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Whatever Happened To ….. Part VII

Matthew Collins - 15 11 17

As part of an entirely irregular series of catch-up’s with members of the far-right we have not heard about in a while, we endeavour to keep you, our dear reader, furnished with the latest trials and tribulations over in that there Fuhrerland.

Take Kevin Watmough (please, someone…) we have not soiled the interweb with news about Kevin for some months. January, to be exact. Back then Mr Watmough was targeting a primary school of all places in his quest for a race-war. Mr Watmough has always targeted people, as he is of course, the thoroughly indecent chap behind Redwatch, a website that targets people in their homes for such crimes as wanting a National Health Service, Trade Union rights etc, etc.

Watmough: The master race

Mr Watmough is hardly what one may describe as your full-English beefcake. Heavens, no. Who can forget the time he ran off and left his missus when people he had been abusing turned on him? Needless to say, despite their joint bravado about the incident, Mrs Watmough eventually left him and Mr Watmough was left googling pornography all day  on the interweb.

To cope with the rejection of his missus, Watmough threw his inconsiderable weight behind the neo-Nazi terror gang National Action, printing them stickers and making them flags. He did this right up until the time they were banned and he was left with the wannabe-cloth of thirty-odd flags that were no longer of any use to man or beast.

The poor little sausage could not even add them to his shop on EBay where he sells a whole host of Nazi tat he liberates from the bins or death beds of fallen comrades. Yes, it’s true. If you’re a Nazi on the verge of Valhalla, Watmough will be around with plastic bags to ferry your collection of soiled copies of Spearhead off to his living room for resale to university students struggling to understand John Tyndall’s theories of elasticity.

Then, earlier this year, the National Front (NF) had another fall-out and for some reason Watmough temporarily backed notoriously fickle Eddy Morrison in an enlightened argument between three shared brain cells fighting for oxygen.  Having lost his remaining brain cell, Morrison left the NF and set up his own Nazi organisation and continued slugging cider and painting water colour portraits of Hitler until everyone forgot he ever existed.

Kate Watmough. She’s not browsing Tinder, honest Kev.

Returning to the NF with no friends and no missus, Watmough found himself back down in London with the NF last weekend on their pathetically tiny march of hate to the cenotaph.  Watmough’s face was not a pretty picture. It turns out that Mrs Watmough has gone and had a child with another man, too.

So incensed by this “betrayal” of sorts is Watmough, he instigated some kind of domestic dispute in absenteeism on Saturday night. (I know, it hurts, Kev. He is meant to be a “comrade” for heaven’s sake…) and then low and behold we find ourselves the recipients of all kids of pictures of the new happy couple, including this other bloke in the bizarre not-in-love triangle, dressed as a Bishop. Or something like that.

Now of course, for the moment, we will not be printing the pictures, because unlike Mr Watmough, we do not do that sort of thing. But we are amused, no end.

Worse was to come for Watmough when Jordan Pont, the shandy swilling ne’er do well who runs the NF security team, let slip that the NF’s directorate had taken a vote and decided they were not going to buy any more flags or badges from him, either.

And just a reminder to all of our fash readers, Revenge Porn carries a severe prison sentence. Stop it!

Stampton: Had a little accident

Next up is our long term favourite and friend, Eddie Stampton.

There’s not many people who do not have a bone or two to pick with him and his habit of grassing up comrades for cash. Well, whilst (or not) wielding his favourite vegetable earlier this month, it appears Stampton came into contact with a very old associate of Combat 18 types and was put squarely on the floor in front of an admiring crowd of Nazis.

Needless to say, I’m not in the habit of telling tales about Nazis dishing out justice to one another, but well done to “Mad Terry” if that’s your thing.

No doubt when his teeth are replaced and his nose repaired, Stampton will be targeting his mother, auntie, sister etc, etc for the sort of childish antics that made him so unpopular in the first place.

And finally, who remembers one of the most spectacular televised car-crash interviews of the 21st Century? Let me remind you of Timothy Scott.  Scott was the temporary (two days, I think) leader of Pegida UK. Pegida UK was meant to be the new vehicle for English Defence League (EDL) founder Stephen Lennon (aka Tommy Robinson).

That time, for a change, it looked as if it was Lennon selling the magic beans and not buying them, and poor Mr Scott ended up utterly humiliated by Channel Four News. The seriously disturbing but compulsive viewing of the destruction of a man who bought magic beans by the side of the road must be watched here.

Anyway, since then, Mr Scott has kept us updated daily about his own personal Jihad. He gives endless updates on his social media account about the price of beans, his fitness, his firm biceps, his desire to join the Australian/New Zealand/British/Irish/Thai/French armies.

The updates come mainly with him dressed in his underpants, but I will give Mr Scott this; unlike most of the “Counter-Jihad” [make that all-ED] gang in this country, Mr Scott has actually faced off with Isis and not spent all of his time in a car park getting pissed chanting “Whose Cheeks?” about Indian Restaurateurs.

Timothy Scott: Don’t have nightmares.

However, last night I detected something stirring in Mr Scott’s social media offering. I think he wants to lead a group again. He was asking his followers what it was they wanted in a leader.

Dear Timothy Scott, if you are thinking of taking on such a venture again, may I remind you of this here, again. Because I am told it still keeps you awake at night, and the Channel Four journalist has never had to buy a beer since.

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