Help Us To Save Nigel Farage

Lord Mustard Pants Of Thanet - still smiling despite becoming an endangered species.

Lord Mustard Pants Of Thanet – still smiling despite becoming an endangered species.

Having heard that Nigel Farage has received death threats from anonymous sources and that he can’t go out in public without fearing for his personal safety we’ve decided to take the bull by the horns and we’ve come up with a rather rollicking good plan to keep the sainted Lord Nigel alive and safe. But we need YOUR help.

We propose to commission a ten foot square steel cube with twelve inch thick walls and a big feeding tube attached and then put Nigel in it and bury it two hundred feet deep in Death Valley in his beloved USA, where he’ll be completely untouchable and safe from all the lunatics who wish him harm and threaten to loosen the wheel nuts on his car and suchlike.

Above ground we’ll install a pod containing a dozen highly trained SAS men to guard the feed tube and send Lord Nigel copious quantities of John Bull best bitter, Benson and Hedges, Pringles, salsa dip and regular copies of the DAILY EXPRESS so he can bask in the hero worship of his sycophantic fan base.

We reckon it’ll cost about £3 million but it’ll be money well spent if it keeps Nigel safe, and here’s where you come in…

Send us your donation now, the greater the sum the more it’ll make Saint Nigel safe from harm.

If you’d rather contribute towards maintaining Lord Nigel’s sartorial elegance you can contribute to our kit appeal, which may well keep the Good Lord Nigel in mustard coloured corduroy trousers, tasselled loafers, crombie coats (with velvet collars of course) and hacking jackets.

Send in YOUR donation NOW to KEEP Saint Nigel safe this Christmas and for years to come.

**UPDATE** We hadn’t factored into the financial costing a toilet facility, so PLEASE donate an extra £100 so that King Nigel can have a safe place to meditate.

After all – the last thing we’d want would be for Father Nigel to drown in his own effluence.

That would just be wrong.

Cafe Spike

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Burnley Borough Council Bans Happy Hours

Happy hour revellers in the Bull's Nut, Burnley yesterday.

Happy hour revellers in the Bull’s Nut, Burnley yesterday.

In a landmark ruling, Burnley Borough Council has banned happy hours in the town’s pubs and clubs based on the disputed claim that happy hour patrons tend to overindulge in cut price drinks and end up knocking seven bells out of each other.

“Happy hours are an honourable idea,” said Councillor Alf Roberts. “But here in Burnley they inevitably result in bouts of booze fuelled violence which results in a massive strain on local resources. The people just can’t be trusted once they’ve got a few beers under their belts. The sad reality is that Burnley folk are as mental as anything when they’re sober, in drink they’re even worse and it does nothing for the town’s reputation. It’s reached a point where innocent people are getting their heads kicked in just for being anywhere near a pub. It’s unacceptable – it’s a sin and a bloody shame that people can’t enjoy a relaxing drink without fear of getting battered from arsehole to breakfast time.”

“I think the ban is a great idea,” said A&E nurse Annie Wilkes. “I’m sick and tired of patching up drunken brawlers. I’m tempted to jack it all in and move somewhere in the world where I can get a bit of peace and quiet. Like Syria, or Afghanistan or something.”

Local Burnley hard man Jimmy Proctor was unavailable for comment as he was otherwise occupied repeatedly smashing a Blackburn man’s face into a fruit machine.

More as we get it.

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Bear Grylls shouldn’t be drinking his own p*ss – A Cafe Spike Campaign

Don't be tight! Buy the intrepid adventurer a pint!

Don’t be tight! Buy the intrepid adventurer a pint!

Yes, we’re on the scrounge again because we’re sick and tired of an iconic British legend having to sleep in animal carcasses, dive into freezing rivers, cross gorges on fallen trees hand over hand and having to drink his own piss.

So we’re having a whip round in order to raise some cash so that Bear Grylls, ex-SAS, spinal injury victim and Everest summiteer can have a decent pint of cold beer, and if we can raise enough cash perhaps fund the intrepid explorer for a ploughman’s lunch, or a burger or a Sunday roast or something.

We can’t have an iconic British explorer straining camel shit through a sock, eating bugs and snakes when there’s a simpler and more dignified alternative. Like a hearty gastro pub lunch.

You can help us to help Bear by sending us as much money as you can afford – preferably in used notes – so that we can give the poor bastard a decent dinner.

That’s if we can find his address to send donations to. If we can’t we’ll think of an alternative, although we aren’t currently accepting any liability.

Send your donation to the usual address because it makes no sense whatsoever for the epitome of British epirit de corps to be harvesting his own armpit sweat and eating raw cockroach heads.

It’s just wrong.

Ted Pemberton

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Nobody injured at Café Spike AGM

The Café Spike crew whiling away the hours in shady pubs

The Café Spike crew whiling away the hours in shady pubs

The executive committee of Café Spike dot com held its annual general meeting at a West London pub this week. Nobody ended up in hospital and nothing terribly exciting happened, apart from editor Martin Shuttlecock almost taking a wrong turn at Embankment tube station whilst heading for the westbound District line train to Richmond.

Topics covered included some things we aren’t allowed to talk about because they’re private and personal, the general state of decay of surviving staffers, cheapo Chinese copies of famous guitars, some one time writing colleagues who were roundly labelled as ‘utter tossers’, the state of the London housing market and the Chiswick restaurant circuit.

Drinks were served at the bar by a pleasantly sociable chap with a big hipster beard and the committee were allowed a fag break. At one point a late lunch was considered but the news that the kitchen was out of order due to essential maintenance put the mockers on that one.

All who attended returned to their respective abodes safe and unmolested, which was all a bit anticlimactic really, looking back on the heady days of the Coal Hole Mob meetings on The Strand which invariably ended up with fistfights, varying degrees of injury, the odd slip into the river and the attentions of at least one police helicopter.

However, those who attended did have a most enjoyable time, even if they have all mellowed a bit.

“They aren’t as angry as they used to be,” Editor Shuttlecock related. “And that’s not such a bad thing. I can’t be dancing on tables wi’ my back.”

More next year, providing we can be arsed.

Paddy Berzinski

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Appeal – Can You Help Us Find Our Missing Nigel?

Why,oh why, did you have to leave and, go away? Have you seen him?

Why,oh why, did you have to leave and, go away? Have you seen him?

We aren’t offering a reward or anything, but we seem to have misplaced our Nigel, and we’d really, really appreciate it if you could help us to get him back.

Nigel went missing just before last weekend. He was last seen in a pub celebrating the birth of the Royal baby, chugging on a B&H with a swift pint. At the time he was last seen he was wearing a stupid grin, a coat with a velvet collar and shiny shoes. The only witness we have at present has informed us that Nigel said he was leaving in order to try to find a ‘policy.’ We aren’t sure exactly what that means, but it does seem to confirm that our Nigel was acting in an uncharacteristic fashion. He’s never mentioned anything about policy before, although he did once scribble something he described as ‘an idea’ on a soggy beer mat in biro.

Our Nigel has been described as bearing more than a passing resemblance to Parker, the Gerry Anderson puppet out of the TV series Thunderbirds. He’s quite a jovial sort of chap, who it’s quite safe to approach providing you don’t mind somebody bending your earholes with anti-EU propaganda for an hour or two. And you aren’t an immigrant or an ethnic minority.

And possibly dangerous if you happen to be a Romanian.

We’re desperate to find our Nigel, as he hasn’t been seen for two or three days, and we’re desperate to bring him home. If you’re English just take him to the nearest pub, buy him a pint, tell him David Cameron is on his way to discuss the possibility of a coalition and contact us ASAP.

If you aren’t English, it’s probably advisable to track him and maintain contact with your local police station via mobile phone until he is successfully apprehended.

If you do spot our Nigel, please let us know via our Café Spike Facebook page. We’re desperately missing him, because we haven’t had a good belly laugh in days, and as his absence continues to torture us, our country is rapidly disappearing down the toilet. Help us get our Nigel, and our country back. You know it makes sense.

Many thanks from the Café Spike team.

Contact us on our Facebook page; it’s on Facebook somewhere.

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This Is What Happened On The Day We Went Vegan

A Vegan Stirring Some Pulses Up Yesterday

A Vegan Stirring Some Pulses Up Yesterday

We decided this morning at the Café to go full on vegan, not for any specific reason, just because it seems to be the done thing these days. So we looked up vegan on the internet and as result we’re cutting out meat, fish and all dairy products. We decided that we may as well go the whole hog and go gluten and nut free too.

So, no meat, no fish, no eggs, no milk, no cheese, no bread, no nuts, and no cakes. Not even beer, because beer isn’t strictly speaking vegan because they use isinglass as a filtration agent.

But what the hell, we can eat as many peas, lentils, beans, and salads as we like. We can even season them with olive oil and salt and pepper.

For breakfast we had a bowl of beans and a glass of lemon tea, which to be honest left us feeling even more peckish than before we’d eaten.

It seemed like an eternity before lunchtime rolled around. When it finally did we had a plate of boiled rice with quorn mince and fried onions. It tasted like shit, but we persevered.

At about three o’clock GMT a fight broke out and one of our staffers got stabbed in the throat with a pencil. Mercifully it was just a flesh wound.

By quarter past, our book reviewer asked quietly if anybody fancied a kebab or a McDonald’s.

So we just caved in like the big softies we are and ordered a huge delivery. Doner kebabs, meat feast pizzas, Big Macs, Whoppers, KFC, and two double chilli cheeseburgers with egg, mushrooms, bacon and sausages. And a 20lb turkey for a curry supper. We also sent Barking Mad Murphy out for beer, whisky and vodka.

We’re okay know, apart from the flatulence.

We won’t be doing that again.

Our conclusion was unanimous; veganism is fine for vegans, but not for us.

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So, You Want Your Country Back? Welcome To 1965

When The Beatles Were New

When The Beatles Were New

Welcome aboard our time machine. Today we’ll be taking you back 50 years to 1965, to a long ago world which some people in 2015 appear to yearn to inhabit, a world free of those pesky immigrants, free of Political Correctness, a world where everybody knew their neighbours, a world free of benefit scroungers and crime, a friendlier place with a caring society.

Getting out of bed in 1965 was slightly more difficult than it is today. The vast majority of dwellings in 1965 didn’t have central heating, or duvets. You slept in a bed covered in blankets, and you didn’t hang your coat up – you put it on the bed for extra warmth. Having braved the cold, people washed in cold water – quickly. Then the man of the house would light a fire in the grate, using scrunched up balls of newspapers to light firewood, adding coal when the fire got hot enough. Sometimes the fire would sputter and die; in which case you’d have to start over again.

The man of the house would then make a pot of tea and have a rudimentary breakfast, usually toast and jam, or if pressed for time bread and jam. Then the man would set off for work. Notice that the man doesn’t have a car. Very few people did back then. The man goes out into the pre-dawn darkness and walks down the street to the corner shop, where he buys a daily newspaper, a packet of Woodbine cigarettes and a box of matches. Then he goes to the bus stop and waits. The bus conductor wears extra jumpers, a scarf and fingerless gloves because it’s winter and it’s freezing cold on the bus because the boarding/alighting point of the bus is at the back and open to the elements. Most people on the crowded bus are smoking, because in 1965 a lot of people smoked. The passengers shiver with the cold and it isn’t unusual to see steam rising from their clothing.

The man of the house gets off the bus and goes to a huge factory, where he punches his clock card as evidence that he’s arrived on time for work. Then he goes to a machine and gets cracking because it’s cold in the factory too. He runs exactly 2,500 component parts through the machine before passing them on to the next work station. He gets a tea break and a lunch break during the course of his working day – ten minutes and thirty minutes respectively. The man does the same 2,500 parts every day, week in, week out, year in, year out.

Back at the house the man’s wife is getting her two kids ready for school. She makes them a hearty breakfast of tea and porridge, followed by bread and jam. The kids will get a small bottle of milk at school, and a dinner which costs a shilling a day. The kids’ uniforms are looking a bit worn and the little boy’s shoes have holes in them. The mother puts newspaper in the boy’s shoes to try to keep the wet out. She’s saving up for new school clothes for the kids, but it’ll be a couple of weeks more before she’s saved enough.

The kids walk the mile to school, whatever the weather. Sometimes the mother walks with them, but they don’t really like her doing so because they don’t want to be seen as mollycoddled. When the kids go alone she instructs them to stick together, to take care crossing the roads and not to speak to strangers. They’re good kids but she worries about them – and she’s right to. 1965 was no safer for kids than 2015. Moors murderers Ian Brady and Myra Hindley were arrested in 1965 for abducting, torturing and murdering children before dumping their bodies on Saddleworth Moor.

The mother has her own breakfast; tea, egg and bacon on toast. She relaxes with a cigarette for a few minutes. Then she’ll do the laundry and clean the house. Having done that, she’ll walk to the local shops to buy something for the evening meal. There aren’t any supermarkets in 1965, so the mother has to walk to the shops daily in order to buy bread, milk, potatoes, vegetables and a small quantity of meat or fish. There are no credit or debit cards, and there aren’t any cashpoints so the mother has to balance her budget, ensuring she has enough cash for the family’s daily needs and a little to put in the bank for rainy day moments. Her husband’s payday is a weekly blessing. His wages are paid every Thursday, in cash, in an envelope with a pay slip. The mother worries that the company wages van will be robbed by thieves with guns and pick-axe handles, which happens frequently. If it happens to her husband’s employer his wages will be delayed by at least a day, and that can be a harsh blow to those on a tight budget. It hasn’t happened so far, but it’s a common occurrence in the area where the family live.

Meanwhile the husband is feeling uncomfortable at work. One of his workmates has been carpeted by the boss for failing to meet his work targets for two consecutive days, and the man has asked his union rep to speak on his behalf. The union rep explains to the boss that the man has been an employee for nine years at the firm with a previously flawless record regarding both his work output, timekeeping and attendance. He explains to the boss that the worker isn’t feeling well and assures the boss that the man will be back up to speed within a day or two. The boss relents, and says he’ll give the worker a week to improve or he’ll be shown the door. Everybody is relieved. Union policy dictates than any worker subjected to unfair treatment will receive full union backing. The worst possible scenario could be a strike, and that’s the last thing the men want. They can’t afford to strike.

As the man worries whilst operating his machine, his wife walks to the shops. She stops to chat with familiar faces, before getting essential supplies. For the evening meal she buys sausages from the butcher and a tin of baked beans from the corner shop. Sausage, mash and beans for tea. She also buys a tin of pilchards – pilchards on toast for supper.

It’s been a long day for the man, but he finally clocks out at five and takes the bus home. The Beatles are playing on the transistor radio. The sound quality is poor, but despite that the Beatles sound great. The kids are out playing in the street, the mother is preparing the tea, and the man eases back in his armchair and reads the newspaper. There are no computers in 1965, no iPhones, and only two TV channels. The man puts more coal on the fire and he chats with his wife, discussing what they’ve done that day.

After tea they bring up the possibility of a summer holiday, when the man has two weeks with pay off work. The children are excited by talk of a week’s stay in a Blackpool guest house, or a camping holiday in Great Yarmouth. In 1965 most people stayed in Britain for their holidays. Some adventurous souls ventured to exotic locations like Spain and France, flying to their destinations, but you had to be relatively well off to afford luxury jaunts like that.

Eventually the children go off to bed and the couple watch TV for an hour. The mother is exhausted and wants an early night. The father asks if it’ll be okay to go down the local pub for an hour to see his mates. The wife smiles and hands him some coins from her purse. Then she kisses him, tells him she loves him and goes off to bed.

The man walks to the pub. He says ‘good evening’ to Mr Hassan who runs a shop on the parade, and breathes deeply of the exotic aroma wafting from the Chinese chippy. All the other shops closed long ago. The man marvels at Mr Hassan’s work ethic – his shop is open from the early morning until late in the evening. The man then enters the public bar where he meets up with his mates.

He stays for an hour and drinks two pints of beer. They talk about football. This is 1965, Sky Sports and ticket allocations for modern stadiums are a long way off in the future. When the men watch their local team they are packed into standing terraces where men pissed where they stood. Next year the World Cup will be coming to England. There’s excitement about the brilliant Brazilian star Pele playing locally – although none of the men have seen him in any more than grainy short black and white clips on TV. The talk quickly turns to politics and Harold Wilson’s Labour government. Opinions are divided.

Eventually the man goes home and climbs wearily into his bed. The fire downstairs has long since spluttered and died. He huddles up close to his sleeping wife for extra warmth. When he breathes his exhalations form little clouds as the temperature plummets once more. As he closes his eyes he hears a dog bark, and the clanging of buffers as the night workers in the railway yards organise the freight trains for the morning. Eventually he falls asleep.

When tomorrow comes, the family will do it all again, and the day after.

This is 1965.

Do you still want your country back?

Reporter: Paddy Berzinski.

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The Revolutionary Cafe Spike Diet Revealed

Get your day off to a flying start

Get your day off to a flying start

We’ve been asked to list our Editor In Chief’s typical dietary intake over a 24 hour period for a leading international health, diet, exercise and fitness magazine, basically in the hope that others will be inspired to attain a Café Spike level of fitness and mental agility. So what follows is a typical day in the dietary life of our esteemed EIC.

04:30 Crawl bleary eyed and slightly hungover out of warm bed. Go downstairs.

04:35 Promise to shower later. Coffee and cigarettes.

05:00 Breakfast. Bacon, fried bread, fried egg, sausages, mushrooms, fried tomato, baked beans, black pudding slices, sautéed potatoes, toast, chilli ketchup.

05:30 Check emails.

05:32 Cigarette. Open Facebook. Post disparaging comments on posts considered pointless. (99.9%)

06:00 Open Mail Online. Post stupid comments to wind the idiots up. Three packets of crisps, more cigarettes, four cold beers. Stiff brandy.

08:00 Last night’s curry microwaved and served on thickly buttered sliced white bread. (4 Slices) Back to bed for a bit.

11:45 Whisky and double pepperami pizza or cheddar cheese on toast. (4 slices) Try to write a story for the magazine. Treble brandy. Put reading glasses on to prevent double vision. Type rubbish for a few minutes. Give up. Large rum and coke. Doze off in chair watching This Morning.

15:15 Wake up starving. Microwaved corned beef on toast with four strong lagers. Exchange FB messages with Frankie, our staffer in the USA who hasn’t been well recently. Advise Frankie that he needs to switch to a healthy lifestyle.

16:45 Exercises. A brisk walk up the shops. Buy a case of strong lager. Kebab shop – mega doner with salad, chilli sauce, slice of pizza and two deep fried chicken breasts, southern style.

Don't Skimp On The Drink!

Don’t Skimp On The Drink!

17:15 Weight training. Putting beers in fridge.

18:00 More beer. With brandy, whisky and schnapps.

20:30 Up the chippy. Fish, chips and mushy peas, saveloy and pickled egg.

21:00 Neat vodka, box of Dairy Milk. Watch the news for a bit.

22:00 Supper – microwaved KFC Zinger burger with fries beans, gravy and coleslaw that I’d put in the fridge three days ago and forgotten about.

23:00 Half bottle of Merlot and bed.

It may not work for everybody but it works for me.

Martin Shuttlecock. Editor In Chief. Café Spike.

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Incredible Illuminati Plot Destroys Ohio Brewery

Story and photographs © by Frank E. Jordan, Café Spike

Friday’s incredible explosion that destroyed a 134-year-old Budweiser brewery in Westerville, Ohio “was the work of the Hollywood-controlled Illuminati,” says Ohio Governor’s Office. The August 13 explosion caused a “snow storm” 23 inches deep made up entirely of frozen Bud Light Beer effectively “shutting down the entire northern third of Columbus, Ohio, the state capitol,” said Governor John Kasich.

Snow plows have proven entirely ineffective at removing the two-foot -deep, 3.2 % beer “snow” due to a legion of drunken beer drinkers who have clogged the streets to fill buckets, wheel barrows and even pickup trucks with the frozen lager and “local police have entirely given up attempting to control the mobs of beer drinkers and all traffic has been stopped from Shrock Road and State Street in the north of Columbus all the way to High Street, or Route 23 in the city of Worthington,” says Ohio’s Republican Governor John Kasich.

Snow Plow Attempting To Shift Frozen Beer In Ohio. Pic - Frank Jordan

Snow Plow Attempting To Shift Frozen Beer In Ohio. Pic – Frank Jordan

Snow plow attempting to clear frozen beer from Shrock Road in Westerville (Pictured Right)

Kasich called out the Ohio National Guard to restore order in the two suburban frozen Columbus villages but “nearly all the local guardsmen have deserted to join the rioters,” Kasich told reporters at a news conference today.

Kasich declared a state of emergency and appealed to President Barack Obama for “regular US Army troops and heavy equipment to assist in clearing the affected roadways and to assist the state police in restoring order” the Governor said.  The President refused to involve the US Army in this “entirely local and temporary issue, because the today’s August temperature of 86 degrees will thaw the beer anyway.”

Kasich said he’d “received a communication reputed to be from Beyoncé Knowles, the Illuminati’s Grand High Naked Chick that promised: “Further acts of sabotage against Columbus area businesses beginning August 18 if the Illuminati’s demands are not met.”

“Beyoncé’s demands included $100-milllion dollars in gold bars and a demand that the name of the state of Ohio be changed to ‘Ted,’” Kasich said.  Additionally, the governor continued, “The Illuminati Manifesto must be taught to all Ohio public school children and, finally, Columbus must change its name to ‘Tittyville.’ No reason was given for those particular demands,” he told the assembled reporters.  The state was given only 24 hours to meet the new demands or a “tsunami will rise from the Great Lakes to destroy Cleveland,” the demand letter stated.

Frozen Bud Light Covers Westerville Ohio. Pic by Frank Jordan. (Pre Hypothermia)

Frozen Bud Light Covers Westerville and Worthington villages, Ohio. Pic by Frank Jordan. (Pre Hypothermia)

This morning, Governor Kasich called an emergency session of the Ohio House and Senate to discuss “how to effect all the changes demanded by the Illuminati,” said a spokesman for the governor who had to be escorted from the press conference after he broke down and began sobbing uncontrollably.

A state senator, who spoke to Café Spike on condition of anonymity, said: “So far as I can see at this point, the only complaints by voters I’ve heard is that the Illuminati had not caused a beer snowstorm of a better beer, like Lowenbrau.”

Café Spike will stay on the scene throughout the crisis.  We will keep you informed.

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