An hilarious but sadly accurate account of the latest UKIP conference. Pearson came across as an ass and Farage did his best to appear human. Nuttall did his living tribute to Benito Mussolini, thrusting his chin out, waving his arms about and calling for seats at Westminster. Sadly, he failed to explain why his little sidekick - McManus - was not standing for Parliament.
In many ways it was a surreal event. Some of the characters in the hall would not have looked out of place in a Hammer or even a Carry On film. We half expected to see Vincent Price, Sid James or Peter Cushing suddenly appear from the shadows, clutching a bible, crucifix and garlic.
Nigel would make a great Count Dracula. We have always said that he is the biggest Count in UKIP. We are also angry about that sewage in Budapest being funded by the British taxpayer. We are also angry about Farage becoming very, very rich at the British taxpayer's expense!
However, we must take exception to one particular comment in the article. Comparing Lisa 'Scruffy' Duffy to a balloon is not very nice. Balloons deserve better than that. How would you feel if YOU were compared to UKIP's answer to Moby Dick?
But enough from us.........
From the Telegraph:
Roll up, roll up for the UKIP carnival!
Tanya Gold attends the UKIP conference in Milton Keynes and finds it part political meeting, part carnival.
The UKIP conference is in the Jurys Inn hotel in Milton Keynes, for one day only, like a very special sale. It is possibly the least charismatic place in all Milton Keynes, but even so, they are here – the Little England Euro-sceptics, brushing the dust from their eyes and proudly standing up to the Europe Monster, even as its tentacles threaten to strangle them. It is 10am and the air smells strongly of toast.
In the ragtag army of bearded men and ancient ladies, I see a small boy. He is dark and very serious; he says he is 13. “Like everyone else in UKIP I am fed up with the EU and immigration and the two party politics that dominate Britain,” he says. You might be UKIP’s William Hague, I tell him. “Yes, I was thinking that,” he says, “But he was 16 when he addressed party conference, wasn’t he?”
Inside the conference hall – low ceilings, no windows, an enormous purple pound on a golden disc – it is, as ever, part political meeting, part carnival. UKIP supporters are the worst dressers in British politics. Most are festooned with UKIP balloons and sashes and rosettes. It is a brave member who does not wear a Save The Pound brooch.
A woman bounces onto the stage; purple and yellow, she could be a UKIP balloon. “I have the wonderful task of health and safety!” she shouts. Everyone boos. “And if you need to go to the toilet it is on the left.” Paul Nuttall, the bald, emphatic party chair, arrives, to call the party to arms: “We can really make a change in British politics!” he says, “We need to take seats at Westminster!”
I go to find Nigel Farage, leader of the party’s twelve MEPs. He is its poster boy and former leader, a flirtatious creature who does a good impersonation of a normal bloke. He is always in trouble for insulting the EU leadership, particularly the President Herman Van Rompuy, whom he said had, “all the charisma of a damp rag and the appearance of a low-grade bank clerk.” I find Farage talking to the man from Reuters. “If the entire political class is united in their disgust,” he is saying, “I must be doing something right.”
He turns to me. “I am,” he says happily, “one of the few people that Tony Blair has shouted at.” At least he didn’t bomb you, I say. “I told him, 'unlike you, President Chirac stands up for his country.’” And what did Blair say? “He said, 'this is not 1945! We are not at war with these people!’” Really, I say – that is the sort of thing that Tony Blair says when he is angry? It seems quite - dull.
“I also asked him why British tax payers had to fund a new sewerage system in Budapest,” says Farage, “that made him angry, too. Does it really take four parking attendants to put a ticket on Aggers’ car?” What? I follow Farage’s gaze and look out the window. Four parking attendants are ticketing a car. “That is what we are against,” says Farage, “Four parking attendants ticketing Aggers’ car.” And who is Aggers? “One of our MEPs.”
I go in search of Lord Pearson of Rannoch, UKIP’s leader. He is outside the hall, looking for his bag. “Where is my bag?” he is saying to a gaggle of helpers. So they all start looking for Lord Pearson’s bag and eventually find it under a table. Lord Pearson looks like an owl. He has a properly posh voice. He says, “awften”, not “often”, and, presumably, “warful,” not “waffle.” “UKIP,” he says, “Is the only honourable party.” So what do you say to those who say it is racist, because of its emphasis on immigration controls? “Winston McKenzie,” he says. What? “Winston McKenzie,” he says. McKenzie, he explains, is a UKIP candidate. He is black. I saw him earlier; he was wearing a Quentin Crisp Fedora. “I haven’t totted up how many ethnic minority candidates we have,” says Lord Pearson, “I’m not really interested.”
I get him onto the subject of political wives. “My wife is much prettier than their wives,” he says. “She is a seriously beautiful woman and theirs aren’t. But that isn’t really relevant. You should meet her.” And, magically, Caroline, Lady Pearson, arrives. She is indeed beautiful – tall, blonde, slender. If Lord Pearson is an owl, Caroline is the branch he could sit on. “I said you were more beautiful than Samantha Cameron,” Lord Pearson tells her. “Don’t say that,” his wife replies, “It’s so embarrassing.” “But you are,” says Lord Pearson. I rise, and leave them bickering. But he calls me back. “Winston!” he shouts, “Talk to Winston!”
So I find Winston McKenzie, and tell him that Lord Pearson told me to ask him about UKIP and racism. “You’ve come to the right man,” he says, “Immigration doesn’t mean black. When you say 'Immigration’ people think you mean black. But if we can get out of the EU, we will deviate away from the crime, the violence and the drugs.” “Absolutely,” says a woman behind him.
Back in the hall, I am sitting next to a bearded man, who is wearing a shirt that looks like a UKIP website has exploded on it. He is Robert H Brown, the candidate for North West Cambridgeshire and, every time I ask him a question, he directs me to his shirt. “The cheapest way to raise my profile,” he says, “is to put the advert on me. People can then talk to the advert and get an instant response.”
We watch Nigel Farage come on and, as he does his speech, Brown provides a commentary. It goes like this. Farage: “It’s a wonderful party.” Brown: “Nigel Farage gave me this medal at Bournemouth.” Farage: “Malcolm Pearson is a good man.” Brown: “He has travelled in the back of my car.” Farage: “Democracy is all but dead.” Brown: “My nickname is Hymn With Spade because I cleared a footpath. I’m known worldwide for that.”
At lunch, in the bar, everyone is ordering Bitter. Lord Pearson is sitting in the corner, and he waves. He has obviously decided he needs to hurl ethnic minority candidates at me, so I will not think he is a racist. “Have you met Abhijit Pandya?” he asks, “he’s lovely. He’s a candidate. He’s Indian.” I had forgotten to ask why UKIP has had seven leaders in seventeen years, so I ask him now. “I don’t know,” he says, “When was the party founded?” 1993, I say. “Really?” he says. “Well, I don’t know. I haven’t been around that long. But go and find Abhijit Pandya. He’s Indian.”
I return to the hall to find a bald man denouncing “Tory hypocritism.” The mood is darker now. Islamism, immigration, “the self-serving dishonesty of the wretched political class,” even global warming, all are booed. What is the point of booing global warming? Lord Pearson is summing up: “Five more years of any of the other parties and we will no longer be enmeshed in the tentacles of the corrupt octopus. We will be in its belly.” Somewhere on the periphery, a Euro-sceptic baby cries.
And that would be it, apart from a stage invasion. UKIP men, I have noticed, either have no hair at all or far too much. This one walks to the lectern and grabs it. I think he has been in the bar. “We have a new leader,” he says, “We will stay with him until our freedom is won back. Completely. Utterly.” “Get off,” says a woman. But he doesn’t. “Our generation,” he goes on, “was the one where Britannia slept beneath the waves.” “Get off,” says someone else. And, with that, Conference rises to sing the National Anthem and everyone goes home.
To see the original: LINK
No comments:
Post a Comment