Friday, 27 October 2017

Wetherspoons, bitten by the hand it feeds


Sometimes, something happens that demonstrates so well what you'd struggle to convince anyone would happen until it happens. And here it is.

So simple, yet beautiful and tragic at the same time. Of course, anyone actually interested in the news and what's happening in the UK currently (and the US) would spot instantly that a company run by one of Britain's most outspoken Brexiteers would be most unlikely to make such a statement around poppies. It's also bleedin' obvious that not many Muslims (the usual target of anti-multiculturalism commentators) ever visit a Wethie's for a pint and a full English.

But that didn't stop Britain's army of anti-social commentators delivering hate by the pint at Wetherspoon's and its Brexit-batty owner Tim Martin.

Which is funny because it's the exact audience that's turned on Martin that he went after with all his matey petty nationalist Brexit nonsense, along with Britain First, Murdoch, the Daily Mail, Express, Sun, Gove, Johnson, Farage and a whole host of other horribles that you wouldn't want to drink next to.

Because the truth is that apart from a few nutcases, no-one finds the poppy offensive; what is offensive is using the poppy to generate hate and being gullible enough to be sucked in by this nonsense.

Thousands of Muslims died in the two World Wars, some Muslim associations sell poppies. Yet even when we've got past this latest 'poppygate' we'll be into the Mail/Express/Sun telling us people 'somewhere' are being forced to say 'Winterval' instead of 'Christmas', or 'We can't have Christmas decorations/nativity plays because they offend Muslims'. The latter always confuses as to how people are taken in by this as the UK is literally dripping with Christmas lights and other paraphernalia, and complaining that Christmas has come too soon.

So congratulations to @Wetherspoon_UK. A tiny step to demonstrating to the UK how it's been shafted on Brexit by some of Britain's greatest manipulators.

Oh yes, £350m for a pint anyone? Before Turkey joins the EU. All our beers are made in Brussels, and so on.We can sort Brexit over a nice pint of beer. Watch your pockets though...

Monday, 19 June 2017



"Start questioning what you hear, even if you think you agree with it."


If you don't, Farage, Hopkins, Banks, Waters and Robinson will have got what they wanted from you, and I promise you this: when you are on fire, they will not urinate on you.

I quite like the Facebook post (below in italics) from Al-Radaideh Moh'd, it makes some good points and demonstrates very well how our mainstream press simply lies to its audience, saying what it wants hear, to support sales and political ends.
Propaganda has been used for 1000s of years to help achieve the objectives of a few, through manipulating many.
In more recent times Hitler used it to turn the population of Czechoslovakia on itself in order to make his invasion easier. He claimed atrocities against people of German descent; some of these were real (he had whipped them up through propaganda like ISIS uses idiot right-wing hate propaganda here so that it can recruit saying "Look they hate you!" to idiot Muslims who fall for propaganda) and some were simply made up for media that he controlled (sounding familiar?).
It's happening here in the UK with the likes of Farage, Hopkins, Banks, Tommy Robinson (real name Stephen Lennon, son of Irish immigrants, hates immigrants), Anne Marie Waters, The Daily Mail, Express and The Sun, all of whom want salaries, power and/or sales. And in every incident we experience you can see the hand of propaganda getting those to act who will not question what they've been told.
You're better than this UK. I don't care who you listen to, moderate right, moderate left, or moderate middle but start questioning what you hear, even if you think you agree with it. Otherwise you'll end up hating someone who at worst might be indifferent to you. If you don't do this, we will all suffer, apart from the likes of Farage, Hopkins, Banks, Waters and Stephen Lennon; they will have got they wanted from you, and I promise you this: when you are on fire, they will not urinate on you.
Facebook post by Al-Radaideh Moh'd after A van was been driven into a crowd of pedestrians near a London mosque, killing one man and injuring eight other people.

To clarify a few things.

1.) Anyone trying to justify this attack as some sort of "revenge" attack, are themselves supporting terrorism. The same exact logic is used by ISIS members to justify attacks on British civilians. Eg that they are revenge for Western military wars, attacks and strikes in Iraq, Syria and Libya.

There is NO justification for the killing of innocent civilians, least of all in barbaric acts of terrorism.

2.) If you believe Muslims didn't come out in force to condemn all the ISIS terrorist attacks then you are ignorant, perhaps likely even a bigot or racist, who only sees things that suit your own particular preconceived agenda. Tens of thousands of Muslims, like me, came out to offer thoughts, prayers and support for terrorist victims, and donated money too.

3.) If you believe Sadiq Khan stated that "terrorism is part and parcel of living in a big city", you are woefully ignorant, misled by the right wing media.

Here is Sadiq Khan's full quote to that infamous lime.

"What I do know, is part and parcel of living in a great global city is you've got to be prepared for these things, you've got to be vigilant, you've got to support the police, who are doing an incredibly hard job. You've got to support the security services." - Sadiq Khan

Are you all suggesting that being prepared for terrorist attacks isn't or shouldn't be part of living in a great city? That we should instead stay unprepared??

Khan NEVER suggested terrorism was part and parcel of living in a big city. Just that being prepared for terrorism was!

The full quote is in the video I've linked above, and is the source of ALL these articles. There is no other. But here's how the Daily Mail reported it.

Terror attacks are 'part and parcel of living in a big city', claims London mayor Sadiq Khan The Mayor of London, Sadiq Khan, has said that living with terror attacks - like the one that hit New York at the weekend - is 'part and parcel of living in a big city'.

Notice his full quotation is missing from the article completely. The Daily Mail and other right wing rags only actually quote one piece of the his full quote, and essentially fill in their own fabricated version of the rest.

A classic propaganda technique used to mischaracterise or misconstrue the facts or actual truth. Written in a way to intentionally target and misinform the already ignorant.

4.) As the second far right terrorist attack in just a year (Thomas Mair killed Jo Cox June 2016) it is clear that far right or White supremacist extremism is also becoming an issue here in the UK, and as such I think it's only fair that far right leaning supporters are also watched, vetted and investigated, the way thousands of mostly innocent Muslims are. At the end of the day, it's about the security of British people, irrespective of race, religion colour or creed.

5.) Just remember, British people died in this attack, even if they were Muslim.

6.) In the same way people call for Mosques etc to be monitored, it's clear we now need to monitor far right organisations and media for potentially breeding terrorists or hatred too. This means taking a look at The Daily Mail, The Sun, The Express, Britain First, EDL, Tommy Robinson and so on, who have all in certain less indirect ways, inspired division, hatred and discourse.

7.) Hopefully we can come together to reject terrorism on all sides, and show unity, love and compassion, the exact thing that ISIS and Far Right extremists do not want, since creating division, fear and hatred is their modus operandi.

In any case, my thoughts and prayers go out to the victims and all those affected, as they do each and every time an evil, heinous attack like this tales place.

Peace and love.

Thursday, 26 January 2017


  • Southeastern Railways' management of derailment situation for passengers who still insist on going to work (and home again) causes more carnage than ASLEF or RMT ever managed through strikes at sister-company Southern Rail
  • Southeastern's contingency plan trapped behind filing cabinet. Manager with long fingers still off sick.
 Cab drivers in south-east London today called for Southeastern Railways managing director to be knighted after a complete lack of ability to provide any trains on a scale unprecedented since the week before, the week before that, the week before that and the week before that (ad infinitum).
"This'll cheer you up, it's our new strapline!"
The lack of trains led to many of them buying second and even third homes (third homes come really cheap if they are situated near Southeastern Railway stations) after working 25 hours a day, eight days a week transporting Southeastern's season-ticket holders around south-east London. Such were the carbon emissions generated around New Eltham that Donald Trump has agreed to 'look again' at climate change.
Cannon Street 24 January 2016. No trains running but all listed as 'on time'.
What a difference five minutes makes! All now 'delayed'... Apparently the information system is called Darwin. However, it has failed to evolve into a system that actually provides any useful information. When passengers asked if there was a manager on the station who could give us information we were informed that he "is on a 'break'"
Sidcup cabbie Bert Streatham-Rothschild said: "I've made Philip Green look like Billy No-Notes with my new found wealth. I'm so rich now that me and my Nissan are listed on the New York stock exchange. Southeastern has done me a right favour and it's only right that its MD gets recognition for the carnage that has led to my success. Mind you them passengers can be a bit miserable after they've been camping at a railway station since Christmas, no wonder those Southeastern Jonnies hate them so much."

London First, the organisation set up to make London look well tasty to work in by only protesting about the state of London's train services when there's a strike, could use pictures like this to show how much more time you get in London last thing at night, courtesy of Southeastern. You too can be transported to a station nowhere near where you live, with an even longer delay than advertised, to find all the staff gone and the cab office shut.

London Assembly Member, Dave Ham, said: "Is there a strike? It must be a strike. Bloody unions crippling London with their tea breaks and making British Leyland go bust. When I said before the election I'd challenge Southeastern I actually meant to a duel but that's illegal now so I can't do it. Good luck getting to work! Keep those emissions down though, get a bike or something. Let me know if there's a strike though and I'll wade in straightaway."
People made to dress in pink or powder-blue vests by
Southeastern specifically to say "I don't know" in eight different languages.
Southeastern Railways said: "It's an honour but we'd actually like the cash instead, is that possible? We don't know what passengers expect, we invested in thousands of gallons of paint and painted each of those pole things on the platforms hundreds of times over and now we give them the chance to inspect them whilst they wait for trains, literally for hours, they get miffed! By the way, that'll be £20 for that interview, or the full single fare from Wick."
"We hate you, inconveniencing us with requests to get our sh*t together..."
It is true that this week it's a derailment, and not a broken-down train or signals (or both), missing staff or sun too low in the sky. But cabbies were delighted when promises of services on other lines meant passengers had to get to stations much further away. Cabbies were positively orgasmic when services on those lines failed too and passengers re-emerged from stations waving wads of cash at them after Southeastern said what was happening to services was a 'secret' between it and its maker.
See here for January 2016 article celebrating Southeastern's achievements.

Thursday, 15 December 2016


A UKIP Christmas yet to come...

Christmas 2018. After Farage was rejected by the UK government as ambassador to the US in 2016, Trump requested that he be Prime Minister. A build up of US forces in the UK aimed at tackling Syria turned out to be something else altogether and with only a few ships (most without working engines or fuel), an army that could barely fill an average football stadium, an air force bereft of its best planes after the previous government had sold them to the US for a fiver and no friends in Europe anymore, the UK was in no position to resist. The nightmare had come true, UKIP, backed by Trump, was in charge.

It was freezing. The central heating wasn't working and there was no-one to fix it. Gary could have paid to find someone who could do it but he needed to keep the money for food. You could still get hold of the basics, and even something more fancy if you knew who to speak to, and he needed to do this as he wasn't just feeding himself anymore. Gary had always wanted a family and now he had two: a Hindu couple and their child and a Muslim family of four. Like many others in the UK, he was hiding them in his house.


After UKIP took over people were worried but the puppet government had insisted that all it wanted was a return to 'British values' like going to church without fear of retribution from Muslims, going to the pub without fear of retribution from Muslims, flying flags of St George and union flags without fear of retribution from Muslims or having them confiscated by the police. UKIP collaborators had many stories of how they were prevented from going about their normal lives during the days of rule by woolly left-wingers like David Cameron and Theresa May. However, things turned out to be more sinister and after a night of looting of Asian shops and smashing their windows, a programme of rounding up Asian and black people had commenced. There was no need to round up the Poles, Romanians, Czechs, etc, they disappeared as soon as Farage was installed and the unchecked 'visits' from the thugs began.

UKIP appears to be quite keen on gas.
Like so many others Gary was horrified. He lived on his own and though he was far from brave he knew he had to do something. Two of his friends at work were affected, Aziz and Atul. They came in each morning, faces bruised from another beating either from a raid on their houses or just an attack in the street. And each day there were fewer of them.

“I can get a van and pick you up tonight,” he told Aziz. It had become clear that unless he acted now it would be too late. He wasn't sure what he could actually do but he knew if he got them to his place they would have a bit longer before they were sent to the rumoured ghettos. He couldn't ask anyone for advice because you didn't know who UKIP's informers were, the lack of goods and food available since currency collapse made people do terrible things. He thought to himself, naively, that he could pretend he didn't know they were living in his cellar.

Julian Deverell was UKIP's Bath
Parliamentary candidate
Fuel was very scarce and very expensive, much of it was stolen from the Americans and sold on the black market. As a result, borrowing vehicles was easy as the owners had little use for them, they just wanted a bit of fuel left in as payment. Gary had trudged to the owner's house with a jerry can on a supermarket trolley, a common site now as so many vehicles ran out of fuel so he didn't look out of place. And there were crowds of people on the streets now, bigger than ever before, that he could hide in as there was no-one to drive the buses or trains, not that there was much fuel or electricity for them either.

Once he had fuelled and picked up the van he drove to Aziz's house, the roads were pretty clear and he had to be careful as vehicles were conspicuous. He was lucky tonight though as the police were engaged in two major riots, between themselves. Whilst many supported the new regime, others were horrified at what they were being told to do and were attempting to stop colleagues collaborating. He could see the odd Christmas tree in windows, lit by candles as power cuts to conserve supplies were in force; the Russians had cut gas supplies to the UK's power stations. People didn't mind though as they'd been told by the Daily Mail and Express that Muslim terrorists were cutting the supplies in order to prevent Christmas lights being turned on, and many who believed this stood up for their Christmas, as the Daily Mail had asked them to do in its 'Stand up for Christmas' campaign, with candles given away with each copy, resulting in an epidemic of house fires.

The pubs were shut too after right-wing Christian fundamentalist groups, backed by their American cousins, were allied with UKIP resulting in alcohol, the 'devil's buttermilk', being frowned upon. UKIP officials were ok though, they could get their supplies of drink at home undisturbed by the burgeoning number of shouting pastors now turning up in the UK. The Sun was blaming the EU, with claims of bans of alcohol exports to the UK. Sun readers forgot that we used to make most of it ourselves.

Aziz had his family ready and, under cover of darkness now that so few street lights worked, he was able to get them into the van. Atul was not so easy as he lived near a UKIP councillor's house and the street was lit like Wembley Stadium had been in better times at night games, so the councillor felt safe. Nevertheless, the transfer went as planned.

“Lucky the councillor didn't see you,” said Gary.

“Not lucky at all for him,” said Atul. “Anish was easy to pick up by UKIP as he thought he was one of theirs. He was taken days ago.”

Gary was always on tenterhooks about having the families hiding below him but he couldn't have lived with the guilt had he not done anything. The penalties were severe for hiding people, prison at best, often with a charge of sexual offences added on so even friends stood back and perpetrators were truly cut off in the most humiliating way from even those that might have supported them. And it was the single people that did it, who were not frightened for repercussions on their families, so trumped-up charges of sexual offences stuck even more easily.

The biggest challenge was getting enough food. He could always spot those in the same position as him, always carrying around tins and packets of food whilst clearly losing weight themselves. Friends and colleagues not in a position to hide people would silently give what they could spare, having realised what was going on, without asking. The state's operatives, rarely the sharpest tools in the box, seldom spotted anything.

One evening at about 7pm, there was a knock on the door. Gary wasn't expecting anyone. He looked out of an upstairs window and could see one man on his own, not a group of policemen that he would expect if he were going going to be raided. If it was someone official they would only come back he thought, so he decided to open the door. As he did so he saw Shirley across the street looking out of her bedroom window. “Shit,” he thought, he knew Shirley had been a UKIP activist before the coup. A facepainter and UKIP activist, how jolly, no doubt she'd snitched on him. The world had gone mad. A face painter could have sentenced him and his friends.

It was a man in his mid-30s on his doorstep.

“Quickly, let me in,” he said.

Gary let him in. There was no slamming the door in his face, that would have been an invitation for his house to be searched, forcibly. The man walked through Gary's house like he owned it and asked Gary to sit down, in his own house.

“I won't stay long,” said the man. “I know you're hiding people here.”

Gary froze. The man put his hand on Gary's arm.

“It's ok mate, you're one of us. You didn't know it but you are.”

“Who are you?” asked Gary.

“I'm a primary school teacher,” said the man. “Who'll soon be redundant if they pick up any more of my kids.”

“How did you know about me?”

“We have ears and eyes everywhere, and in the most unexpected places.”

“What do you want?”

“The kids, I'm going to get them away.”

Gary was pleased to hear this. But his anger that the UK had come to this would never subside.

“What about the adults?” he asked.

“I can't help them. They can stay here with you or take their chances elsewhere,” said the teacher. “Let me speak to them.”

Gary let him into the cellar and he heard low voices and sobbing. After 15 minutes the man emerged.

“Expect someone round tomorrow,” he said. “Leave it all to them. Don't ask any questions.”And he disappeared into the night. Shirley's curtains twitched, he saw her face momentarily. It wasn't suspicious having a mate drop round yet was it? Maybe she thought he was gay? That wasn't allowed anymore, well it was if you were a party member and didn't go around in drag. Gary had a momentary rush of adrenaline; he didn't care what Shirley did, he was doing the right thing. He would get the kids out, no matter what.

The next day he realised he couldn't go to work, not if he was expecting someone to come for the kids, he would have to let them in. It was like the old days he thought, when you'd wait in for a delivery or a repair person, or a delivery. None of that happened now. Work didn't matter anyway, it was hard to call in as the phones never worked now, and no-one much cared if someone didn't turn up.

A knock at the door. He jumped up, ran upstairs and looked out to see who it was. It was Shirley. What could she possibly want? He ran down and opened the door. She had a small briefcase with her.

“You going to let me in?” she asked.

“Er, no,” said Gary. “I'm busy.”

“I know you have been,” said Shirley. “But you won't be anymore. Let me in, I've a job to do.” Shirley pushed her way in. “Where are they?” she asked. Jesus, thought Gary, I can't give them up now, so close to getting them away.

“I haven't the faintest idea of what you're talking about,” he said.

“Don't fuck about Gary, the teacher sent me,” she said. Gary realised he'd been tricked. But why in this convoluted fashion? Why didn't they just send the police or the EDL thugs they used for this stuff now?

“Cellar or attic?” she asked. He wouldn't answer. “OK, cellar then,” she said, and opened the door and marched down.

“Don't follow me,” she shouted back up to him.

He heard voices. He didn't know what he expected to hear next, but he didn't expect laughter. The sound of children laughing, a beautiful sound.and it went on for an hour, delighted shrieks of happiness, he couldn't imagine what was going on. And then the sound of footsteps coming out of the cellar. Children with their faces painted, beautifully painted, a tiger, a cat and a dog. Their parents, picking them up with tears of joy.

“Enjoy the party!” They said. And hugged their children like they were never going to see them again.

There was another knock at the door, Shirley opened it and ushered the kids out. There was a minibus outside with more kids on it. White kids, looking curiously at the facepainted kids. The teacher was waiting at the door to the minibus and the kids climbed and the minibus left.

“Expect the unexpected,” said Shirley. And she and her case went back to her house. Gary looked after her, confused. He turned around to see Atul and Aziz comforting their sobbing wives, as he shut the door, the men broke down too.

“Is someone going to tell me what the fuck is going on?” asked Gary.

“They're going to Calais,” said Atul. “They'll be looked after there, we couldn't look after them, we don't even know what will happen to us...”

On further questioning it appeared that the French had set up a camp in Calais to look after kids from Britain whom the Government considered didn't fit in.  The French, of course, along with the Germans, Dutch and others, had turned away from Le Pen, Wilders and Meuthen once they saw what had happened to Britain, and in a turn around from history, British kids were being sent there for their safety. The teacher took kids on trips to Margate, Broadstairs and Ramsgate, where those disguised by face-painting or other means could be spirited away by boat in a new spirit of Dunkirk, the other way around.

Atul, Aziz and their wives refused to go back into the cellar and said they would rather chance finding a way to their kids than spend the rest of their lives hiding, risking Gary's freedom too. They spent one last night sleeping in comfort in Gary's bedroom and his spare room and in the morning opened the front door and left.

They had only been gone five minutes when Gary, on an impulse, ran after them. He saw them up the road being jeered at and hooted at by cars, whilst some people confronted those jeering and hooting. He ran up to them, and begged them to come back. But they turned their backs on him and walked up to a police car: “We're offended by Christmas,” they said to the policeman inside.

Happy Christmas

Friday, 29 April 2016

Get those nuts checked!

I was having a slash last night and I saw the advert below over the urinal. It took me back to a time when I behaved like even more of an idiot than I do now.

I knew I had a lump on the two veg. I knew it. But I couldn't face the embarrassment of having a doctor fiddling around with my tackle. It gnawed at me for months, especially as more publicity was being carried out around testicular cancer. I insisted that all the women close to me went and had their boobs manhandled, as it was vital anything untoward was caught early. Yet hid from them that I was such a Jessie that even though I knew I had a lump I was to prudish to have it seen to.

Anyway, I finally steeled myself after letting on to my girlfriend and letting her have a feel. In fact she made me go, I was still resistant.

At the time I was registered with Britain's rudest doctor. He only communicated with his receptionists through the medium of insults. He was just slightly better with patients. And he always had a box of Capstan Full Strength on his desk (he's dead now).

I told him about the lump and it was trousers down, pants off time.
"Jesus," he said. "I'm making you an appointment at Lewisham Hospital for today. Get down there and take your pyjamas with you."

I had never been so frightened in my life. And I refused.
"I haven't got any pyjamas," I said.
"It's your funeral," he replied.

I was genuinely terrified. But I did a deal with him and agreed an appointment in two days time at the Memorial Hospital at Shooters Hill with a "mate" of his. It was discussed in the same way as a builder might offer no VAT for cash.

So after much soul-searching I drove myself to the hospital as taking my own car meant I knew I had to drive myself home and wouldn't stay. Ridiculous.

I was called in to see Dr Capstan's chum and in an instant he had me up on a trolley, legs akimbo with his hands pulling my scrotum about as if it were a miniature bag of coal.

"Aha!" He exclaimed with too much delight, "Plenty of those walking the streets! Right, it's a benign cyst. I've got some students in and I want them to get an idea of what one of those feels like compared with something nasty."

Bloody hell! The relief! So I just said yes, as you would.

Then eight students turned up. Eight. Four girls, four boys. They literally formed an orderly queue and each had a feel. It was a bit awkward at first but by the sixth I was giving advice on where it was and would have given the cleaning staff a feel too had they popped in. I was impressed at how civilised, straight-faced and serious they were; eight students in their 20s.

So off they went, thanking me for eight quick fiddles, and I got dressed and got in my car. As I drove out of the hospital such was the relief I didn't see a zebra crossing. I screeched to a halt, half way across the zebra, as people were waiting to cross. Eight medical students to be precise, who all waved at me using the eight hands that had been wrapped around my testicles minutes earlier. As I drove off I saw them collapse into fits of giggles, which made me do the same!

So, if you're worried, your visit cannot be any more embarrassing than mine. So get them checked, or you'll be hearing from me...

Sunday, 13 December 2015

United Kingdom Innkeepers Party nativity story

No room at the inn

A nativity story for today, with apologies to everywhere and nearly everyone mentioned. A young couple travel to the Isle of Thanet and stumble across an innkeeper with a clear guest policy and some not-so-wise men as their family expands

Couldn't find my nativity scene so this will have to do

Mary and Joseph were making their way to Margate down the A2 in the Daewoo that Joseph had bought from A1 Carriages of Dartford. It had proven reliable so far but pulled slightly to the left. 

Mary was heavily pregnant and Joseph was reflecting on the fact he was about to become a dad. He still wasn't sure that Mary was being straight with him. Though in a dream Jeremy Kyle had come to him, saying that DNA and lie-detector tests would not prove anything on a conception like this. He knew Mary was no virgin, indeed, at one time she was viewed as a 'dead cert' by his mates with whom he regularly attended Dartford's Gas & Air night club. But he was beginning his man reconstruction and knew that he too had 'put it about' a bit so he should not judge Mary based on gender.

And also, Mary's GP had miraculously appeared out of nowhere at the front door confirming Kyle's words, reassuring him that all sorts of medical mishaps can occur despite Mary being on the "Jack and Jill," and that the birth of this child would be a "glorious" event. Joseph initially assumed that the doc must have had his hands in the medicine cupboard, to go about reassuring people about births like this, like a sort of negative of Harold Shipman, but he had a curiously calming way with him and Joseph now looked forward to the birth. He had even gone through the Dartford Tunnel, into Essex, and bought a teddy bear in Ikea at Lakeside. 

A new life, away from Southeastern Trains...

They were to begin a new life in Margate, the jewel of the Isle of Thanet, free of the restrictions of Dartford, with its big city swagger and bright lights that had, in the end, just got in their eyes. Even working in London was not an option as the local train company, Southeastern, had a stranglehold on the area, robbing the locals of fares and keeping them hostage for hours on trains that mysteriously broke down every time Joseph got on them. No, though Margate was still in the Southeastern franchise, Joseph knew that he'd not need to leave Margate again, it had everything they wanted. 

Mary's phone bleeped as they passed Gravesend.
"Oh no!" She exclaimed. "The landlord just texted me to say he hasn't managed to evict the people who are in the flat now, but some of his mates are coming round in the morning so it'll be ok then." 
"Bollocks!" Said Joseph. He was a man of few words but that one was a favourite. 
"We'll have to find a B&B," said Mary, it shouldn't be a problem at this time of year." 
Joseph sighed, "You're forgetting one thing," he said: "My tan." 

No room at the inn (for some people) 

As the Daewoo took them from street to street, they tried to find a B&B with vacancies. Neither was the right sort of person to ask, vacancy signs were turned around as they walked up front paths as proprietors saw Mary's visible bump or the tan that Joseph had inherited from his Pakistani great grandmother, whom he had never met. 

"Bollocks," exclaimed Joseph: "We can't sleep in the Daewoo. What are we going to do?" 
Mary suggested they call the council as she was pregnant, maybe it would find them a shelter? 
"No-one from the council answers a phone after 4pm," said Joseph, solemnly. "We'll just have to keep trying." 
They drove through Margate and onto the mean streets of Cliftonville, notorious for its sex dungeons and dominatrixes. 

A bright security light

A bright security light lit the recycling bins

They found themselves following a bright light, which turned to be a security lamp on a house that was stuck on. It was so bright that it blinded them to the gaudy light decorations on the house itself, which in turn blinded them to a sign, which read: 'Virgil Garage's B&B'. Underneath was another sign, saying 'We reserve the right to refuse sluts and men who are too fond of each other'. 
"You go this time," said Joseph. "That sign scares me." 
"We're desperate Joseph. We should take anything," said Mary, opening the Daewoo door and getting out. 

She walked up the path. The garden was laid out very neatly. She could see four empty Spitfire ale bottles neatly arranged in the bottle recycling box, along with a Concord, British wine, bottle by the front door. She pressed the doorbell and heard the first few bars of Land of Hope and Glory. Nothing. She pressed it again and heard the deep voice of a man. 
"Is there a war on?!" Called out the voice. The door opened and she could see a figure enveloped in smoke. Through the fug see could see the lit end of a cigarette, glowing and then it moved down as the figure removed the cigarette to speak. 
"Yes," said the voice. It was charismatic, warm and scary all at the same time. "Good evening, Virgil Garage at your service. Can I help?" 
"Have you got a room for the night?" asked Mary. 
"That depends," said the voice. "Are you just in from Calais?" 
"No, I'm not Justine," she replied. "Oh, sorry, no, Dartford," answered Mary. "We've been on the road, oh, I don't know for how long. Since just after five this afternoon." 
"Only my little joke," said the voice. "Come inside." 
"I need to get my boyfriend first," said Mary. He's in the car." 
"Oh," said the voice, sounding disappointed. "I thought I saw a car with its lights on." 
"That'll be the Daewoo," said Mary. 

Mary went and got Joseph from the car. 
"This is, er, Mr Garage," She said. 
"Call me Virgil," said the B&B proprietor. "We're all friends here. I feel goodwill to all men, and ladies, tonight, even those who don't clean behind their fridges. Not sure why." 
He went to shake Joseph's hand, but visibly flinched. 
"You're not from around here, are you?" asked Virgil. 
"No," said Joseph. "I'm from Dartford." 
Virgil looked confused. 
"But where are you really from?" He asked again, slowly. 
"Dartford," said Joseph again. 
"You said you had a room?" interrupted Mary. 
"Did I?" replied Virgil. "I don't recall that. I see you're with child too. Does that mean it will get a green card if it's born here? Or will you go back to, er..." 
"Dartford," said Joseph. 
"Quite," said Garage. "I'm afraid there are no rooms." 
"What?!" exclaimed Mary. "You asked us in! Just for a chat?!" 
"There's no need to be like that young lady. Ok, I can offer you my garage. It's even named after me." 

Joseph could see that Garage's offer of his garage was made to encourage them to go elsewhere, but there was nowhere else now. After a long silence Garage led them to his garage. On the way through the door from the house to the garage Joseph noticed a sign. It said 'rules' at the top. Garage tried to hurry them through and as he did so Joseph said: 
"Your rules say that only British passport holders can stay. And that you don't accept Euros." 
"It's funny how you instantly pick up on what rival guest houses say about us, the fact is that we're not just a two-rule inn. We have many other rules too in the United Kingdom Inn Party, the B&B critics only ever mention those two rules, but that's because they're paid by European Union of B&B Providers by the back door. Anyway, I'll get a couple of mattresses in here for you." 

Mary and Joseph looked around the garage. A single bulb lit the area dimly. Mary started to cry. Joseph comforted her. 
"It's ok, it's dry," he said. And we'll ask Garage for a heater. Look at these old cars." 
They were surrounded by a number of unfinished car restorations, a Frogeye Sprite, a Jaguar and a Morris Cowley. Virgil reappeared with mattresses, duvets and a fan heater. 
"Do you like my girls and boys?" He asked. 
"Magnificent showpieces of the British motor industry: before it was ruined by unfair trading practices by foreigners." 
"What, like they made better, cheaper cars?" Asked Joseph. 
Garage threw down the mattresses and other paraphernalia and left, slamming the door behind him. 

Who is Chris Muss?

Joseph started to make up some beds. 
"Oh, Joseph!" Shouted Mary. "My waters have broken!" 

Joseph looked up, panic in his eyes. He ran to the door that Garage had disappeared through, it was locked. He banged on the door, nothing. He ran over to the large metal door and banged on that, nothing. He listened at the door and could only hear a 'mash-up' of songs from the car stereos and discos of Margate, punctuated by a man shouting "It's Chris Muss!" 
"Who's Chris Muss?" muttered Joseph. But that would have to wait. Mary needed him now, like never before. 


The safest gynae photo I could find
Joseph had no qualifications in gynaecology; despite extensive practical experience and research, childbirth was had not featured in his studies thus far. 

"It comes out of there doesn't it?" he said, vaguely pointing at Mary's nether regions. 
"No, it comes out of my bloody ears!" screamed Mary, as a contraction grabbed her. 
Joseph made her lie down on a mattress and told her to breathe. He'd seen that on the TV. All mothers -to-be should breathe. 

Some hours later Mary gave birth to a baby boy. It was a miracle to Joseph and Mary, and they stared at him now tightly wrapped in blankets and the bits of cloth Garage hadn't used to wipe grease from things yet. 

The door to the garage opened and Garage stepped in. 
"I think I owe you two an apology..." And then he spluttered: "What's this? You've bred? I leave you alone for five minutes and there's one more of you?! We'll be outnumbered! Enoch was right, there'll be blood on the streets!"

Away in the Mazda

Old Mazda, courtesy of 'In the Pit' at
Joseph and Mary looked up at him, gazing serenely, and that seemed to calm him. 
"I'm sorry," said Garage. "What am I thinking? You need somewhere better for the child." 
Joseph thought they were about to be taken into the house but Garage switched on another light, revealing another car they'd not noticed before in the hitherto gloom. 
"Lay him in the Mazda," said Garage. "It's not British but nor is he, and it's more comfortable." 
And they did that, laid the child away in the Mazda, whilst the Cowley, Jaguar and Frogeye looked on. 

Three men

There was a knock at the big garage door. Garage pressed a button and the door rose, the electric motor humming and then a big click as it reached its destination. There were three men outside. 

"What's up Garage? Why didn't you turn up at the councillors' dinner party? You know we always have one at this time of year, worried you might have to sit next to an African?!" 
"Some of us have to work you know," answered Garage. 
"Anyway, I've been busy tonight. Look, two guests became three."

Away in the Mazda

The three men looked down at the child, lying in the Mazda. Tears started running down their cheeks. 
Garage collected himself together.
"These are three fellow councillors, Tory, Labour and Libdem. Those aren't their names of course, I can't remember those as I so rarely go to meetings," he said. 
The Labour councillor stepped forward:
"We saw your big security light on, we followed it up the hill, we were sore afraid there might be something up. But this is so wonderful he said, let me give the parents some cash for letting us witness this." 
The Tory looked aghast. 
"I thought you didn't have any cash? And as soon as you do you give it away to the first person that's fresh off the boat. I'll make a gift too but it's a piece of paper. I will write on it the name of my friend, he's a carpenter and he'll employ you on my recommendation when you're 16, without interviewing any other people. It won't be quite minimum wage of course but it'll be a proper apprenticeship through our new scheme with at least a week's training." 
The Libdem stepped forward. 
"I know I should give you something, but I'm not sure what it should be."

Jezza C

"What are you going to call him?" asked Garage.
"We haven't thought of anything yet." said Mary. "I know, as you were kind enough to give us this garage for the night, why don't you choose? Is that ok Joseph?"
Joseph nodded, blinded and deafened with love for the new child.
"Not Virgil though, that's a shit name," he said.
"Oh, ok. Er, what about Jezza?" suggested Garage.
"After Corbyn?" asked the Labour man, "Who runs the homeless shelter down in the town, you know, next to Marx & Spencer? I thought you hated him?"
"No!" exclaimed Garage, "After Jeremy Clarkson! Everyone loves Jezza C and a child born of migrants will need all the love it can get in a society like this."
"You're going soft in your old age," said the Tory.
The Libdem shifted nervously, adding nothing.

Neil Herodon

A mobile phone rang, breaking the spell of adoration, as they all stared into Jezza's Mazda. It was Garage's mobile.
"Yes," said Garage. "Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes, Yes. No. Of course."
He looked at the baby and then at three men. He then covered up the phone.
"It's Neil Herodon," said Garage. "He's the deputy chairman of the UK Inns Party. He says there's been talk of a baby boy born tonight who should be in an asylum-seekers' detention centre. He's worried about the effect it will have on the reputation of the B&B industry if the child is found at my inn by the Margate Express. I've told him that I've seen no such child."
"Well that's ok then isn't it?" said the Labour councillor.
"Yes and no, he wants to speak to you chaps too, in case you've seen anything. You'll have to lie too."
In unison, all three shrugged their shoulders. The Tory snatched the phone away from Garage.
"We have seen him," he said. Everyone gasped.
"He was with his family, going north through the Blackwall tunnel. He could be being radicalised into chain hotel management in a Hertfordshire Premier Inn as we speak so you'd better get looking there. No, I don't want any of your filthy money in a brown envelope, I already get expenses."
He pressed the cancel call button and handed the phone back to Garage.
"Well, I didn't expect that from you," said the Labour councillor.
"What sort of effect would it have on business in the area if people thought there was an asylum-seeker in the area?" said the Tory. "I suggest you people leave town now and go back from whence you came, maybe via Hastings and Brighton.

And Mary and Joseph did just that, with the blessings of all.

In the next instalment, in around 3-4 months, we see how despite Jezza's popularity through his inclusive wine and sundries dinner parties, a misunderstanding leads to him being vilified and punished in a most unpleasant fashion.