKED, MORE STUPID, VULGAR, SMALL-MINDED, BIGOTED AND UNPLEASANT THAN WE ARE. NEARLY.

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. 


LEISURE WEAR.
THE POUNDLAND SMOKING JACKET

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 that.  No 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, 

Morning-in-Maying
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.

POUNDLAND, SALE NOW ON. EVERYTHING MUST GO,

Now look,  there's two lesbians and  the one lesbian said to the other lesbian, I'll be Frank with you and the other lesbians says, No, I'll be Frank with you........no, no, only joking, and let's face it, if you can't have a joke about lesbos then what can you laugh at, you have to admit, it is funny, two birds and one of them pretending to be a man, and not one pertion of meat'n'potatoes between them.  Not as funny as David Cameron pretending to be prime minister.  But even so. I'll be frank with you, my people.

I mean, make no bones about it, I blame Europe,
no sense of humour, none at all.  


But no, if we lived in a mature and free democracy
 like the one which we Poundlanders would impose on the country, only for it's own good, only for it's own good, make no bones about it, I speak as I find,  I would have been able to go into that place with Douglas Fruitcake-Turncoat, today 

 No, no, not Tory, that was last time.
 No, but yes, I mean no,  I sincerely meant it last time,
 about being a Tory. 
And I really mean it this time, 
about being a Fruitcake,
Fruitcakeism, it's the only thing for me.

 and, you know, hold his hand, as it were. 
Instead of being out here, like a cunt, in the fucking rain.

I mean, it's not every day that I get to lead a party which operates in a place I can't get into. 

Ridiculous and pathetic?

What, that the only way I could get an MP in Westminster was by stealing one from the Tories and using his existng popularity with the local electorate?
No, Absolutely not. 
That I wasn't brave enough to stand myself?
Rubbish.
Dishonourable and inconclusive?
Not at all.

 But the  thing is, the thing is, I couldn't have contested that seat and got myself into parliament first.  


Why not, why couldn't I? 
Wel, because I might have lost, that's why, and I'm theFuhrer, I mean leader, leader, that.'s the word, it's my party,  so how would that look, me getting stuffed byu people who don't fall for me talking out of my arse?  Great bloke, actually, Hitler, for a German, don't agree with all his policies, mind, I'm no racist, but these trade unions, well, sometimes you do have to be cruel to be kind. And all this guff about the minimum wage, hasn't actually got us very far, has it? 

But I admit, it does seem a bit strange, the unelected politician being in charge of the elected one  but, hey, that's democracy, politicians've always done what their bosses tell them, otherwise what's the point?

But perhaps it would help 
if you all thought of me more as a monarch 
than a politician, 

Only not in Scotland, obviously.

even though, actually, d'youknowwhat,  I am the prime minister designate, what with all the 'papers predicting I will win a thousand parliamentary seats. Next time. Or the time after. Or the time after that.

No, it's wholly in the interest of the nation that Douglas Fruitcake fought the by-election, fought and won, I might add, fought and won. And even though he's in parliament and I'm not, I'm obviously in charge.  Of him, yes, in charge of him.  I mean, if it wasn't for me, he'd have been out on his arse at the next election.  Yes, just like all the defectors.  Yes, yes, men of great principle, all of them,  sacrifice every principle they ever pretended to have, just to stay on the gravy train, thieving and robbing and bullying people.

Mad, what's mad about it?  Well, take Douglas,  he may say that he's accountable to the voters of wherever it was, Angry-Old-Folks-on-Sea, wasn't it, Poor-Old-Folks-On-Sea, then, woddever, but he's actually responsible to me; y'know, how the LibDems are responsible to my fellow public schoolboy, old Cleggy and the Tories are responsible to my fellow public schoolboy, Cameron and the communists are responsible to that bloke with the funny voice and the bad memory, well,  that's the way politics is, I mean, where would we leaders be if elected representatives started putting their constituents first?  Instead of their careers? 

No, you'll find none of that democracy nonsense in my party, thank you very much; the elected members have to do as I say. And the ordinary members, too,  otherwise what's the point? No, no, it's a very vibrant party, with members democratically engaging with each other about which policies I should tell them to adopt.  For the time being.

What's that? TeeVee  debates? Well, let's face it, I am a media creation so it's obvious I should be in the debates; what, the Greens, no, they only have one MP; the Taffies, no, you see the thing is, with the Taffies, is that they don't field candidates all across the country so you see it follows, quite rightly in my view, quite rightly, that they shouldn't be in the debate;  no, no, no, them having seats in parliament doesn't matter, doesn't matter at all that people have MPs elected to parliament; the SNP, well, I think you'll find there's not much of an appetite for that sort of thing among decent English people, not that I'm racist or anything, some of my best friends and donors are Jewish bankers, can't say fairer than that. 

So let's be honest, let's be fair, let's be straight with the people; one of the first questions I shall be putting, a question too long ignored  is, when will we, as a sovereign nation,

 restore the right of people to poison themselves in public places, yes, and poison others, too; I mean it is central to our democracy that people can smoke in 'pubs, schools and hospitals.

Just look at this prick, what's he like?
I betcha he minces around his bedroom, 
dressed up in women's clothing;
 he's half-way there in this shot.

It's just another example of European Health and Safety gone mad, if you ask me.  I'm a bit of a historian, me, and I can tell you it's in the Magna Carta, actually, the Right to Poison. What?  French nobles? I think you'll find that there were no Frogs involved with that great doument, and certainly no van Rumpies or von Junkers.  The Magna Carta is the greatest of all British documents.  Whaddayamean, English, whaddayamean there was no Britain in  whenever it was, 1066. No? Not 1066? 1215? Alright then, 1215, we were all English in 1215? Apart from the French? Well, proves my point, really.

Hanging? Yes, hanging, too, been pushed into the long grass, hanging, for far too long, I think you'll find that the overwhelming majority of people'd love to see a good public hanging, especially of a paedo, a European one, all the better, and that's what politics should be about, promising to give people what they think they want.

And as for this nig-nog disease, although I am sure, quite sure, actually, that it originated in Brussels, well, there's only really one answer and I am working on it as we drink, I mean smoke, I mean speak.


Yes, even as we speak, Poundland is recruiting millions of plucky yeoman archers, yes, yes, mature gentlemen,  backbone of the country,


The Farage Home Guard.
aka The Old Incontinents.

and my plan, which is, by the  way, fully costed, is to place one of these doughty fellows, armed with a trusty longbow, fashioned from English yew, strung with an English hempen cord and with a quiver full of goose-feathered arrows, to place one of these patriots on every yard of English coastline and to skewer any diseased Johnny Foreigner who seeks to gain illicit entry, it worked at Agincourt, worked at Crecy.  Say no more, no names, no pack drill.  Wossat, not enough men in the country? What?  22 million longbowmen? And that's just for one shift? Probably need 66 million? And that's without people going sick? Well, this is just the sort of criticism we've come to expect from the LibLabCon press.  Impractical, what's impractical about it?  My liegemen - nobleman and sturdy beggar alike - flocking to my banner.....once more onto the beach, dear friends.....cry God for Nigel, England,   a coupla swift pints and a packet of Bensons.  That's the stuff to give the troops. (Sings)  

Poundland, Poundland, uber alles.

What ? Who says the voters won't like it.  And to be perfectly frank, once they've voted for me,  who gives a fuck what they think they like, this is a political party I'm running here, after all. Yes, just like the rest of them.