Sunday 30 November 2014


In general relativity, an event horizon is a boundary in spacetime beyond which events cannot affect an outside observer. In layman's terms, it is defined as "the point of no return", i.e., the point at which the gravitational pull becomes so great as to make escape impossible. An event horizon is most commonly associated with black holes. Light emitted from beyond the event horizon can never reach the outside observer. Likewise, any object approaching the horizon from the observer's side appears to slow down and never quite pass through the horizon, with its image becoming more and more redshifted as time elapses. The traveling object, however, experiences no strange effects and does, in fact, pass through the horizon in a finite amount of proper time.

Since the days of stanislav and of the glorious, now-dissipated, diluted and devalued cyber-explosion of political cynicism - see the peurile, insipid  banality of most of the broadsheets' commentary  threads, Vote UKIP, Vote UKIP, Vote UKIP being all there is, ad fucking nauseum, it is frightfully depressing, it is  as though we ridiculed and toppled Gordon Snot that others might annoint the cheap crook, ponce and pimp, Farage and his nascent goosesteppers  - others here  and I have been conjecturing about the ultimate Coalition of Ruin.  

The other day, mr mongoose, talking about post May 2015,  posited a neurological short-circuiting in the body politic occasioned by an alliance between Cameron's and Farage's respective elements of Toryism....
.............Cameron's masterstroke is yet to come - and will be presented as weakness. A simple accommodation with UKIP to let them get half-a-dozen or so seats and a continued pledge on an EU referendum - which he will not lose - and it is over. It is the price he has to pay for keeeping Scotland. Will Farage have the wit to take his victory and his vote or will he stupidly look for his SDP-like split moment and cock the whole job up? Either way the the Tories win big in 2020.
as he posted that, I was writing this, the following. My thinking, unlike mr mongoose's,  is inevitably coloured by the recent misbehaviour of the professional tribesmen in my own lands, for both Farage and the twin fish-heads,  Salmond-Sturgeon, peddle the same dodgy, uncomprising, racist and fascistic nationalism; both   promote a simplistic Hitlerianism which beguiles those excluded from the current political process. 

 By recent,  I mean since the Edinburgh Agreement, by which Alec Salmond and Nicola Sturgeon so rigged the terms and subsequently the conduct of the Referendum that they should easily have  won it; that they were convincingly beaten, despite having jacked-up  their own side's goalposts so high that they were almost invisible,  is a mark of  how - contrary to popular journalistic opinion - inept and stupid they both are.  Now and equally contrary to popular opinion, and contrary to Salmond's equally facetious threats of MediaMinster domination, their only way is down;  their failure, however, has redrawn Westminster's territorial borders.

mr mongoose may well be correct in his premonition of Farage-Cameronism but the barriers, personal and political,  to such a union are numerous and the arithmetic presently unknown;  Farage, although a cheap crook, is savvy enough, also, to foresee his own ultimate dispensibility should he be so naively compliant.  It is possible, of course, such a coalition, for with all of the present or likely personalities we are dealing with are  filth and who knows what combinations of vice, greed and megalomania oil their shitty wheels?

Despite my affection  for mr mgoose's philosophising of Disgrace, I, nevertheless, read a different set of entrails and found therein Ruin's poison much further advanced, the body politic wholly necrotised. But first...



Nobody likes Gnasher Sturgeon. Men don't like her. Obviously. Who among us could like anyone who did what she did, did that thing, the thing that's the reason she's called Gnasher. Women don't like her.  

Those wee jackets. Always the same. Lifeless.
 Couture managerialiste.

 That wee haircut.  
That horrid wee frowny mouth.
That tinny, wee, reproving Fishwifey voice,
 unshutupable,  smugly I-Know-Besting;  harsh and  ear-bleedingly discordant.  
That voice, Fuck me, Jesus, if Benjy NetanNazi wanted to end his woes with Palestine all he need do is invite Gnasher to Tel Aviv and beam her on telly to Gaza, speaking some of her Scottish Truths and see the Palestinian population, in millions, hurling itself despairingly into the Mediterranean. 

Gnasher's voice, not Gordon Snot's, won the Referendum for we Togetherists.  Now the silly tribesmen bastards have put her in charge.

 That's how clever they are, like she was a Queen in triumph, instead of a loser, the SNP, a caravanserai of misanthropes and fuckwits her loyal liegemen. 

Yet if you polled Scotland, asking whose voice the nation preferred, Gnasher's or Thatcher's, it would be a close-run thing which Whisky Maggie would probably win.  Tribesmen, though, think that because they adore the skriking wee rodent, Gnasher, everybody must, still don't understand  the difference between a minority and a majority, think that arithmetic is a form of cheating, that numbers mean whatever Salmond-Sturgeon say they mean;

Och, well, if you think a majority trumps a minority it just goes to show how wedded you are to Project Fear, isn't that right, wee girl?
Aye, Daddy, so it is.
Yuk,What a pair of freaks. 
If one ever sought proof of the adage that politics is showbusiness for ugly people, look no further.

if they weren't so blindingly, wilfully, proudly  stupid, you could feel sorry for them.

 Women don't like Gnasher because her look is so sterile, managed, asexual, looks like the only time she ever handled a cock she was so disgusted that she nearly bit it off. Which, so it is said, is what she did, although in a fit of dwarfish See-You-Jimmy hetero-jealousy rather than from any innate radical carpetmunchingism.  Most of the women in the Scottish parliament resemble women, whereas Gnasher looks and sounds like an android, an angry android. 

Ruth Boy Davidson 

is pretty and vivacious, looks feminine,  
looks likeable


even poor old JoLa

Just like a woman.

Johann Lamont, former Scottish Labour leader, alienated, as are most of us, by  the insufferable Milibandism of her national party,

No. no, friends, I really do know what's best.
For everybody.
No, look, I'm just getting on with the job
 of knowing what's best.

JoLa had a job before politics, was a teacher;  looked as though she sometimes smudged her lipstick, applying it in a hurry before entering the parliament or going on the telly, looked hassled, sometimes; just like a human,  just like a woman. 
And under Miliband's egotistical malignancy, she broke, just like a little girl.

Gnasher has never worked, been in the Tribesmen's party since she was sixteen;  think of  all the things which we abhor in the current careerist political shit-fest and  Gnasher is all of them, a non-stop gabshite,

looks like a construct, chilled to just above freezing-point. Women  don't like her because, like the dear, departed Alec Salmond and his Mrs,  she has nae  bairns;  

Aye, we'll jus' borra these weans, pretend we're normal folks, d'ye ken.

that may be because he or she cannot conceive but most would bet good money that  as far as the mad wee bitch is concerned  it is an informed career choice.  Women don't like her because at her Inauguration everybody had to cheer her Mum and Dad. Round of applause for the First Minister's Mum and Dad, eh? Women don't like her because she's never done anything else, for a living.  She claims to have been a lawyer but the cleaners in MediaRood and MediaMinster probably claim to be lawyers, too; everybody in politics claims to be a fucking lawyer. 

Her inaugural speech wasn't about the values of public service, no, Gnasher's speech was all about Gnasher, how great she is. Women don't like that.  Oh, of course it can seen to be part of a pro-equality agenda but it is one  to which only the fuckwits in meeja adhere. Women don't like that, their particularised objections being hijacked by more powerful women. And women don't like it that whilst they struggle with sharply declining wages not only does Gnasher draw two public salaries and pensions but  she is married, if that's the word,  to the administrative head, 

the CEO, of the Tribesmen's party, 
Mr and Mrs SNP.

women won't like that, won't like the fact that between them, Mr and Mrs Gnasher own the SNP, are effectively Scotland's Royal Family. A normal family,  a family without kids, and two six-figure salaries.   Women definitely won't like that. Mrs Gnasher, it's as though Christine Hamilton had taken charge.

Gnasher's inaugural speech wasn't about public service, it was  all about her own personal ambition, about how,  having stuck her pointed, angry wee head through the glass ceiling she is automatically a great role model  but as mr verge says, the only people who believe in role models are those who see themselves as role models. But Gnasher's achievement has been to disappoint and  now and  for evermore she is destined to disappoint.  Further disappointment, 
that, to fervent YesEnPee-ers, is what Nicola Sturgeon will prove to be, an interruption to the fervency of their collective and now never-to-be-completed hand-job; Referendum lost, orgasm denied; the SNP, now the party of national erectile dysfunction.

For they have been wanking themselves silly, the Yessers, fantasising hither and yon about a fancifully bogus historical  destiny, just about to come.  Almost there.  And then there's a knock on the door, Nicola Sturgeon, offering the same fantasy, encouraging all to start all over again, her sour, pinched  wee face, talking dirty, baby.

But even if she was likeable - which she isn't - Gnasher is not Alec. Alec had the best of it - his were the free prescriptions,  his the toll-free bridges, his the free university places and his the permafrosted-over council-tax.  Alec even, outrageously, in a farewell bribe, unilaterally cancelled the historic debts of poll-tax evaders,  now that - through their electoral roll registration to vote Yes in the Referendum  - they have been identified and rightly pursued by  the authorities. Bribes for votes,  poor Gnasher will have to weather the considerable if quiet storm of outrage now felt by those of us who did pay our lawful, if unpopular taxes - behaviour which is now deemed by the SNP's inescapable logic to be unpatriotic, unScottish, fearful and scaremongering. Always with the scaremongering, is the SNP high command.  Och no, we as the govament, as the keepers of the sovereign will a the Scottish People, we maintain that in  a sovereign nation, Scottish people should only pay the taxes they agree with, d'ye ken?  Anything else is just Project Fear.

Gnasher now has nothing left to give away in electoral bribes, not even  that Get Out Of Poll Tax Free Card. Alec stole even that from her;  under Gnasher,  people will have to start paying for stuff, maybe even demanding that council tax goes up, so's workers can have a pay rise - y'know, that economics thingy, in  which the SNP claim such expertise. 

Where I live,  there is a legislative anomaly, on the outer isles vehicles may be driven without a current MOT,  shockingly poorly paid care workers cannot afford to purchase a roadworthy car in which to visit vulnerable people in their homes so the council, cash-strapped  by the Salmond-Sturgeon council tax freeze, permits and thus encourages its  employees to travel, on official business, in dangerous vehicles, because they don't get paid enough, because of the SNP council tax freeze.  SNP dummies, 

The dizzy heights of SNP activism.

living in inner-cities, inebriate and hysterical,  don't, of course, give a fuck about this electoral betrayal because it leaves them more money to spend on body art, piercings and drinks and come to-morrow, come Independence,  they'll all be put in charge of  hospital departments, run universities and be Ambassadors, in Ibiza and posh, foreign places like that, once all they English basturds've been kicked-out.  And the traitors who voted No, voted against the sovereign will of a noisy, anti-democratic minority, they'll just disappear.  

Sadly for Gnasher,  even though  up to forty million people have joined the SNP, before we know it, their subscriptions'll be due again and her new core vote doesn't do bill-paying, why should it, when all of its oil money goes to England? Maybe Sturgeon's  Scottish Executive will devise some means to fine the No voters the total amount which it costs this rising tide of Yes-voting SNP  members to join, well, to join the SNP, it cannot be right, in this exciting climate of undemocracy to expect a minority sovereign nation to pay its own political subs, now, can it?

Poor Gnasher, having bribed and bought a membership, she must now find regular treats to pop into its decayed mouth, lest it desert politics once more, for Smack and tonic wine; Gnasher must generate an excitement equal to that of the lost referendum, the provision of which can only come from another referendum, something which nobody in their right mind would tolerate.

Sadly for Sturgeon, the Holyrood Chalice is long poisoned;   Alec has cast her as Gordon Brown to his Tony Blair. And legged it, leaving her to dodge all the chickens' vengeful homecoming. As it did with Gordon, ambition has blinded Gnasher to the obvious truth -  after Alec, she can only disappoint. Scottish NHS is beginning to unravel in resignations and scandals; the SNP-frozen council tax has resulted in tens of thousands of sackings, demotions, pay-cuts and  the withdrawal of  many vital services, the absence of  which now results in vulnerable people squatting in hospital A&E departments. Oil prices, depite Alec's instructions to the fossil fuel world, are falling and deflation threatens the European economy with a potentially fatal contraction.  Most importantly,  it was not just the alcoholic, illiterate, cross-dressing, wife-beating, child-molesting, ginger, tattooed NED and his grandchildren who were galvanised by the referendum, it was also the ordinary Scots,  those diffident and self-effacing souls who pay their bills and their taxes, cultured and respectful, industrious, conscientious and public spirited, the un-noisy ones  have now seen, close-up,  how disreputable  and dishonest is the Salmond-Sturgeon Project, have seen how, despite insistence that in the event of a Yes vote, one vote would carry the day but in the event of No, half a million votes do not,  have seen Gnasher's grubby little tantrums,  attempting to turn her unquestionable Defeat into  glorious Victory, really. 
Increasingly, Nicola Sturgeon sounds like an angry wee fart, squeaking and whistling  indignantly its malodourous complaint, sickeningly unwholesome, polluting first the room and eventually the nation; the Highlands, the Lowlands and the Road to the Isles.
Those whom she attempts thus to short-change will be as unimpressed now by her wee suit, her wee ambition, her wee haircut and her wee vision as they were in September and they will harry her as they never did Salmond. And that's not to even think about those in the parliamentary SNP - a formerly socialist party - now miffed by Gnasher's unchallenged, nepotistic Coronation. Time-served veterans will be expected to grin and bear it, as they are passed over;  they won't, her backbenches will soon resemble those of David Cameron. And women, Scottish women, many of whom are English, will see her off.

Of course the drunks and layabouts in the press will disagree, will see Gnasher as some unlikely Golden Girl, for that is the lazy narrative which they have already constructed.  The coverage of the Scottish Referendum had some of the hastily manufactured flavour of the so-called UKIP earthquake;  both are nonsensical, as rooted in reality as are the showbiz pages and  which, actually, is what they were and are; hyperbole, rhetoric, celebrity-driven rubbish.  In addition to the trashy output of overpaid, over-exposed, pisshead, dreary journalists, 
Handsome Iain McWhirter,
 of the US-owned Glasgow Herald 
poses for his  readers.

ThreeBrians Taylor, of the Scottish BBC, shares his expertise.
But not his dinners.
Fuck, no.

there is a continuing, monotonal tirade from stupid zealots, many of whom, both Jock and Poundlander, clearly spend their entire dreary lives on the message boards of newspapers, morning, noon and night, writing inane, moronic, insulting and bullying missives,  nearly always mis-spelled, nearly always in capital letters, they'd write them in red ink, if they could, directed at any who fail to worship, as the case may be,  Alec Salmond or Nigel Farage, both of whom are divinely superhuman liberators of their countries and eventually the world and for whom any intelligent person must vote; anything less than worship is, in either case, treachery. I looked at some this morning. Only total Scottish Freedom will Do, one-lined a lonely sage in response to an article of which he did not approve, as though  his was a noble, unchallengeable call to, what, exactly....: it was the Hibernian equivalent of Vote UKIP and both of these cries,  in their hatred and bile, are equivalent to Heil Hitler!

As for the apparently doomed Scottish Labour party, trashed by riff-raff like  Henry McThief, briefly First Minister,

I resigned because I had done absoluteley nothing wrong.

McLeish, caught-out  after a few months in the job, resigned on a pension of about a grand a week and was given a make-believe job by London Labour. Having suffered such a serious penalty, Henry is now considered rehabilitated and is now one of our foremost talking heads.

The  numbskull, Kilty McConnell.

Former First Minister, Jack McConnell, 
modelling Scotland in New York, honest, not invent.
Jack now sits in the Lords,  talking fucking rubbish for however many hundreds of pounds a day it is.

Wendy StickyFingers Alexander, 
Former Labour leader, with brother, Douglas, a Gordon Snot protege, resigned because she had done absolutely nothing wrong.

 Dopey Ian Gray, 
 dumbfoundingly inept, resigned  as Labour leader because he had done absolutely nothing right.

As for the Labour party, since the death of the infamous tightarse, Donald Dewar, all of Scottish Labour's leaders may as well have been on Alec Salmond's personal staff, as disgruntled former Labour voters, appalled by both the Blair-Brown sell-out and by the greedy, incompetent local filthsters, above,  have voted in large numbers, not for Nationalism but for the SNP,  for a vaguely leftish alternative to MediaMinster. 

 The referendum has now  revealed the SNP to be more right than left; it's greatest wish to appease its rich owners, cut their corporation tax and centralise all administrative power to itself.  Whilst trumpeting its own social justice credentials, the SNP has strangled local services, simultaneously vandalising the nation's greatest asset, its wilderness landscape, in  the service of billionaire rubbish like Donald Trump, Brian Souter  and various alternative energy carpetbaggers. Whoring the very nation to unbridled capitalism, Salmon-Sturgeon take cover in socialist rhetoric about the bedroom tax or NHS privatisation. Now rightly perceived as Tory-lightists, their refusal to accept the democratic verdict of the Referendum's electorate must have  tarnished Gnasher's dodgy reputation further, among the majority, at least.

This revelation of the SNP's fascistic venality now gives Scottish Labour  a slim chance of reviving itself before May;  if it votes  for Neil Findlay, MSP,

ex-teacher, union choice, radical Lefty
 and for neither of  the others -

Sarah Boyack, MSP, 
watered-down Nicola Sturgeon;

or Jim Murphy, MP, Blairite,

it can claim to be Left of  Gnasher, who, herself, claims to be Left of Alec -  I know, both of them and their party owned by billionaires like Trump and Souter and they claim to be the party of social justice, it is a joke quitessentially, blackly Scottish -  and being Left, in Scotland, is  cool;  Labour is not reviled, here,  for being too Left but for being too Right, a psephological conundrum entirely lost on Miliband and his gang.  There is a Gnasherism going about - She talks to the Left but walks to the Right. And if, anyway, Scottish Labour can show itself Leftily-rejuvenated under Findlay its losses in the UK General Election may not be as great as those wished-for by Gnasher&Co and by much of MediaRood, employees of whom never tire of the SNP's jaded wee story, so much easier is it to record than it is to  do  proper reporting.


However cynical we all may be about party politics, most would agree that a MediaMinster controlled to any real extent by grubby Alec Salmond in concert with any of the other parties is undesirable and would be detrimental to citizens North and South of the Border.

There is upcoming a PBC series about quantum physics, a subject about which I know only that the observing of something - its measurement -  alters it, in some cases moves it into or out of Existence and  I feel that something similar applies  to the observation and reporting of  the organised crime cartel which we call politics.  

UKIP, for instance, with two notional MPs, is wholly the result of, the creation of lazy and corrupt political  journalists what-iffing a fantasy story. Equally,  if enough pundits suggest a large SNP presence in Westminster, then that, in itself - as with the Butterfly in the Amazon fluttering her wings and causing a Typhoon in the Pacific - may help bring it about. It is a duty,  therefore, where one exists, to voice a different Truth.  Empirically - from evidence and precedent - a political party, having lost an erection, sorry, an election, shed its principal personality and annointed a new leader is more likely to fail than to flourish. After  the SNP's denouement, Labour is not so busted a flush as we are led to believe. The political arithmetic ain't over 'til the Fat Lady adds it up.

Given even a partial Labour revival, it is by no means certain that the tribesmen, under Salmond, will hold a balance of power or a portion thereof, in the next UK parliament; 

it is  just as likely to be the ToryPoundlanders as Kingmakers - the sclerotic elderly, the politically ignorant and naive, the White Vanzis, who could align themselves with, for instance, the Ulster Undertakers Party to wring concessions from either of the two heritage parties. 

The Tribesmen for their part, already having licked Sinn Fein's scrotum  

may easily chose to  form company with Plaid Cymru  or with however many Greens sandal their way into parliament. The only certainty about post-May 2015 coalitions is not, as mr mongoose suggests, that Farage and Cameron will lie, like Claudius and Gertrude, stewing  in the same rank, enseamed bed   but that they will not. 

 Given that Salmond and Farage seek only their  own political and financial advancement, there is no limit to the number of shifty mesalliances either or both might join. 

Farage's only MediaMinster success thus far has been with sitting Tory MPs who  claim to have defected, he is not, therefore, constrained by Decency but is, in his own words, willing to fellate the Devil, himself. Salmond, for his part, as evidenced for Southerners on the last

 This Week show, is nought but a narcissist, happy to be cozened by any and all who can endure his towering smugness,

 more Bruce Forsyth than Robert the Bruce, 
is wee, fat 'Eck;  

he might seek to bully the useless Miliband into  the destruction of the United Kingdom in exchange for his,  what do they call it, now,  confidence and supply support.  For all his Braveheartiness, the slug, Salmond, learned his trade, we should not forget, in the bars and knocking shops of Westminster. Miliband, already frightened of his own shadow, is not fool enough to hop into ben with this poxed-up old tart.

What is certain is that the more unprincipled are Farage and Salmond the more they will applauded by those who find in them some ridiculous patriotic succour.  Farage, the People's Millionaire Investment Banker or Salmond, the People's Millionaire King of Scotland;  either, many would say, are preferable to Clegg, Cameron or Miliband.  And that is exactly why there will be no Tory-UKIP, no Labour-SNP coalitions.

Most would accept that there is little to choose between the three almost-traditional parties and if we can see that, so can they.
There is, therefore,  only one coalition which could stand against all other likely or possible multi-party combinations of  opportunism. Given that there will be a significant number of Tribesmen elected, all determined to make mischief for England,  all of them opposed, in principle if not in reality to the Conservatives, there can be no Tory-Jock Coalition.

There will be a number, maybe reaching double figures, maybe more, of Poundlanders, opposed to both current  Conservativism  and comprehensively to  Labour.  To enter coalition with either traditional party, Farage would perforce  demand  a Euro-pledge to  which Labour is formally opposed, one to which, whilst he publicly voices willingness to negotiate, Cameron is also opposed.  

Conservative and Jock in Coalition is unthinkable and considering the SNP wish to destroy Scottish Labour, any coalition between them would be, at best, highly problematic. With the SNP threatening the Union and with the Poundlanders demanding Britain's exit from Europe, for the overwhelming majority of parliamentarians a massive coalition with each other would be, by far, the best resolution of a hung parliament.  

 Given the fundamentalist nature of  threats posed by both insurgent parties Miliband and Cameron could sincerely proclaim a Government of National Emergency, could carry with them their own party members,  parliamentarians and the wider public.  Government of National Unity or National Emergency, doesn't matter which. 

I could write the speech now, 

world is facing another recession; country is  facing unprecedented, head-chopping terror;  minority parties are threatening, all over again,  to tear the country apart, presenting a threat to our currency, our borders, our security.  

The right honourable gentleman and myself have decided to put country first, suspend our differences, govern in the national interest,  doing what's best for the nation, as we face these perils together. Lessbeclear, it is simply the right thing to do.

As so many bemoan, there is no difference between Labour and Tory, and the surely to be annihilated LibDems are but  an exrescence, migrating from one party anus to another, as the foetid arse-wind blows.  

 Junky George Osborne 

is indistinguishable from Ed Balls,

 both committed to the idea that bank debt be nationalised, bank profit - or state hand-outs - be privatised;  both believe that what they call Austerity - the punishment of the poor by the rich - is the only viable fiscal instrument.  Both parties oppose the nationalisation of state assets, both oppose a realistic and sensible and inevitable rise in income tax to fund decent public services;  both believe in a belligerent and entirely illegal, amoral  and unprincipled foreign policy, one dictated by whichever stooge occupies the White House; both parties insist that there is no contradiction between nation-stateism and membership of the European Union,  that we can be in Europe but not part of it or that out of it we can exert more influence than within it;  both parties believe, primarily, in their need to rule, in its unavoidability,  that there simply must be political parties comprising the very people most unsuitable to govern, bouyed up by people who either hope that, for them, Buggins' Turn will arrive or are  just too stupid to perceive how they are being exploited, party activists, I believe they are called.

Faced with threats to their monopoly from  either Fat Salmond or BarrowBoy Farage, from the Greens, the Taffies,  the Orangemen or any combinbation of such jackanapeses  what better might Cameron and Miliband do than make common cause against all and form a coalition with each other.

  They could simply take it in turns to be PM,  their mates could revolve between ministries, enjoying well-paid private appointments when out of office  but still in parliament;  rather, in fact, just as happens now. But with no need to accommodate much less embrace the likes of Salmond, 

Farage and their noisesome supporters.

An end then, to the inconstancy of an electoral cycle, an end to uncertainty, an end to the old party politics; instead, we, your representatives, your tribunes, will simply allow you to vote for us, each in our respective constituencies and return us to joint power over your affairs but with your interests very close to our hearts. Although not as close as our own.  The very best of all coalitions. And since you never elected it, you can never dismiss it.

A Government of National Unity;  makes sense and  it has a forever sort of sound.

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.