Jacob Rees-Mogg – instructions on social distancing for returning MPs (non Latin version)

“Senatores grata patria!”

As Leader of the House of Commons, it has fallen to oneself to smooth our return to Mother Parliament and one is resolved to ensure that as we do so, things are kept as straightforward as possible.

The last three months have been intolerable and tedious for us all.  Trapped in our manor houses, unable to show off our knowledge of obscure historical precedents or debate even the most inconsequential of bills, many of us have been obliged to do little more than field tiresome correspondence from ‘constituents’ and affect an interest in their concerns.

For one’s own part, being cooped up in a pokey 18 bedroom country pile has very much tested the mettle. At times the tapestries in the East Wing felt as if they were closing in and it was almost impossible to ostentatiously catch up on the life of Livius Andronicus, as one’s concentration was frequently distracted by the sound of one’s children laughing merrily in distant out-buildings.

As with so many other ordinary people across the country, this ghastly pestilence has brought considerable personal tragedy to the Rees-Mogg household. For almost three weeks Cook was unable to get goose fat and we were obliged to furlough the under valet as one simply didn’t need the usual quantity of starched collars. Worse still, in March two shipments of Chateaux Margaux ’86 were delayed and on one desperate Sunday afternoon, we came perilously close to running out of sherry.

But we are through it now and with life returning to normal it is time for Westminster to lead the way forward before the hoi polloi start getting ideas.

Of course one does not wish, in so doing, to put the lives of one’s honourable friends at risk and so it is imperative that everyone is up to speed on the new guidelines.

Contrary to what you may think, one has long been an enormous fan of social distancing as one has been practising it for most of one’s life. The only difference is that these new measures apply to us all, regardless of our standing in the social hierarchy. Yes, even you Mr Blackford!

Officially we are being advised to remain (ghastly word) “two metres” apart but frankly one does not wish to sully the oldest and greatest parliament in the world with Napoleonic metrification. So MPs are politely requested to maintain a distance of six feet, five and three quarters of an inch from each other at all times.

Debates will continue as normal, but Labour and other opposition MPs fearful for their health and the risk of tipping us all into collective lassitude, are welcome to stay away.

The new system for voting is so simple that even members of the Liberal Democrats will be able to grasp it.

How the queuing system will look

MPs will form an orderly queue of 60 chains from Westminster Hall, to the statue of Cromwell on the south side of Parliament Square. When everyone is assembled I shall blow my whistle thrice to get your attention and then eight times more to signal that it is time to move. Thence members will form in two lines, one quarter of a furlong apart and proceed at a speed of two knots towards the tellers. It is imperative that as you do so you maintain straight backs and a distance of 78 and a quarter inches from each other. If one has socialist inclinations – or a beard – I would request that you increase that measure to eight yards.

I have arranged for members of the household cavalry to position themselves two chains apart and beat a solemn marching pace on their drums as we proceed to our constitutional duty.

Having voted, MPs are asked to hop on their left leg to the nearest washroom wherein to cleanse their hands while singing all six verses of ‘God Save the Queen’ including the one about decapitating the Scots.

I have been repeatedly asked if the hopping and singing is really necessary, to which the answer is “Yes”.

One is very much looking forward to seeing you all during the new parliamentary term. If you have any questions do please pop them in one’s pigeon hole and I shall endeavour to deign to read them, but only if they have been correctly punctuated and written on vellum.

In the meantime I am your most trusted,

Jacob Rees-Mogg

(as told to Otto English)

Tommy Robinson – My Struggle – the prison diaries

I’m a dead man walking. Except I am not actually walking. I am in a van. So I am a dead man being driven. But it’s all the same thing at the end of the day.

They take me into the prison and I am led to an interview room. There’s a woman and a man and you can tell immediately that neither of them is patriots. I ask them if they know the words to God Save the Queen but they just ignore me and start asking a load of questions. I ain’t playing their game. I give my name, age and number. I ain’t got no actual number so I give them my shoe size. I’ve read the Genevieve Contention and I know my rights.

“I am seeking Aslan in the first country I land in.” I shout and they look at me like the Muppets they are.

“The Lion from the C.S Lewis books?” The woman pipes up after she’s stopped laughing. She won’t be laughing when the fucking Muslams has taken over and forced her to wear full hijab. And anyway what’s she doing here? It’s late and here she is in a Prison surrounded by men. That’s not right. She should be home cooking her husband’s tea and looking after her kids.

“I demand to be taken to the United States under the protection of Donal Trump!” I say. That’s what Katie Hopkins told me to do and she has got an A level. They don’t know how to respond. Not one of them has read the British Constipation. I’ve got these twats over the barrel.

“But you are in a prison Mr Yaxley Lennon!” They say and start laughing again like a bunch of hyenas. “You are serving a prison term for breaking the law. Why would we take you to the United States.”

“Because I’m a journalism!” I shout over their noise….“you ever seen the BBC outside of the courts? I was journalising and I been stitched up by the establishment for exposing the paediatrics. If I was an Aslan seeker from Africa you’d be doing what I demand. And then give me a council home and a holiday in Spain and 5 g.”

“But Mr Yaxley Lennon!” That woman starts again – and I’m not having that. I’m not letting her finish. With that attitude she’ll be living under Sharia law.

“Zip it woman!” I say “You call me a racist. Tell me one thing I ever said that was racist! One thing. Go on. One thing.”

She stares at me blankly.

“I didn’t call you a racist.” She says. Typical. They’ve never got an answer for that one.

I am led to my cell. Banged up for journalisation is bad enough – but the state of where I am expected to sleep. The fellas in Colditz got better than this.

“What’s this?” I demand – pointing at the TV.

“It’s a TV.” The clown who has brought me up says.

“I can see that chum.” I says “but it’s not a flat screen is it. It’s not even HD ready. Take it away.”

That fucking showed ‘em.

I sleep badly. Only two pillows and neither of them is goose down.

In the morning I’m brought a bowl of cereal, some hot coffee and bacon in a bun. I get what they are doing – I got their number. I demand to see the Governor.

That same woman from last night turns up.

“I said I wanted to see the Guvnor.” I say.

“I am the Guvnor.” She shoots back.

So I pick up the bacon and wave it in her face.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“A piece of bacon?” She asks innocently.

“Yeah and what is its year in provence?” I ask – “how can you tell me that it ain’t halal?” She’s not smiling any more. That’s got her. “I know what you is doing!” I shout. “Trying to convert me on the quiet. Well it ain’t working. Take it away. Take it all away. And bring me some proper fucking pillows.”

They leave and I am alone in my cell without a pillow. Tomorrow I will write to President Donal Trump and ask him for Aslan. Then they’ll know who’s the boss round here. Then they’ll see.

As told to Kelvin Patterson – satire

Daniel Kawczynski’s history of Britain – as told to Otto English

Fresh from his latest controversy, our history correspondent ‘Daniel Kawczynski MP’ on the events that shaped Britain. Satirical content – as told to Otto English.

Romans

The arrival of the Romans in Britain in 55 B.C is the first example of mass uncontrolled immigration. Bringing their hated roads, poetry, knowledge, laws, heated floors, amphorae of wine along with their much detested civilization these Latin layabouts caused delays at A and E and took all the jobs. Finally Boudicca and a democratically elected group of early Brexiters known as the ‘Mycenae’ said ‘enough is enough’ and drove the Romans into the sea before building the White Cliffs of Dover – to stop them coming back. Explain any of this and self-styled ‘intellectuals’ will tell you it is factually wrong. It isn’t. It happened.

Julius Caesar – the Juncker of his time

The Anglo-Saxons

There are fanatical left wing historians who try and teach children that the Anglo-Saxons came from what is now Germany. This is an absolute lie with no evidence whatsoever to back it up. It’s also deeply insulting to suggest that British people who liberated the world from the Nazi tyranny are descendants of Hitler. If that’s the case why do we speak English? Think about it for ten seconds. It’s absolute nonsense and anyone who says it is a jerk.

Shakespeare Stevens

Shakespeare

Shakey wrote a lot of famous musicals like Cats, Camelot and Grease but they’re not my sort of thing. I saw Grease once – it was a joke. A lot of singing and dancing and no mention at all of what the E.U. had done to that once great nation. Shakespeare should ask Yanis Varoufakis if it was all singing and dancing when the banks collapsed rather than trying to appeal to lefty West End audiences with songs about the “EU” being the one everyone wants. The people have spoken Stevens. Move on.

The Battle of Waterloo

When Nelson defeated Napoleon at Waterloo you can only imagine what it must have done to the traffic. I quite often drive along the South Bank of the Thames and it beggars belief that one of the greatest battles in history took place there. Guess what though? There’s not even a plaque to commemorate it. Sadiq ‘hates’ our history. On top of his column in Trafalgar Square England’s greatest General must have had a bird’s eye view of the battle, but tragically he was a sitting duck. A Frenchman shot him dead at the moment of his triumph. And yet – there are people who visit France to this day and who never mention this terrible atrocity.

General Nelson – victor of Waterloo

World War Won

World War Won is called that because ‘Great Britain’ won it. Fact. People think life was hard back then but it was a far gentler world. If you died they gave you a free gravestone AND a poppy to be remembered by. I wear mine every year and it’s really gigantic because I am a bigger patriot than you.

World War Too

Is called that because we won that one ‘too’. But guess what. Nobody thanked us. Instead we were forced to join the EEC and fund it all while our lads were put in jail.

End of Empire

Having liberated the Africans from their lands and Indians from the responsibility of running their own country – for I don’t know – A VERY LONG TIME – we were made to give up some of our Empire. Thankfully the main part of it had been hidden in the South Atlantic for safe keeping and remains there to this day despite the best efforts of the Argies.

All of this stuff is fact – but dare to say ANY of it and the left wing luvvies and so called historians come at you with THEIR version of it. They’re entitled to their views – but they’ve got it all wrong and should delete their twitter.

Actual map of the world – courtesy of The Spitting Image

Theresa May’s Brexit Christmas Carol

Brexit Britain was dead. There was no doubt about that. Doctor Fox had believed it would recover – but belief was not enough. Old May had signed Article 50.

As she trudged through the snow back to her lodgings, Mrs May passed men carrying gammons and others who were managing to walk by themselves. The rest of the Cabinet and parliament may have gone on holiday for two weeks at the height of the greatest political crisis in history – but there was no rest for Old May.

The fog and frost so hung about the old gateway that it seemed as if the genius of Brexit himself was haunting the door. But it was nearly midnight and David Davis would still be eating lunch. Gove – lurched out of the shadows – clutching at a bag of straws.

“A Merry Brexit Christmas Mrs May!” Young Michael yelled.

“What do you want?” May growled as she approached, “probably hoping for a day off tomorrow on account of it being……”

“Why yes Mrs May ….it’s just Tiny Tim Martin and some of the boys from the ERG are having a lunch in Wetherspoons – no brussels and chlorinated chicken – I was rather hoping I might go.”

“Bah Strasbourg!” Old May hated Christmas, “go but you won’t be getting any OBEs however much you smarm up to me. Anyway – we’ve run out of metal.”

The Old House at Number 10 was cold and dark and May had no appetite for gruel that evening. She climbed the winding stairway past the portraits of old Prime Ministers – glaring down at her. As she passed each by it seemed to come alive.

“Boooooo!” Atlee jeered.

“Where’s your Dunkirk spirit!” Churchill added.

“Don’t look at me for support – you’ve made a right pig’s ear of things!” Thatcher chipped in. “I’ll be confiscating your Christmas milk.”

Old May climbed into her nightgown and blew out the candle. But just then a cellar door burst open and there were creaking footsteps on the stairs. The bedroom door was pushed aside and into the room stepped John Major – dressed from head to toe in a suit of the purest grey.

May had often heard it said that Major had no balls – but now he was surrounded by them – clanking at the length of a long chain.

“You’ve been ignoring my many appearances on the Andrew Marr television programme and other similar news and current affairs outlets.” Major began – smelling distinctly of curry.

“Dreadful vision!” Old May screamed – falling to her knees.

“Well a bit unfair – I mean Marr does do his best!”

“No youuuuu. Yoooouuuu. Why do you haunt me so? And why are you fettered to that heap of balls?”

Major’s ghost and his Terry Major Balls

“I wear the chain I forged in office.” Major replied. “That pink one is Portillo fresh from another one of his train journeys, that lightweight one is Peter Lilley and the others are all Michael Howard. Beware the IDS of March the 29^th……..”

“But isn’t that something else altogether….”

“Silence woman! In the course of this evening you will be visited by three ghosts – and now I must away…..”

May followed him to the window – desperate in her curiosity – but Major was gone – seeping seamlessly into a paving stone.

Presently she felt a cold wind behind her and turned. Standing alone in the midst of her bedroom was an odd figure – like a child yet not so like a child as an old man. Jacob Rees-Mogg looked about himself and muttered:

“A pity it is a terrace. Still I suppose it will do for Nanny.”

“Oh spirit of the night – what do you want of me?”

“I am the ghost of Christmas past!” Jacob intoned. “Come to show you how wonderful everything was before it was ruined by progress.”

He swept her in his top hat and soon they alighted by a Victorian workhouse. Inside children – some as young as five – worked away shoeless at metal lathes.

Christmas past – happy urchins working hard

“Can you see what socialized welfare, health and safety and education for ‘ordinary people’ has done?” Jacob implored softly as another child’s pals gathered round in a spirit of goodwill to carry his dismembered arm out of the workhouse and throw him out after it. “These children had purpose and jobs as chimney sweeps until such time as they died of diphtheria or bullet holes – but now their descendants sit about the place getting fat on hamburgers and not knowing one end of a rifle from another.”

“OH what happiness there is!” May agreed – taking in the scene.

She turned – but Rees Mogg had gone – spirited away in a Bentley and in his place was a hideous ogre of a man – so revolting that Old May let out a scream.

“Oh what monster is this?”

“My name is Rupert Murdoch.” The festering apparition managed – extending a withered hand. “Here to show you the Hard Brexit Christmas yet to come.”

“But I was promised three ghosts!” May yelled. “Where are the three ghosts I was promised?”

“It’s the Brexit dividend!” Murdoch shot back “we lied.”

Soon they were riding high above the clouds – until in the distance they saw white cliffs and blue birds and green hills and a ring of unicorns dancing in a circle while Boris Johnson sang Walking in the Air from the peak of a giant tin of Spam.

There were no queues at Dover – the roads were full – yes – but traffic was moving swiftly towards brightly coloured steam ships. And beneath them happy, smiling people – all driving Morris Oxfords waved gaily up at Mrs May while a formation of Spitfires flew overhead.

“God bless you Theresa May!” They cried as one. “Thank you for this wonderful hard Brexit and our blue passports and tins of racist jam!”

And there dotted about the countryside happy Grenadier Guardsmen sat drinking cups of piping hot tea and eating spoonfuls of marmalade – while girls in bright dresses danced about Maypoles.

Hard Brexit heaven

“You see!” Murdoch whispered in her ear. “It’s a kind of heaven.”

And the music played on and cartoon penguins were dancing and May danced among them. It was all so lovely – so marvelous so –

May awoke and blinked. She was lying in a bus shelter on the Catford gyratory being poked with a stick by a man in a yellow vest.

At the ERG luncheon Tiny Tim Martin and his chums agreed it had been the best Christmas lunch ever at that particular Wetherspoons on that day of that year.

“But next year!” Michael Gove piped up, “someone else can put acid in Theresa May’s tea.”

Sextus, Pugs, Baroque and Prole – the life and times of Jacob Rees-Mogg – an unofficial biography (part 1)

Lord Ashcroft has written an unauthorised biography of Jacob Rees-Mogg – but here is the only take you need

Jacob Rees-Mogg was born in Hammersmith on the 24^th of May 1969. His father William, then Editor of The Times of London, was busy eating marmalade and could not be present; nor could his mother, who had decided on a whim to visit a maiden aunt in Weybridge. Jacob has no memory of his birth in Hammersmith but there can be few in Hammersmith who have never heard of Jacob Rees-Mogg – and those who haven’t are probably illegal immigrants.

Soon after his arrival Jacob was whisked out of London to the family home – Ston Easton Park – a modest forty-six bedroom Grade I listed mansion set in a postage stamp 210 acres of sculpted parkland. The Rees-Moggs struggled to get by on an Editor’s salary and a handful of trust funds. There were years when the staff was diminished to as few as eighteen and JRM and his siblings were obliged to muck out their own horses, oversee the cleaning of their own tack and put their clothes on by themselves. Despite these considerable hardships young Jacob – like any child of the nineteen seventies – was an eager venture capitalist. From his nursery wing at Ston Easton his team invested what little he could in share portfolios, farmland in Southern Argentina and the Cincinatti Reds – a baseball team who he inadvertently acquired whilst recovering from a bout of tonsillitis.

Ston Easton Park – a modest home for a modest man

Formally introduced to his parents for the first time just prior to his tenth birthday, young Jacob was shocked to discover that his father was ‘in trade’ and worse ‘a journalist.’ The trauma would have killed most ordinary people – but young Jacob was no ordinary person. He was picked up by a valet, dusted down by Nanny and sent off into the world with just his first Bentley and twelve million pounds to his name.

Prep School was not an easy time for the young Rees-Mogg, who was now obliged to ‘mix’ with ‘children.’ Jacob is often portrayed as a man out of touch with the experiences of ordinary British people but it was here that he first came face to face with the real hardships of life – experiences that would shape him and mould his nascent political thinking. To his dismay Jacob found that a good number of his school fellows had just the one barrel to their surname. Reporting the matter to the Headmaster, Mogg was informed bluntly that nothing could be done and that his time could be better spent.

Many of the masters had already taken against Mogg and one in particular – an inexplicably popular French teacher called Monsieur Charpentier – had the spiteful habit of correcting his pronunciation and telling him he had ‘made mistakes’ in his declensions. The bullying meted out by Charpentier would have broken most grown men, let alone a 10 year old boy – but Jacob was made of sterner stuff. He was not about to be told he was ‘making mistakes’ by a musk wearing continental with slip on shoes.

Jacob sold The Reds, bought the school and summarily fired the jumped up frog eating Charpentier before inviting the local constabulary to arrest him on suspicion of being a Napoleonic spy. Lifted high on the shoulders of his fellow pupils he was marched about town for an hour before being thrown from a bridge into a river.

From Prep School he progressed to Eton where Nanny and he both agreed that he did superbly. Tall, neat and arrogant he breezed through the establishment with all the confidence of a young scholar with eight figures in the piggy bank and the gait of a giraffe on roller skates. His habit of changing records at the school disco for Gregorian chants won him many friend (sic) but his genius naturally upset the very many lesser pupils. Unfortunately his insistence on speaking Latin to assistants in shops, or reporting people to MI5 for looking poor led to jealous accusations of ‘stupidity’ ‘arrogance’ and ‘time wasting’ but Jacob had by now endeared himself to the nation by threatening to sue the BBC for its leftist pretentions and there was no stopping him.

Boys on their way to Eton school disco ca. 1986

Jacob’s arrival at Oxford was a game changer for the establishment which had been languishing in the academic third division for eight hundred years. This was the beginning of a glorious renaissence for the University which had already welcomed the brilliant minds of both Boris Johnson and Toby Young and was soon to witness the arrival of Daniel J Hannan; the greatest thinker of our age. Summoning the President of Trinity to his rooms JRM bluntly informed him that there was nothing he could be taught as he had already made his mind up about everything. But with typical generosity of spirit he promised to attend tutorials anyway – before tipping the Provost a ten bob note and sending him on his way. Mogg became President of the Oxford Conservative Union – where he delighted in wearing more impractical clothes than everybody else – and loftily telling those who had gone to secondary moderns that he was richer than them and therefore right about everything.

He left with a second class degree.

At this point many young men with Prime Ministerial ambitions might have selfishly entered politics – but Jacob was determined once again to ‘give something back.’ And so for almost a decade he altruistically worked for Rothschilds investment bank before setting up his own fund Management firm. Ever one to consider the most deprived in society, Jacob ensured that Somerset Capital Management was generously managed via subsidiaries in the Cayman Islands and Singapore – thus giving employment to some of the most desperate people on Earth.

Jacob Rees-Mogg loved by all

Having saved the third world – Jacob thought it was time to save Britain from the encroaching EU Nazi superstate and teach the French teacher Charpentier a ‘jolly good lesson’ in the process. The rabidly anti-success Conservative party stifled his ambitions from the get go. Aged just 26 he fought a seat in Fife – where he was ridiculed by ungrateful working class people for brightening up their otherwise insipid lives by campaigning alongside his Nanny in a Bentley. Jacob lost – as the people of Fife – envious of his brilliance – voted in vast numbers not to have him as their MP.

To any lesser man it may have felt like the end of the road – but in fact it was only a beginning of a road to the end of a road.

Jacob’t famous impersonation of a man slowly realising he’s sitting on a pin

Easter Egg outrage – what the Bible tells us about chocolate eggs, confectionary and Fireman Sam

With the annual ‘Easter Eggs don’t have Easter on them’ outrage upon us Theologian Professor Kelvin Patterson goes looking for chocolate eggs in the Bible and turns up some of the lesser known passages:

Eggs literally in The Bible

Leviticus 11 New International Version (NIV)

Patriotic and unpatriotic Easter eggs

The Old Testament is surprisingly expansive on the subject of Easter eggs with strict guidelines on the avoidance of halal chocolate.

49 The Lord said to Nigel, ² “Say to the Britons: ‘Of all the eggs of chocolate on the shelves in Sainsbury’s, these are the ones you may eat: ³ You may eat any that has a hollow bit and that contains other chocolates therein. But make sure it is not a Muslam one – and specifically not halal – for I shall strike down any confectionary maker who doth do such a thing.

⁴ “‘Then there are the shapes to consider. There are some that are solid or are shaped like Fireman Sam, but you must not eat them for they are not actually eggs but chocolate moulded in the shape of children’s television characters and these are not festive. The Lindt bunny, though also shaped not like an egg is not a television character and is thus not unclean for you. ⁵ “‘The box itself should be made of five ells by four – not six by five nor three by two – for these are the ways of the Malteserites and Twixasees and anyone who eats these specific snacks will be unclean until evening and probably have a tummy ache for most of the rest of the day.”

Matthew 111 New International Version (NIV)

The Last Chocolate egg

The Gospels of the New Testament differ sharply on their interpretations of the Easter egg – with Mark making no mention of Mars or Rowntree while St John focuses almost entirely on the merits or otherwise of Flakes over Ripples. Matthew in stark contrast – puts chocolate eggs at the centre of the story.

²⁰ When evening came, Jesus was reclining at the table with the Terry’s Chocolate orange and the twelve.²¹ And while they were eating, he said, “Truly I tell you, one of you has taken the whole orange in the centre while I wasn’t looking.”

²² They were very sad and began to say to him one after the other, “Surely you don’t mean me, Lord?”

²³ Jesus replied, “The one who has dipped his hand into the packaging has betrayed me. ²⁴ The Son of Man will move on to the Mini eggs now. But woe to that man who takes any more while I am not looking! It would be better for him if he had not been born.”

²⁵ Then Judas, the one who had taken the fudge sticks as well, said, “Surely you don’t mean me, Rabbi?”

Jesus answered, “Yes and you did this last year as well. I let it go then but not this time. I also suspect you’ve been at my tins of Stella in the fridge and while I’ve got no proof of it my father who is all seeing probably did and I’ll be catching up with him later.”

And Judas left them and later they found that he’d taken most of the cheese crackers as well.

²⁶ And while they were eating, Jesus took the last cream egg, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and got the gooey bit all over his hands, saying, “Has anyone got a tissue or possibly a hand wipe because it’s right in my finger nails.”

²⁷ Then he took the free mug that had come with the dairy milk, for Judas hadn’t half inched that and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you. ²⁸ But make sure you wipe the edges before you pass it because there’s a shocking cold doing the rounds.”

³⁰ When they had sung a hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives and Jesus told them all that England was literally the best country and that it did not need the failing EU project and that a time would come when lefties would try to ban Easter eggs and that but that the people who done this was all hated there (sic) country and that Nigel would fight for him even if nobody else would because he said it like what it was.”

And it was good.

Next week in Pin Prick Bible studies – Noah – the disco years.

Is Your Man A UKIP Love Rat? Exclusive questionnaire from guest Agony Aunt Cosmo Polly Tan

Is this guy about 54 years old and was he previously married to three immigrants despite heading up Britain’s best known anti-immigration party?

A:            Why yes

B:            No

C:            He promised he’d change

When leaving his former partner did he:

A:            Dump her and her two small children on Christmas Eve and then fly back to be with you

B:            Take time to be with her and discuss where their relationship was at before parting on mutually agreed terms

C:            Wait until she found out about it in the papers

It’s Christmas – you’ve just started a relationship – does he:

A:            Buy you an Iphone and an Apple MacBook – sure it’s really unimaginative but you had a Samsung and an Amazon tablet and wanted an upgrade

B:            Whisk you away to Rome

C:            Go down the pub

When asked to choose between you and his job does he pick:

A:            Job obviously – but he said we could still have sex as long as nobody found out

B:            Me

C:            He’s not shown me much interest since we got married to be honest

How do his friends or colleagues behave around you:

A:            They welcomed me into the UKIP family and agreed with everything I said, right up until the bit when journalists read my twitter feed at which point they dropped me like a hot potato

B:            Normally

C:            They sing the Dambusters theme and quote lines from ‘Allo ‘Allo

On meeting your parents does he:

A:            Call your father ‘son’ and ask whether he has left school yet

B:            Politely greet them and ask them thoughtful questions before proffering a big bouquet of flowers and a bottle of something interesting

C:            He’s never been with me to Germany

Does he put his poor performance in bed down to ‘the inflated Overseas Aid Budget’ intimidating him:

A:            Well isn’t it?

B:            Don’t be puerile

C:            Bed?

Are you jealous of Meghan Markel because she’s everything you would like to be and has everything you want – including a Prince – while you’re stuck with an odd little man who looks like a cartoon:

A:            Her seed. Her – seed……

B:            No I’m an ordinary well-adjusted human being

C:            No that would be Nigel

Mostly A:  You’re Jo Marney – and for all your unpalatable views – you’re better off without your love-rat boyfriend Henry Bolton 

Mostly B:  Congratulations – you’re sane and your partner is possibly a bit dull – but undoubtedly a keeper

Mostly C:  Mrs Farage – you have our deepest sympathy

Cheese weekly: Steve Hilton talks exclusively to us about cheese, Obama and Crooked Hillary.

What’s your earliest memory of cheese?

S.H: Barack Obama never listened to anyone. NOBODY. My old boss, former British Prime Minister David Cameron once said that in his opinion Obama was the most narcissistic, self-absorbed, dangerous psychopath to have lived – certainly since Stalin and probably since Hitler. I’d say ‘UNDERSTATEMENT’ – he was ten times more dangerous than that – and that’s before you get to crooked Hillary Clinton.

Are you a hard cheese kind of guy or do you prefer a nice matured cambozola?  

S.H: Obama’s problem was that he was completely self-obsessed. My old boss, former British Prime Minister David Cameron and I once went to a meeting with him and all he could talk about was other people and making the world a safer and more stable place – utterly lost in his own fantasy world. An insane and dangerous man. And as for his wife? Pure, pure evil. I once heard she kept an entire gutted baby elephant in their fridge which she had personally strangled.

You live in California now – have you come across any interesting artisanal cheeses there?

S.H: Did sane work out for America? HUH? Did people really like lucidity and dependability in the White House? Did people really want Obama care and the withdrawal of troops from Iraq? NO. No and no again. The only people who want stability are the crazies or The Guardian newspaper in London which incidentally runs the global liberal elite.

Animal welfare is obviously an important issue nowadays – how ethical is it to eat cheese do you think?

S.H: The people are sick to death of listening to people. And the internet. They are sick of Google. They are sick of Uber. They don’t want cars. Or clothes. Or oxygen. Or words. The people do not want jobs or healthcare – they want pizza and cigarettes. They want those white chocolate mice that you used to be able to buy for a penny. They want guns and chop sticks. And commemorative plates of the Bee Gees. You know why? Because I thought of it just now – sitting here.

What do you think the future is for the UK cheese industry in the post Brexit world?

S.H: Obama always treated meetings as an opportunity to talk to other people and listen to their views. This led directly to real world disasters like the 2011 Tohuku earthquake and Tsunami which killed thousands of people in Japan – ON HIS WATCH. The real world doesn’t matter to the elite. Because they live in subterranean submarine bases like that guy in the Spy Who Loved Me or in Space Stations like the one in Moonraker.

Thank you very much Steve Hilton.

S.H: And you might not like the truth but do you know why liberals hate Donald Trump?

I said thank you.

S.H: Because Trump is a poor, black working class woman who has risen from nothing to present the biggest TV show in the world. The Liberal elites can’t accept that because they live in diamond crusted shoes on flying discs while their invisible cats bring them chicken dinners in front of their flat screened TVs.

We’re leaving now – see yourself out.

S.H: And all their friends – the ones in the Knowledge Economy sneer. How they sneer……. They sneer at fruit and people called Neil and brush their teeth with caviar while writers at the Guardian serve up a tasty child stew for crooked Hillary – because crooked Hillary is a cannibal – an actual cannibal …….. wait…. wait…. where’s everyone gone? Never mind – and another thing…..

As told to Otto English – SATIRE

Jayda Fransen on Muslams, Trump, Sonny and Cher.

ON ENGLISHNESS

“I were born in 1986 and you would not believe how different England was back then. That were in the days before mass uncontrolled immigration from the EU. You still had Wimpys on every street in every town selling fast food, you still had them big 50p pieces and Bros was about to break out into the charts. Now it’s all Indian restaurants and kebab shops and kids in schools have to go the mosque and nobody listens to Bros. Growing up me old Nan – with a tear in her eye – would say “promise me love. Promise me Jayda. Promise me that one day we can have that England back. The one with Bros and Wimpy – and them big 50p pieces.” I promised that to her on her death bed. Then she recovered and forgot all about it. But I did not.

ON RACE

People says I am racist but I am not. I object to the Islamifactationisation of England because we do not practise foreign religions here. Muslam is a Middle Eastern religion and Christianity most definitely is not. We are English and we worship the Bible and Jesus. You cannot and I cannot stress this enough be racist about Muslams, because Muslam  is not a race. The two hundred metres is a race. The London Marathon is a race, the Grand National is a race, but Muslam is a religion and there’s no running involved. So do not call me a racist. I might not like the blacks or the Jews or the Asians but it’s not because I am racist.

ON SONNY AND CHER

I get disgusted when I see the Islamificationisation of our nation. I were with Paul (Golding leader of Britain First) in the Red Cross charity shop in Ashford the other day and we was looking at the CDs and that and then I shrieks and I’m going “like what is this?” And in the racks yeah there’s this CD of “Sonny and Cher” and them is like the two strands of Islam, which I know because I read the back of Tommy Robinson’s book on twitter. And I stand up on the counter and I take out my mid-sized cross which I always carry with me in case of an emergency and the old lady behind the counter is going: “could you step down dear it isn’t very safe!” And I shouts: “NO! I will not rest until this filth is destroyed. Then I stamped on the CD and smashed it and then, having fallen through the counter and pushed the old lady out the way – I marched out.”  Sonny and Cher were the founders of Islam and having that so blatantly in a shop like the Red Cross is disgusting to be fair.

ON HER FAITH

I am a committed Christian. I go to church sometimes as much as once a year – at Christmas – more if there’s a funeral. Jesus hated Muslams because of their Halal practises of killing animals. I am an animal lover like most British people and will not eat butchered meat. The thought that someone has killed the animal to put it in the packaging is disgusting. We at Britain First only eat bacon. It isn’t halal and the pig hasn’t died making it. Also, it literally wards off the Muslams – if they even see it they run screaming away. It has worked because neither Paul nor I has been ritually slaughtered and I put that down to the bacon.

ON TRUMP

When Donald Trump retweeted me I thought “it’s all been worth it Jayda.” A retweet from the Prime Minister of America is the biggest arcade you could have. It’s like winning the Victoria Medal and I done a lap of the town with my “special occasions” cross (the big one) and I told everyone. People despise us because we despise them but one day when I am President of Britain and all the Muslams have been deported back to Belgium I like to think Donald Trump will invite me to Downing Street to say thank you – and perhaps give me an even bigger cross.”

Crosses, poppies and flags. REAL patriots.

As told to Otto English – SATIRE

Ben Fogle talks Englishness, confusing titles and his plans to be Prime Minister to Kelvin Patterson #satire

You have a book out – The English – how did that come about?

My agent rang and said: “Ben! I’ve been thinking – someone should write a book about ‘The English’ because nobody has done that since the spring – and – Christmas is coming and this is exactly what your demographic will want – and I said: “Wow! Yes! I’m English! I live in England! I know some English people and I actually speak English – so this is right up my street!”

I bet you met some interesting characters along the way.

I visited the Swanage branch of the BNP and they were saying to me – why is it so wrong to drunkenly wave the St. George’s flag while singing Nazi marching songs and demanding that all the Pakistanis leave – that’s not being ‘racist’ it’s being proud to be English! And I thought: “Gosh! They are absolutely right. You never hear North Koreans being rude about their land. Why can’t the English be proud of being English and a bit more jolly patriotic with it!”

What research did you do for the book?

I spent time looking at other people on a trip to a supermarket with my wife – until the security guards asked me to stop because there had been complaints. I worked out that English people don’t like others to stare into their shopping trolleys and built the whole book from there. I also noticed that “The English” buy marmite presumably because we like to eat it on toast. Oh and as a nation we are very polite! People say thank you and please and they like to form queues. Crazy to think we have gone through so much of our history without anyone noticing that. That was twenty pages so then I padded it out with some observations about Wimbledon and Labradors. People love labs!

Remain or Leave?

Leave. Defintely. We English are natural leavers and it will all be fine. Think about it. We leave our homes in the morning to go to work without WW3 breaking out! What’s the difference? So enough of “project fear” let’s deploy our stiff upper lips, brew a nice strong cup of English tea, pack an umbrella, just in case it rains and just jolly well get on with it.

You have a new series out

Yes it’s called “New Lives in the Wild” – when I first saw that title I asked my agent: “Who is New? Is he or she famous? I’ve never heard of them.” She explained that  we had already done a series called “Lives in the Wild” so this was a ‘new’ one. Confusing!

What’s it about?

Research shows that “English” people – yes them again – don’t want to watch “indigenous” people in jungles or learn anything about how they might be living on TV – no – they want to watch “white people” who speak English and have a lot of money trying to build nice homes in exotic places instead.

What was your favourite destination?

We went to Guatemala to meet this guy “Dave” who was building a luxury resort.  Every day was a fight for survival for him. He lived almost three miles from the nearest hypermarket, his internet connection was ghastly and he struggled to make ice with his existing fridge. There’s a lovely moment in the film where I get to advise an old woman on how best to carry a new freezer on her back up the hill to his lodge. In Spanish! I actually speak Spanish!  It’s great to feel you made a difference to people’s lives.

And a tribe in Papua New Guinea wanted to make you their God?

I met the Puedam people who had never met white people before and they were all nudging each other and winking and laughing – which I was told is their tribal way of showing fear. After I’d reassured them and read them some of my book they said “Ben please teach us how to be more like you Ben. Teach us to be English gentlemen Ben!” And then did the nudge and winking thing again. Odd thinking about it now that they could all speak such good English – presumably they’d learned it from another tribe.

Any plans for the future?

Once the next Channel 5 series is over, I’d like to be Prime Minister. I’ve done a marathon. I’ve met a lot of people. I’ve been on TV. I think running the country is no different to doing those things – just with a few more sums.

Ben Fogle – thank you.

 

KJP