The world is having a flashback from a tab of LSD it dropped in the late 1970s. It’s either that or the UK has been sucked through one of those space-time vortex thingies that fill the centre of every science fiction plot hole and we’re now in the Dark Universe of Star Trek where everything is upside down and the wrong way round – Captain Kirk cannae get a shag (I mean, William Shatner. Would you? I rest my case.), Scottie’s being forced to hoard a warehouse of weapons of mass destruction for the Lizard Aliens of Wesminstron, and Neil Hamilton is the voice of the anti-establishment uprising.
Neil Hamilton. Lemme run that past you again. Neil … Hamilton … He’s the deputy leader of UKIP and on Monday he was all over Newsnight on BBC2 preaching revolution and the downfall of political immorality. Satire hasn’t been so bombed since Kissinger won the Nobel Peace Prize for plastering Cambodia in napalm and Agent Orange. In case of any confusion that’s the chemical, not the community organiser of the only grassroots movement that Better Together’s really got – although both are equally toxic.
Before Neil Hamilton and his jolly hockeysticks wife scraped a living as a comedy guest turn on chat show sofas, he was best known for being the Tory MP who in 1994 was caught taking cash in a brown envelope in return for asking questions in the Commons. Despite it being proven that Hamilton had serially accepted non serial banknotes in return for asking a series of questions in the Commons on behalf of Mohammed Al-Fayed and others, Hamilton refused to resign. He was the first wee drop in the shower of venal and unaccountable politicians which turned out to be a permanent monsoon of Westminster climate change, destroying civilisation by its denial. Now for the second time in his life Neil’s on the leading edge of a wave of shite.
Although Neil refused to resign, because being punished for transgressions is something that only benefits claimants should face, at the following General Election he was defeated by independent candidate Martin Bell, the BBC reporter in the white suit who was going to clean up politics without the benefit of the Kissinger’s worth of chemicals required to disinfect the Westminster Parliament and remove all traces of flesh eating microbial politicians. Bell’s whiter than white clean up crusade melted like a snowman, and then evaporated away leaving nothing behind, not even a damp patch on Gordon Broon’s troosers.
Back in the 1980s, Neil spent much of his time campaigning against a ban on lead in petrol. He’d spent his childhood licking lead paint and it never did him any harm. The proof is in the intellectual tower of moral rectitude and joined up thinking we see in Neil and UKIP today.
Now it’s Neil Hamilton who has been entrusted with the task of cleaning up politics. It’s like King Herod came back 20 years after that unfortunate incident with the first born and opened a creche. It was all just a bit of a misunderstanding really. You’ll be able to entrust your children’s future to Ukipukia with a similar degree of confidence. They’ll be encouraged to play with sharp objects, it’s character building. They’re going to need it because they won’t have any friends in Europe. That’s where nasty foreigners live, people who are bilingual in jibberjabber but talk in English behind your back. UKIP MEPs are monolingual, they speak jibberjabber all the time.
Scotland’s very own jibberjabberer was interviewed on STV before the election, claiming that Al-Iqsammin wanted to fill the Highlands with Pashtun warriors and Afghan warlords, who will be slotted in between the windfarms that are being built for no other reason but to destroy the property values of deer estates belonging to hard working multimillionaire hedge fund managers and investment bankers. And he said referenda, which is the only proof anyone should need that the man’s a pretentious idiot. He needs to be encouraged to appear more often on the telly and in the pages of newspapers. Every time he opens his gob he reveals the selfish vacuity at the heart of UKIP’s message. He’s a walking talking advert for all that is wrong with the UK’s politics. UKIP have no answers, except a return to an imaginary golden age when Britain stood alone against the world, a wet dream of Great British Contrived WW2 Angles as beloved by the BBC. They’re not the cure for what ails British politics, they’re the feverish and delusional part of the disease, disjointed nostalgia and demonic nightmares in equal measure.
It’s like this: Scotland used to have its self portrait hanging on the wall. It was never a very good likeness, and too many parcels of rogues had a hand in the brushwork. Then the rogues sold it to Westminster in return for a handful of coin, and Westminster painted itself over the canvas. People got used to it, some even considered it an old master. But it was always a work in progress, constantly retouched, touched up and touched for expenses by generations of political piss artists whose confidence in their untouchablity grew as their talent decreased. The less in touch they were, the more they convinced themselves they breathed the refined and rarified air of lofty heights – when it was in fact oxygen starvation eating away their brains. And now we’ve been left with something scrawled in crayon and elephant dung, art created by a committee of over-privileged five year old brats.
The political arsonists of UKIP want to throw the canvas on the bonfire and replace it with a photo of a typical British family at a royal event street party that they found in the September 1954 edition of Empire magazine.
The artists of independence want to take the canvas back and paint a new picture of Scotland instead. The art of independence, not the ashes of Ukipukia. We’ll rebuild the School of Art, and we’ll rebuild a just, democratic, and outward looking Scotland as well.