Don't Let's Be Beastly to the Fascists

In older and greater days, such as those to which the New Real Provisional Farage Falange urges our immediate return, the measure of a man was his conduct in the face of physical peril. Unlike the panicky lesser breeds, a worthy wearer of the white epidermis of Albion was supposed to show pluck and stand fast, come Hell, high water or a hail of soft drinks. Unfortunately, it seems the stout-full yeomanry of today's freedom fighters are not quite up to this exalted standard: after some trouble with snowflakes provoked by racism, rape jokes, bullying and other robust manifestations of the British sense of humour, the tough-talking libertarians have gone squealing to the police for protection. In advance of a rah-rah in Edinburgh, a McDonald's restaurant has acceded to a police request not to sell milkshakes or ice-cream in case they are put to nefarious use by terrorists. It's a touching gesture of solidarity between corporate clowns pushing tasteless crap, of course; but it remains to be seen whether Edinburgh's throwable resources have thereby been completely exhausted. Older readers may recall, with appropriate emotions, how Farage's spiritual predecessor, the tangerine migrant-baiter and serial party founder Robert Kilroy-Silk, was dunked in liquefied cowshit by a morally bankrupt opponent: a course of action which certainly should not be condoned or recommended by any responsible traitor.