“Come along chums!” boomed Julian bossily.  “Into the old jalopy and it’s off to Conference we go!  You clamber into the front, Anne.  Dick, George and Timmy Mk 12 into the back and we’ll hit the road!!”

“That sign says ‘Torquay’,” said Anne some time later as they joined the endless traffic jam known in happier times as the M5.  I thought I’d read somewhere that UKIP had relocated the Conference to Snoddington-On-Sea due to lack of numbers?”

“Fake News, Dumbass,” said George from the back, pausing from tying a large AMW 4 LEADER flag onto a protesting Timmy.  “Far from shrinking, news from the Diane Abbott Political Policy Unit has UKIP membership up at 12 million people, admittedly a long way behind Labour’s one hundred million but still pretty positive!”

“Are we there yet?” whined Dick, offering Timmy a responsibly-sourced, neuter-gender, recyclable, squeak-muffled toy to distract him from George’s increasingly impatient attempts to fit a BREXIT NOW! bandanna around his head.  Timmy took it and began to chew it in a non-agressive manner as dictated by EU Ruling 2016/0005/02/W4NKM3OFF – Guidance For Dogs.

292777To the relief of Dick’s peanut-sized bladder, they shortly were parked up and walking around the corner to the Conference Centre.  “Ooh look!” Anne squealed excitedly.  “Poor people!”  Fumbling around in her 1940’s vintage handbag the plucky girl fished out a £1 coin and presented it to a bald-headed chap with FCUKIP tattooed across his forehead.  “No, I don’t want a Big Issue, thank you,” Anne trilled happily as she turned away.  “Make sure you spend that before the end of October, it’s one of the old ones,” Dick said.  “And not on drugs or alcohol,” Julian added wagging a reproving finger at him.

The merry band trooped into the hall and found themselves seats near the front.  “Ham sandwich anyone?” Anne said fishing a foil-wrapped package out of her rucksack.  George frowned at her.  “I hope Nigel doesn’t see us,” she said.  “We don’t want him to think we’re among the lowest grade of people he has ever met.  Total amateurs who lbccome to London once a month with sandwiches in their rucksacks.”  Julian shook his head wisely.  “Nigel’s not coming,” he said.  “He’s far too busy criticising everything and everybody on his LBC Radio Show and collecting his MEP salary alongside his mates like Steven Woolfe and Diane James who feel no obligation to stand down even though they no longer represent the people that voted them in.”

Julian felt inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a betting slip.  “Anyway chums,” he said,  “The sodas are on me tonight, 9-1 odds on Henry Bolton to win and I think it’s a foregone conclusion!”  Seeing the combative look on George’s face he went on to explain.  “Look, UKIP has shrunk back to its original core base again having so conclusively cocked things up since the Referendum.  And who are they going to vote for?  AMW – Too extreme.  Peter Whittle – Too gay.  David Kurten – Too black.  Jane Collins – Too female.  Poundland – Too boring.  HB – Safe Choice and also approved by the sainted Nigel.”  He glanced up at the stage.  “Uh Oh… Aidan Poundland is about to speak.  I’m off to the ‘Who’s got the most impressive Walrush Moustache?’ contest fringe event’.”


Poundland’s speech had been relatively short – a mere two and a half hour borathon and Julian returned to find the vast majority of the conference sound asleep.  Anne was awake however and studying the stage intently through her opera glasses.  “That Party Chairman fellow,” she breathed huskily, “he looks just like ‘Lone Flyer’ from Mingerville!  I wonder if he’s still available?”

“Never mind that!” Julian exclaimed, shaking Dick and George awake.  “They’re about to announce the new logo.  There it is.  No!  That’s the Premier League one, isn’t it, Dick?”


“I wouldn’t know,” said Dick.  “I’m more of a Rugger Bugger myself you know.  Looks like you were right, old man.  That’s either Henry Bolton or Victor Meldrew being announced as leader.”

“I thought a Henry Bolt-on was a sex toy,” quipped George, winking at Anne.  “Looks like the drinks are on you tonight then Julian.”

“Yes, but not here,” said Julian.  “Back to the Pal-mobile, besties.  The job’s done here.  We can leave Henry to safely oversee the final demise of UKIP and get up to Manchester to join our Tory chums on the razz tonight!

Tory Conference – Here we come!!!”





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