Nigel Farage volunteers for role as scheming, cheating quartermaster

NIGEL Farage has volunteered to be, in times of war, the head Army quartermaster diverting vital supplies for his own personal profit. 

The Reform UK leader, who was unable to appear at yesterday’s debate on Ukraine because of a prior commitment making his Trump and Putin dolls kiss, believes he is the natural choice to run military supply lines.

He explained: “I’d be behind the counter taking in shipments of drones from EU suppliers then telling old beef-face Starmer ‘Drones? Naw, mate, these are drains! Terrible problem with flat-roofed pubs in the North.’

“Then, minute he’s gone, my old mate Vlad who’s been hiding dressed as a shrub pops out and says ‘You haf drones?’ and we agree to ship them over to Belarus labelled as air-fryers.

“Then I only go and bet the money on big Don, my American pal, who’s claimed he can pull a truck 200ft and I stand to double my cash if he does. But he lets go of the truck and it crashes into the officer’s mess where Angela Rayner’s losing at strip poker.

“She grabs a tarpaulin to cover herself, all the air fryers fall out and they were drones all along! Old Nige is in hot water! I have to disguise myself as the Emin of Qatar to get out of it, and further hilarity ensures.”

He added: “Joking aside, I would sell anything I could to the black market and undermine the war effort tirelessly. Because those are my principles.”

Franz Ferdinand and other bands too Scottish to be really likeable

LIKE grasping a thistle, to truly love a Scottish band would only cause you pain. Their music has its merits, but these bands are inherently unloveable by virtue of nationality: 

Franz Ferdinand, 2002-present

Half their original lineup were English, but a cursory glance at their lyrics reveals Franz Ferdinand to be as Scottish as tartan, butter tablet and heroin addiction. Look beyond the catchy riff and The Dark of the Matinee reeks of the despair of a teenager in an East Dunbartonshire shithole. Music was never meant to be this Scotch.

Belle and Sebastian, 1996-present

The unbearable tweeness of these indie stalwarts make them as rock and roll as a quaint Highland coastal village with pastel-coloured houses where the local vicar’s daughter is courting a handsome fisherman. The sonic equivalent of a fine knit v-neck slipover from the Edinburgh Woollen Mill.

Mogwai, 1995-present

Inspired by the Glaswegian weather, Mogwai’s music is relentless, bleak, and like living in East Kilbride: nothing interesting ever happens and any words spoken are unintelligible. Their loud-quiet-loud-quiet-loud shtick is the musical encapsulation of the pissed-hungover-pissed-hungover-pissed lifestyle.

Teenage Fanclub, 1989-present

With their infectious jangly guitars and top-drawer songwriting, why weren’t Teenage Fanclub as big as Oasis? Because they were Scottish. When performed north of the border, upbeat arrangements and intricate harmonies become a cruel parody of the classic sixties California sound. This isn’t sunshine pop. It’s severe weather warning pop.

Simple Minds, 1977-present

Thanks only to selling out every principle they ever had, Simple Minds made it big in the States. And, worse than simply being Scottish, they became America’s idea of Scottish. Jim Kerr and co turned into one of those Netflix Christmas films about someone who inherits a massive castle on the banks of a loch.

Primal Scream, 1982-present

Primal Scream are a load of different bands. Whether ripping off the Stones, soundtracking raves or taking a turn into post-industrial rock, their genre-hopping is less artful mix of disparate styles and more throwing random stuff together and hoping it works, making them as Scottish and as deeply unpalatable as a haggis.