2014 has been the year of the United Kingdom Independence Party, an unstoppable political force who achieved their first Members of
Parliament, beat Nick Clegg into a cocked hat during the ‘Is Xenophobia Good?’ televised discussion, and now look forward to an invite into
election debates while being acknowledged as the third most popular party in the land (and rising!). Yes, UKIP have displayed an
unparalleled ability to set the national agenda by focussing on their expert area of immigrants, the effect of immigrants on traffic flow in the
Greater Bristol area, how leaving the European Union would immediately solve all Britain’s problems forever and, finally, immigrants.
So, as the head honchos and party bigwigs sit down for an extended Christmas break, imbibing sweet sherry somewhere far from the horror of breast-feeding women and eagerly
anticipating a 2015 that will surely see their party take the reins of government / hold the balance of power / access a sizeable anti-Westminster protest vote / disappear into the
murky nationalist netherworld from whence they came (delete as applicable), how should 2014’s festive season be celebrated in a properly Brit, empire-lovin’ way? HDUK can
exclusively reveal the yuletide priorities for fine, upstanding, anti-politics establishment rebels everywhere in the 12 Days of UKIP Christmas!
On the first day of Xmas, Nigel Farage gave to me….
…a roaring open coal fire, in the fireplace of my rural country home, a refuge from frightful languages on nasty multiculti trains out of the
major cities. It’s wonderful, even if my proud English homestead is regularly threatened by floods (the poofters need to stop their hijinks!)
Come to think of it, we haven’t actually cleaned this chimney in a few years. Do you think its wise Marjorie? That’s quite a lot of smoke.
We might have to evacuate the house, just as a temporary measure, and… oh no. It’s raining again. Bloody queers.
On the second day of Xmas, Nigel Farage gave to me….
…a special delivery of honest, pure-bred, working class British turkeys, all voting for Christmas.
On the third day of Xmas, Nigel Farage gave to me….
…a hardworking Essex white van man with a shaved head, tattoos of bulldogs around his neck and English flags covering every window of his hardworking home
up there in hard-work land, far from an out-of-touch political elite. That’s the spirit old chum!
On the fourth day of Xmas, Nigel Farage gave to me….
…Santa Claus, and we’ll shoot him down without mercy if the blighter enters our proud British airspace. It’s all an act you know. That freeloading bastard won’t deliver presents to
happy children for just one day, oh no. The world’s most corrupt Laplander wants to stay indefinitely so he can access our ridiculously-generous benefits system. And why should
a foreigner decide if my kids have been good, eh? I’ve had just about enough of judgmental arctic circlers coming over here, trying to reward my family. A hardworking UK jobless
could do sleigh deliveries just as well, and there are plenty of powerful, indigenous whites, ready to work as hard as any immigrant elf. This doesn’t even feel like my country any
more.
On the fifth day of Xmas, Nigel Farage gave to me….
…loads of snow, absolutely guaranteed for Christmas day, making a wonderful winterland scene for all. Because there’s no such thing as global warming, or ‘emissions’. The cold
weather proves it. Go outside in winter. You’ll see I’m right.
On the sixth day of Xmas, Nigel Farage gave to me….
…an overpowering need to go into any shops that open on our once-sacred Christmas day and tut loudly until they get the message. Bloody owners probably believe in
some ‘bongo-bongo God’ that has no place in a forthright Christian land.
On the seventh day of Xmas, Nigel Farage gave to me….
…a visit to hospital, where I’ll be treated for cirrhosis of the liver. Probably by an Indian.
On the eighth day of Xmas, Nigel Farage gave to me….
….a proper wife who can’t abide new mothers getting their bosoms out in public. She’ll rise at 4am on December 25th to give her plenty of time for cooking and cleaning, being
careful not to wake her husband after I get in late from the massage parlour on Christmas Eve. Then its hard work all the way, aside from a ten minute break for Her Majesty the
Queen of Britannia at 3pm - she does rule the waves after all (although Elizabeth will get switched off pretty sharpish if she starts going on about ‘tolerance’ in my house). I’d
never marry anyone who needs domestic help from Eastern Europeans to prepare a twenty-pound turkey and all the trimmings for sixteen people. Put your back into it love!
On the ninth day of Xmas, Nigel Farage gave to me….
…no bloody sprouts at dinner either. I don’t know how they do things over there in Belgium (although however they do it, I don’t agree) but I’m not having anything named after Brussels touching my authentic English gravy, done in the traditional lumpy style. Not now, not ever.
On the tenth day of Xmas, Nigel Farage gave to me….
…some real festive entertainment on the telly; traditional shows starring all my favourites – Larry Grayson, Kenneth Williams, Are You Being Served? with John Inman, Melvyn
Hayes from It Ain’t ‘Alf Hot Mum. They had proper catchphrases back then didn’t they? “Shut that door!”, “I’m Free!”, “Ooh, matron!” None of that modern Alan Carr / Graham
Norton rubbish. Then I’ll finish myself off with a classic episode of Top of The Pops featuring Legs and Co, probably presented by Jimmy Savile. Bliss.
On the eleventh day of Xmas, Nigel Farage gave to me….
…the ability to get massively worked up over apocryphal stories in the Daily Star (thanks for the 900k donation Dirty Des!) reporting how
right-on councils have rebranded our marvellous CHRISTIAN festival by putting kids in Islamic nativities featuring sympathetic jihadi characters, little girls in burkhas and a crib
full of the Prophet Mohammed! Grrr! I get so ANGRY!!!
On the twelfth day of Xmas, Nigel Farage gave to me….
…some historically-endorsed Boxing Day hijinks! We’ll go out riding with the hounds on our magnificent beasts Gordon, chasing the
disgraceful Frenchie Reynard through our peerless English countryside, and if we can do it sloshed off our faces then go for a chinky later, so much the better. Our ancestors
didn’t worry about breaking their necks when pissed back in the old days, that time everyone in this green and pleasant land knew all about British values and we could fly Saint
George’s cross from the nape of our steed without having to worry about politically correct ‘health and safety’ types shutting down the hunt. Just because there are a few
casualties every year and bigoted Islington types can’t stand to think of a fox being ripped apart for no reason while we look on, roaring with laughter and pouring ourselves
another….
…where was I? Oh yes. Pass the jodhpurs and fill another flask with the good stuff Gordo. And a very Merry Chrishmas to ush all!
