Tag Archives: Nigel Farage

Quick Guide to Today’s Election Candidates

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I’ve compiled a quick run-down of the prime ministerial/first ministerial candidates and their policies to help you make an informed choice on this historic occasion.

Jeremy Corbyn – Labour

A true community activist, Jeremy Corbyn was a founding member of the IRA (Islington Radicals Association) and is still active in both the PLO (Peckham Leftist Organisation) and ISIS (Ilford Secularists Information Service). When he isn’t politicking, he likes to while away the evenings writing pamphlets, which are then posted through people’s doors by a collective of canvasers, each of whom wears a free-range beret and a badge that says ‘NELSON MANDELA – ALWAYS FREE AT THE POINT OF ENTRY’. The only payment they receive for doing this is a promise they’ll get to decide who’s first against the wall come the revolution. Some of Jeremy’s more popular pamphlets include ‘Nationalising Masturbation: The Hard Questions’, ‘Choosing the Right Balaclava for You’ and ‘Why Pantomimes are Fascist: Oh No They Aren’t, Oh Yes They Are’.

When Corbyn isn’t setting fivers alight just so that he can douse the Queen’s silently burning face with his cold piss, he likes to dress up as Stalin and masturbate gamely over ant colonies.

Five most striking policy proposals

  • A vow to give over all football grounds to Russian turnip farmers
  •  Make it law that the Royal Family must dress in shell-suits and smoke filterless cigarettes
  • New sessions of parliament must be opened with a six-hour long Irish jig with everyone dressed as leprechauns
  • Violent criminals to be given a cuddle and sent on their way
  • Death to the west

Jo Swinson – Liberal Democrats

Jo Swinson comes from a long line of Swins, a name that means ‘pig’ or ‘swine’ in Danish.  Swinson plans to change her name to Swindaughter on the eve of the election, to remind voters that she’s a woman, a brave woman, a strong woman, a real woman’s woman, womany all over, yep, she’s a woman alright, surprised she hasn’t mentioned it – and then a few minutes later she’ll change it to Jo Swintersex when someone in her campaign team points out how violently transphobic she’s being.

‘I’m a woman, my mother was a woman, and I really rather enjoyed both the Ghostbusters and the Oceans Eleven remake,’ Swinson announced at the Lib Dem party conference this year. ‘If I become prime minister, I’ll make sure that they do all-female remakes of Priscilla Queen of the Desert, Dunkirk and a new Cheech and Chong called Debbie and Samantha.’

It’s no secret that Jo Swinson’s life-long hatred of squirrels makes her the most dangerous candidate in this election. She’s already beaten one to death live on TV during Saturday Kitchen, afterwards vowing to eradicate squirrel-kind with a nuclear strike the first chance she gets.

Jo Swinson’s accent has been genetically modified to make her sound gradually less and less Scottish. Certainly no-one from Glasgow, or even her native Milngavnie, sounds like Swinson.  She used to sound exactly like Paul Coia, but her accent was experimented on in a hail of screams and lightning, Frankenstein style, until it died and came back as a zombie, except it’s pronounced ‘zoahowambee’ now for some fucking reason.

Five most striking policy proposals

  • The hateful, racist, transphobic US TV series Friends to be banned
  • All citizens must kill at least six squirrels a month, and prove it or they die
  • The adoption of all Tory policies
  • Earth to be re-named Her-th
  • Clitoris to be re-named Clito-her

Boris Johnson – Conservatives

Boris Johnson lives in a fridge, and likes to kill poor people. He’s really rather fond of the ‘working class’, but only in this sentence:  ‘Tory policies to kill the poor are working! Class!’ When he isn’t shuffling around like a recently-divorced Dulux dog that’s been shoved inside an un-ironed suit, he’s riding his bike around London with all the grace and poise of Officer Doofy fucking a vacuum cleaner.

Look closely as Boris is out on the campaign trail and you’ll notice that his arms are robotic (remotely controlled by a hidden Michael Gove), and his real arms are secured behind his back with cable tie. This is to stop Boris from trying to fuck every married woman to whom he’s introduced, and to prevent him from giving the fingers to poor people.

Boris taught himself to read using old World War 2-era boys’ comics with names like ‘Adventurous Rascals’ and ‘Cor Blimey, the Gerrys Nicked Me Spyglass’, which is why he still says things like ‘bother’, ‘gosh’, ‘blimey’, ‘Whizzo’ and ‘black people are genetically inferior’. Both he and his dad like to write shite spy thrillers about floppy-haired fat cunts called Boris saving the world from the insidious evil of people who aren’t white, English, upper-class, floppy-haired fat cunts called Boris.

At university, Boris Johnson introduced David Cameron to the pig whose head he would later f***.

Former leader of the Scottish Conservatives Ruth Davidson has announced that she will go skinny dipping in Loch Ness if the SNP gain 50 seats in this election. Boris has admitted that’s the one thing he probably couldn’t wank to.

Five most striking policy proposals

  • Top up the winter fuel allowance for the elderly by giving them homeless people to burn
  • Boris to be given a pass from the rigours of actual leadership so he can just make spoof videos all day
  • All new tower blocks to be doused in paraffin and made of cardboard
  • Questions to be made illegal
  • The NHS to be sold to Saudi Arabia as a weapon

Nigel Farage – Brexit Party

The Brexit Party’s party political broadcast this year was just an old man in a British-flag-patterned suit and top hat standing on a cliff-top angrily kicking Rogan Joshs into the sea, as Nigel Farage glared menacingly on necking a pint of Belhaven Best.

Nigel used to be in charge of UKIP, which has now been disassembled and put into storage in a warehouse just outside Kent, occasionally checked on by people called Dick Brayne and Pat Mountain, who sound like they were invented by the Viz Letter’s Page.

When Nigel isn’t peddling right-wing, racist propaganda, lying to the working classes and feathering his own nest, he likes to peddle right-wing, racist propaganda, deceive the working classes and feather his own nest. He’s going to be on next year’s Strictly Come Dancing.

Five most striking policy proposals

  • Something, something, something racist
  • [gulps down a pint of Belhaven]
  • Those bloody eastern Europeans! [shakes fist]
  • I’m just like you, salt of the earth, I am [eats caviar from a £50 note]
  • Give the Queen a knighthood

Nicola Sturgeon – SNP

Nicola Sturgeon is irreplaceable. Literally. The SNP can only be helmed by people with fish, or fish-related, names, and until a prospective leadership candidate comes along called Johnny Halibut or Vicky Basking-Clark, they’re going to have to keep Nicola extra safe.

Nicola Sturgeon has infuriated rivals by continuing to answer questions put to her directly without obfuscation or deceit, something that has [Woah, woah, woah. This is supposed to be a ridiculous little article that mocks each of the parties equally. Your bias is showing a little here – Ed] [Em, I don’t have an editor. It’s just me. I write this website myself.] [Then who the fuck am I? Am I just a guy called Ed? – Ed] [I don’t know, man.] [What do you mean you don’t know? If I don’t actually exist then it must be you who’s typing these words I’m saying right now, right? – Ed] [You don’t have to keep signing off as Ed now that we’ve established you don’t actually exist] [I’ll bloody well do what I like! Anyway, stop obfuscating. Why are you giving the SNP and Nicola Sturgeon an easy ride here? It’s the measure of a good satirist that they can skew even their own heroes and preferences, you know – Frank] [I’m not a satirist though. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I tend to make lots of easy jokes about knobs and bodily fluids and things. And Frank? Really?] [Yeah, since I’m not Ed I figured I could be whoever I liked – Gandalf] [This is getting ridiculous.] [Answer the question! Why are you giving the SNP an easy ride? – Fozzy Bear] [Because the SNP is the party with the fairest and most progressive policies, and represents the best hope for Scotland, and Nicola Sturgeon is a decent, measured, intelligent, capable and consummate politician who actually seems to give a fuck about what she says and what she does] [….That’s not very funny, is it? – An elk called Richard] [No, I suppose it isn’t]

Happy voting, comrades.

Remembrance of Brexit Days Past

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I think Brexit Day always seems a lot more magical when you’re a child. You know, it’s a real family occasion: the celebrations, the procession, the executions, all of that.

I remember one of the early ones, I must have been seven, eight. Can’t remember precisely, but it was the first Brexit Day my parents thought I was old enough to take part in the ‘After Dinner Death Match’. The prize that year was the last chocolate in the box, well, the only chocolate in the box. And it wasn’t a box, it was a piece of toilet paper. And it wasn’t a chocolate, it was some rat shit. But anyway, it was my turn to fight that year, and I drew my gran’s name out of the hat. Sounds like an easy win, but it wasn’t. She was tough as old boots, my gran. As a fighter and as a meal. Food was scarce, you see, so whoever lost got eaten.

Mum made gran into a curry, or maybe it was a Balti – it was definitely something hot and spicy – to mask the taste of that leathery old skin of hers. Dad wasn’t happy. ‘A curry?’ he said. ‘A bloody curry? What’s wrong with good old British faggots, or a fry up? You’ll get us marched off by the Lizzie Lynch Mob yet, Cynthia!’

Even with all the spices, gran tasted worse than my cousin Bill, and that’s saying something, because Bill was a big old fat guy with hundreds of moles and welts and psoriasis and smegma and everything. Still, waste not, want not, and each to their own. I think smegma is vile, but my mum always said it was an acquired taste, like blue cheese – whatever that is.

My gran on the campaign trail for UKIP, in happier times

Gran’s last words to me as she bled out under the dining room table were, ‘I hope you choke on my tough old tits, you weak little shit-bag.’ For some reason those words have always stuck with me… There was a funny little moment too, just as she slipped away, when my Dad shouted back at her, ‘Brexit MEANS Brexit, Brenda,’ and we all laughed. Even gran cracked a smile. Gran was like that, though, always up for the banter.

I remember being very sad that day. Very, very sad. Not because of gran, you see. My dad was right, Brexit DOES mean Brexit, that’s just the way it is. No, because my pet – and best pal – Russell, had died the day before. Oh, I was devastated. Absolutely devastated. You look at any picture from my childhood, and it’s me and Russell. I’d take him walks, we’d sleep in the same bed, we’d stay up late and watch movies together. Mum tried to console me as best she could on Brexit Day morning, because she could see how upset I was. She said: ‘We’ll get you another carrier bag, son, maybe a John Lewis one this time,’ and I just lost it, because Russell wasn’t just any old carrier bag. He was an M&S carrier bag.

Mum and dad told me about the times just before I was born, before Brexit, when people kept cats and dogs and things like that as pets; my parents had a pet, too. A little Bichon Frize called Steven. But when the economy crashed that first time, and money didn’t exist anymore, nobody could buy food, so they rounded up everybody’s pets and ate them. It went into law, actually. There were big barbecues and cook-outs in the street. Dad said it really brought communities together and it was like the Royal Jubilee, only with more of an emphasis on dog eating. My parents said it was hard to eat Steven, but only because he was so dry. ‘A little bowl of smegma,’ mum said, ‘That’s the secret.’

Dad loved flame-grilled spaniels best, but mum always had dangerously exotic tastes, so she preferred things like spicy cat-arse kebabs. One time a next-door neighbour of theirs brought some garden snails to a cook-out, and they shot him, because snails were too French, you see. He should’ve known better. The rules were clear. You weren’t even allowed to call small things ‘wee’ anymore, just in case anyone thought you were  a French agent.

A few Brexit Days after that – I can’t remember the year exactly, but it was around about the time they moved the capital city to Bolton, and dissolved Wales… not the assembly or anything, they just dissolved the whole country – I lost an uncle. What was his name? Ah, Uncle Simon, that’s right. It was good riddance anyway.  He’d had a bit too much to drink, and I remember him sitting there, wearing his Union Jack paper-hat , and he just shook his head with a little smile and said, ‘Ah, Brexit. What was that all about, eh?’ My mum snuck off to the kitchen to use the phone. I could see my Dad was trying hard not to lose his temper.  Ten minutes later these six big guys, all dressed like the Queen – with matching handbags and everything – marched in and carted him off. Uncle Simon was terrified, you know, he was screaming and everything. ‘I’m a loyal subject! I’m a loyal subject! No! No!!! Listen to me, just listen: send ‘em back; too bloody cold for ‘em; they tried to straighten our bananas. See??? I’m one of you!! I’M ONE OF YOU! I’M A BREXITEEEEEERRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrr!’

I don’t think I can do justice to the amazing atmosphere at the Brexit Day processions. You know, there would be the big bus with the ‘£350 million’ sticker on it, and it would go past and peep and everyone would wave; there would be people dressed in top-hats and monocles carrying gilded canes around, just like King Rees-Mogg (peace-be-upon-him). There would be a guy dressed as Churchill kicking blacked-up homeless people up and down the street as someone played God Save the Queen on a lute. Sometimes Nigel Farage would drop in and stoat about with a pint of piss, grinning at everyone. Oh, it was wonderful.

One Brexit Day, though – I think it was around about the year that King Rees-Mogg first announced the building of the sea-wall in the ocean between Dover and Calais – they had to evacuate our street because one of the kids in the neighbourhood found an old time capsule someone had buried in 2006, and there were apparently pictures of people smiling and eating food and going to hospital and stuff like that, so they did a controlled explosion of the time capsule. And of the little kid who found it, just to be safe.

The procession always ended with a big bonfire in the village green, where they’d do the ‘Burning of the Obama’ –  he was a French muslim, you know – and they’d round up anyone who looked a bit like Jeremy Corbyn and hurl them in, too. That was how they got my other gran. We warned her to use the Remington.

I really liked the arena combat, where people fought against horses, but my favourite was always the ‘Annual Execution of a Remainer’. There was always so much excitement around it. They’d choose the executioner from one of the local primary schools. They picked Graham McPhail from my class one year, I was so bloody jealous. I think that was the year they finally abolished Scotland and renamed it ‘England the Second.’ Anyway, for weeks afterwards people would run up to Graham in the playground, and ask to touch his strong and stable trigger-finger.

Graham went on to become a member of the Lizzy Lynch Squad, you know, those guys that dress up as the Queen and take people away to be shot for treason. Years later, he was the one who killed my mum. Someone had overheard her saying that she liked ‘smegma pasta’, and of course Italian food is unpatriotic, so off she went. That was that. I didn’t hold a grudge against Graham, I really didn’t. He was just doing his job. Brexit means Brexit, after all.

Anyway. What did you say the half-life of nuclear radiation was? It’s a bit stuffy in this bunker. I’d like to get out for some fresh air, maybe wave a few flags around for old time’s sake. Actually, there’s a thought. I could use my Union Jack to waft away the radiation… What a great idea. That’ll definitely work. It is the most powerful flag in the world, after all. BRITAIN SAVES THE DAY AGAIN! GOD SAVE THE QUEEN! GOD SAVE THE UNITED KINGDOM!

21 Things You Need to Know About Brexit & Europe

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  • If you stare into a mirror and say ‘Brexit’ five times Boris Johnson appears behind you and runs you over with a bus emblazoned with his outrageous lies.
  • Nigel Farage has since admitted that his antipathy towards Europe was all just a silly misunderstanding. It was the band ‘Europe’ he didn’t like.
  • Ministers think they’ve cracked the issue with the Irish border. They’re going to try splitting Ireland up and down the way, instead of across the way. Sure there won’t be any problems there.
  • How much Brexit would a Brexiteer Brexit if a Brexiteer could Brexit Brexit? Nobody knows.
  • Brexit will happen at midnight on the 29th of March 2019, unless John Major can defuse the Brexit Countdown Clock in time, which he’ll probably do with one second to spare, and then Edwina will want to pump him again. Also, don’t feed Brexit after midnight, or get it wet. Same applies to Anne Widdecombe.
  • The part of Brexit that Jacob Rees-Mogg is most looking forward to is turning Britain into a massively de-regulated sweat-shop that makes trainers for the Chinese.
  • Brexit’s real name is Brian Exitano.

  • Most people think that the negotiation process is rather dull, but it isn’t. All disputed items on the Brexit list are settled with a bit of a wrestle, and a slimy one at that. For instance, an agreement on common agricultural policies was only reached once Michael Gove and Angela Merkel had wrestled naked in a vat of hot kale for six hours (the agreement was that none of the spectators would ever have, or even think about, sex ever again).
  • Brexit isn’t the end. A leaked Downing Street memo has revealed draft policy papers with titles like ‘What can we Brexit from next?’; ‘Asking for a Friend: How much Brexit is too much Brexit?’ and ‘Brexit in Space???’
  • It’s a common misconception that Brexit was caused by stupidity, ignorance and a hatred of brown people. This isn’t true. Don’t forget black, Irish and Polish people, too
  • Theresa May is tipped to appoint as her new Brexit spokesman the 2003 Iraqi Information Minister Mohammed Saeed al-Sahhaf.
  • Once we Brexit and the NHS is sold off to American investment bankers and insurance companies, resulting in cancer treatments costing patients up to £70,000 a go, Boris Johnson is confident that Britain will then be able to take advantage of this unique opportunity and start producing ground-breaking TV shows like ‘Breaking Bad’.
  • The Queen couldn’t give a fuck about Brexit.
  • David Cameron has now been driven so far underground that the only person capable of finding him is Theresa May the next time she curtsey-splits for one of the Royals.

  • Everything will be more expensive after Brexit, but Boris Johnson is already trying to encourage a bit of optimism through his new campaign slogan: ‘Free rats for every cunt!’
  • The two most likely candidates for the pre- and post- Brexit top spot are Bojo, a man who looks like the Honey Monster after a difficult sixth divorce, and Jacob Rees-Mogg, a man who looks like a Victorian undertaker tasked with burying himself. It’s a little known fact that Jacob Rees-Mogg’s top-hat is made from six-hundred leather-bound begging letters written by suicidal job-seekers, while his monocle is made from the frozen tears of a thousand malnourished urchins.
  • If Brexit becomes a reality, Scotland will almost assuredly declare independence from Westminster, yet remain part of the EU. The Scottish people will then spend their days sitting on the newly rebuilt Hadrians Wall (which will have been erected by a Polish work-crew) eating tapas and croissants, and generally rubbing it in as over the border the price of a loaf of bread rises to three babies and sixty rats.
  • Jacob Rees-Mogg reportedly celebrated Brexit by privatising his birthday party. He invited tenders for bouncy castle hire, opted for the most expensive one at £500,000 a bounce, and hired Saatchi and Saatchi to design his birthday cake at a cost of £12 million. He then declared bankruptcy half an hour before the end of the party. His guests were still able to enjoy a £6m bowl of jelly thanks to the £1bn tax-payer bailout he received in order to successfully complete his birthday party on time.
  • Other names considered for Brexit were: ‘Something something something foreigners’, ‘Fuck the Poor’, ‘One world cup, two world wars and a Brexit, doo dah, doo dah’, and ‘Dave’.
  • Jacob Rees-Mogg has already prepared his speech in the event that he’s the next post-Brexit prime minister. “Hahahahaha. Hahahahahahaha. HAHAHAHAHAHA! AHHHHHAHAHAHAHAHA! AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
  • It’s generally accepted that the European Union was formed as a sneaky way for Germany to win World War II when no-one was looking. The real story, only recently discovered, is rather juicier. In 1953 a little Gibraltan boy watched as his mother was struck and killed by a stray banana thrown by a drunken monkey, the bendiness of which was a direct factor in her death. That Gibraltan boy was none other than Alfonso Europe. As he grew, Europe dedicated himself to amassing wealth, power and prominence. He eventually became a billionaire, and established the EU for the sole purpose of having his vengeance upon bananas, and all who would eat them.

Or it was the Jews. Actually, I think it was the Jews. Had to have been.