My Letter to Santa
Dear Santa
I don’t see why adults – even those who are destined to become future Emperors of the Universe – should be precluded from presenting their list of Christmassy desires to Santa in the run-up to the festive season (which should be celebrated by ALL true Brits everywhere, by legal fiat, if necessary). If you’re a Christian, you SHOULD be celebrating Christmas, and if you are NOT a Christian, you bloody well SHOULD be!
Here’s my Christmas list for me and my friends in the BNP:
* A real legal qualification for the idiotic Lee Barnes, who thinks he’s a barrister but is actually a madman who has only escaped the strait jacket because the BNP has given him a home (shouldn’t we be paid for providing a public service?).
* An inflatable doll for Mark, whose inflated ego is too much for ALL his girlfriends (except particularly dim schoolies and Joey).
* I’d like a million pounds.
* A real MA (Hons) to go with the one I claim I’ve got but that I actually paid a few quid for on the quiet to upgrade my third-rate BA in fuck all of any interest. How come that traitor in Lancaster, Chris Hill, has a PhD, while I’ve only got a BA? That’s not fair.
* Singing lessons for Joey Smith (who frankly sounds like a cat trapped under a washing machine).
* Continued DLA for my mate Clive Jefferson who is the hardest working disabled person I know. It’s amazing how he claimed benefits for years yet was a bouncer – sorry, one of my excellent security team – and organised the well-oiled machine that is the NW region today despite pretending to need a swordstick – I mean, a walking stick – all the time. It’s a shame they keep losing every by-election, or they’d be an example to all of us.
* I’d like to see Martin Reynolds, my fat and cuddly pervert of a security boss, lose a bit of weight so that he could stay with me when I’m rushing away from a hail of eggs.
* Talking of losing weight, I wish I could lose a bit. If I get much fatter, they’ll be calling me and Martin Tweedledum and the other one.
* I’d like five million pounds.
* I’d like to see Arthur and whatever her name is fuck off to America. His book ‘March of the Titans’ is frankly crap and I’d be glad to see the back of him (and her, whatever her name is). Hang on a minute – didn’t she post on her blog to say they were divorcing?
* I’d like to see the Very Reverend Pope Lord Sir Robert West begin to embrace Odinism. I’m sure he could fiddle it so that the Bible encouraged the worship of long-defunct Norse gods. This would please many of our followers (particularly that loony, Lee).
* I want to win in Barking. Dicky is an idiot and while he got to shag that rancid old clapped-out ballet dancer, that doesn’t entitle him to be more popular than me. If I don’t win, I’m going to be REALLY pissed off and I might very well encourage Bob Bailey to kill Barnbrook during one of his regular temper tantrums.
* I’d like Jimmy Dowson to teach me how to write a begging letter that works. The last one only earned us £4.85 so I suspect I’m not doing it right. Jimmy has told me he’ll sell me the secrets of fund-raising for a mere £100,000 per year. Personally, I think that’s a bargain and the members can afford it, the idiots.
* I’d like to know who Martin Wingfield is. People talk about him as if I should know him but I can’t put a face to the name.
* I’d like to be a billionaire (and NOT in bloody euros).
* I’d like everyone in the party to pay me a million pounds for membership. I would then, because I am known to be generous, give them a FREE lifetime membership card and a tie-clip or tatty old watch in exchange. Paul Cromie could afford it – why doesn’t HE give me a million, the fat bastard?
* I want to win in Barking because I haven’t the foggiest idea where the North-West of England is. I went up to Newcastle and they’d never heard of me – they just kept saying ‘why-aye’ or something. Bloody foreigners. What’s the matter with these people? Have they never heard of Agincourt?
* I want Simon Darby to go away and never come near me again. He frightens me. I think it’s the eyebrows – they seem to lead a separate life from him – and I swear he records everything I say.
* And that reminds me. Don’t get me wrong, I LIKE creeps and sycophants – but Paul Golding…he’s just a little too much. He gets a bit creepy sometimes. It’s like having a growth somewhere – you don’t want to acknowledge it but it’s always there and everyone knows it. And it smells funny…
* I’d like the British media to be kinder to me. After all, I am the head of a major compan – party, and I think I deserve respect, even if I am massively overweight and have started looking more like my pigs than is good for me. If the media starts dissing me, bro, I might has to pay back when I is in power, innit. Sorry, don’t know what came over me then…
* I’d like those bastards at Lancaster Unity to pay for their insults – they described me as a fat, swivel-eyed loon once and it hurt me deeply. When I’m God, I shall have them all hung – or is it hanged, I can never remember? Anyway, ZOG and LU will pay for their many crimes. By the way, what the fuck is ZOG?
* I’d like to be richer than Warren Buffet and Bill Gates combined. And I will be if those moro – members will continue to subsid – support the party. What the hell kind of a name is Buffet anyway? Sounds foreign to me. French, I bet. God I’m hungry. Wonder if we’ve got any pork pies in the fridge?
* I’d like to wish for peace and a brain for David Hannam, who (much to my surprise) has a wife. It’s not his fault that despite that, he’s still attracted to a succession of old tarts (so am I – look at Martin Webster) and schoolgirls – just let him be a man. Although, don’t let him near your accounts because he’s fucking useless at cooking the books.
* Please don’t anybody buy me anything from Great White Records this year. It’s all shit – even the crap I wrote – and it’s just getting worse. If I have to hear Joey Smith again, I swear I’ll die, and Vera Lynn is driving me up the bloody wall. Fucking white cliffs of Dover…I hate them.
* I’d like to introduce Joey Owens to Tony Lecomber and Lee Barnes and then run away. I think there could be a critical mass if they all met and tried to talk bollocks at each other. It might give us all a laugh though.
* I want to be the richest man in the world. And I’m not leaving any sherry or mince pies out either. Mince pies are at least 14p each and the sherry has to be worth at least 40p. I’m not made of money (though I will be soon, if the sucke – membership keeps coughing up).
* I’d like a Rolls Royce. And a Maserati. And a Lamborghini. Though I’ll only buy British, which could be a problem. Fuck it, I’ll have a Mercedes instead. To hell with buying British.
* Andrew Brons told me once that his name was French. Is that allowed within the rules of our glorious party? Or have the EHRCRFHC forced us into changing our names now? Will I have to become Nicholas deGryff? Actually, I quite like the sound of that…
* And I want world peace. Did I say that already?
* And I have been a good boy. I think…
Signed
Nick Griffin
