Quiz: What Type of Socialist Are You?

If you’re reading this blog, and I presume you are, I’m automatically assuming that you’re a socialist. If you’re not then just pretend for the duration of the article, because what’s following is not going to be very much use to you. Put bluntly it won’t be very much use to anyone, but that’s life I suppose. Existential angst! Cue non-sequitur.

(Thanks also to Comrade Pedro for some valuable input. Solidarity)

Your favourite type of drink is:

A. Vodka

B. Coffee

C. Beer

Your favourite hat is:

A. A Ushanka

B. A Beret

C. A Helmet

Your favourite type of music is:

A. The Red Army Choir

B. You probably haven’t heard of it.

C. Anything by Wagner

Your economic policy is summed up by which statement?

A. Liquidate the kulaks as a class.

B. Bring down the corporations man!

C. Our companies must be Aryan and guided by the Leader’s will.

What do you do with Germanic Runes?

A. Ban them

B. Wear them around my neck

C. Paint them on the side of my tank.

What type of facial hair do you have?

A. Broomhead moustache

B. Intellectual stubble/beard

C. Toothbrush moustache

Your favourite director is?

A. Sergei Eisenstein.

B. Michael Moore.

C Leni Riefenstahl.

Gulags make you:

A. Hard

B. Disgusted, I hate the architecture.

C. Fearful for the survival of the Master race.

Your favourite way of purging involves:

A. The KGB

B. A good black coffee

C Long knives

Are you racist?

A. No, but death to the Germans

B. No way man!

C. Of course? We are the Master race,

You are the leader of a large socialist power. A smaller neighbouring power begins making decisions that go against your interests. Do you:

A. Invade and kill the intelligentsia

B. Like make peace with the guys.

C Invade and kill the intelligentsia

Who should have won WW2?

A. The USSR. And we did.

B. Cuba.

C. Germany.

Who did you support in Star Wars?

A. The Empire

B. Never watched it.

C. The Empire

What do you think of Rick from the Young Ones.

A. Revisionist filth

B. The People’s Poet

C. Leftist filth

How do you regard America?

A. Imperialist dogs

B. Imperialist dogs

C. Held in thrall by the Zionist Occupational Government.

Who is your hero?

A. Stalin

B. Che Guevara or Michael Moore.

C. Hit- I mean Otto Strasser.

Count up your scores! What option did you score the most! Tally your bananas, because daylight has come, and its time to figure out what socialist you are!

A. You are a Stalinist. You have impressive facial hair and find absolute power orgasmic. You hate the fascistic west, and hope to keep your nation free from its decadence by crushing all dissent. In your free time you travel out to your, sorry, the people’s dacha by the Volga, smoke cigars, drink vodka and reminisce with your old comrade about the civil war. At least those you haven’t ordered be killed.

B. You are a hipster. You wear a beret and a cardigan. You carry around Christopher Hitchens and a coffee thermos in your satchel, Richard Dawkins is your God and America is your Satan. You voted for Obama but are now fashionably dissatisfied with his warmongering regime. You want to destroy all corporation except for Apple, and like nothing more than sitting back with your fellow liberal arts majors and sip lates while reflecting on the coming end of capitalism.

C. You are a Nazi. You are highly strung, racist and ordered in your everyday life. You are clean shaven, even your scalp is bare, except of course for a small toothbrush moustache, which when pressed, you insist is an homage to Charlie Chaplain. You want to name your child, assuming that any woman is insane enough to touch you, Adolf, as you are proud of your German heritage. Your daily energies go towards writing anti-Semitic blog posts and trawling Stormfront for hot Aryans in your area. To unwind you lie about in your underwear, sipping beer or bourbon and watching reruns of Wolverines and Romper Stomper.


I have a keyboard. Or, should I say, the people have a keyboard, that is currently being used and being kept under the stewardship of myself and immediately relatives at this current moment in time, because private property and all that shiz is totes inefficient and whatnot.

I obtained this keyboard, that is to say, it passed into my stewardship, on the night of the First of September, a(n) historic day, as it is the day that Spring was first invented by Big Brother in 1956. It was a dark and stormy night, and I will relay to you the means in which it appeared…

Alles Der Deustche Seiten Sagt Diese Casiotone Keyboardenzeit Ist Echt Cool!

Thunder rolled through the sodden clouds, a bitter wind cut through the air, the sound of vaguely Arabic folk singing sounded off in the background. Deep in the castle of Ozeano del Sur, a dialtone rang out…

“Yes?” Replied a hooded figure, cowled fingers pressing the device to his skull.

“Of course. The revolution requires such things! Obtain it!” The figure cried, shrieking in awkward enthusiasm. “With He on our side the inevitability of the global revolution is doubly, nay Tripoli, assured!” The call was ended, a bell tolled. The deathly figure began to laugh madly…


This is not exactly what happened. There are no castles in Australia.

Actually I think there is one, or maybe two. There’s a replica off in the mountains somewhere and my family was going to buy it before the sudden and shocking realisation that we have no money. Instead we rented a flat in Surrey Hills.

The actual story was, that one of revolutionary associates, the ubiquitos Pablo, obtained the keyboard at a local anarcho-syndicalist material exchange collective, also known as “The Markets”.

After brief and momentary exchanges of textual messages the keyboard was brought to my luxurious hovel by Pablo in one of his heavy duty vehicles he captured off the Malaysians during their brief border war with Indonesia. I carried it through the seething rain for hours, only to find there were no batteries.

Immediately I cursed the world and all reality for dealing me such a fickle blow. Then mum bought batteries. Once powered with the charge of eldritch electricity, my keyboard sung it’s digital heart out, pumping out eighties music fit to make the Human League cry. But they make emotional music about girls with their synthesisers, so they’re probably not real men anyway.

So now I take it everywhere, except for the toilet. I’m going to dress up as a homeless person and travel down to Sydney to play minimalist Kraftwerk style synthpop for the unwashed masses. Yes. The Revolution is assured. The Keyboard has made it so.

Sydney: Part Two

Sydney Part Two:

Since Part One’s unmitigated succes, I’ve decided to continue most logically with a second part, entitled Part Two. In this detailed and well crafted essay, I’ll show you the Nightlife, Public Transport and Cemetries of Sydney, and convince you, in thirty seconds or less, to conduct a religious pilgrimage to Iran and convert to the ancient and most venerable faith of Zoroastrianism.


Sydney’s nightlife is famous for it’s exuberance, tenacity and excessive use of Rufalin. Much like Finland in the 1940 Winter War. Apart from Kangaroo mating and Ivan Milat, the first thing that the average person will think about when the term “Sydney nightlife” is mentioned is King’s Cross.

King’s Cross, also known as the Golden Mile, is a section of pubs, clubs and petting zoos, mostly running along Oxford Street in Sydney’s CBD. King’s Cross is famous for it’s drugs, prostitution, and bouncers recruited from various ethnic origins. A series chronicling King’s Cross in the ninties was produced that contained all three of these features in great abundance. I would say that the show contains more nudity than you can shake a stick it, but then again, I’m very good at shaking sticks.

Harry Potter's Infamous Station

In Australia's King's Cross, Platform Nine And Three Quarters Is Actually A "Massage Parlour"

I only passed briefly through King’s Cross, on a public bus, packed with half asleep, wide eyed bush kids from my Modern History class. A couple of locals gave me disdainful looks when I stood up and shouted “Hey, there’s my old house!”. My class mates either ignored me, acknowleged my statement politely, or commented on how “povo” my house looked. As a young impoverished socialist, I pointed out, I had no option but to live my life in the slums inhabited by my ancestors. But every had stopped listening by that point, so I just started playing with my phone.

Public Transport

Public transport in Sydney is slow, muggy, stinking of stale piss, cigarettes, and filled with foreigners. Also on the ferry you can get wet. The pampered decadent bourgeois of Western society might criticise these unique values and “digusting” but so is commercial radio. And starvation.

I for one like public transport in Sydney. The slowness means you have more than enough time to gawk at your fellow travellers, perhaps identifying potential serial killers, or chatting up people of indiscriminate gender (see King’s Cross). The mugginess allows a traveller to descend into a strange state of trance, where the aformentioned odors of piss and vomit enter one’s nostrils like prahna energy, changing brain wave patterns and opening previously unlocked corners of one’s mind. Several lucky folks have actually achieved Nirvana on inner city buses. The fact that they were mugged soon after did however somewhat mar the holy event. Nevermind.

Here's A Ferry

Spot The Error!

But I hyperbolise! Public transport in Sydney is actually quite nice. You get to talk to and familiarise yourself with a variety of people you might not meet in ordinary life. A lot of good stories also come from public transport. Like how Darren from PR slipped over in a pool of Ouzo flavoured vomit last year and had to get stitches. Unfortunately the wound became gangrenous. Good times.


The perfect segue between these paragraphs would involve me saying that Darren died and had to go to a cemetery. I am however above these things. The next part of my post will concern cemeteries. Those cute little showgrounds of death and melancholia. There are lots of cemeteries in Sydney, and space is limited due to the city’s large population. People are practically dying to get in…

The biggest cemetery in Sydney is Rookwood. The Rookwood necropolis is home to one million people, most of whom are dead. Rookwood has it’s own postcard, and places cost so much, that only the most elite corpses can gain entry into its hallowed dirt. This lethal combination of features that means in the event of a zombie apocalypse would be one of the worst places to be in the Southern hemispheres. That of course depends if you’re dealing with a situation in which dead bodies come to life, or one where the living are infected. If the latter is true the worst place would probably be King’s Cross, where biting people and running around groaning are so common, that depending on the time of day, the outbreak probably wouldn’t be noticed.

Overgrown Graves Shudder...

The Tranquil Start of a Zombie Movie. (All Royalties To Wikipedia)

In conclusion. Nightlife, Public Transport and Cemeteries form an exceedingly vital part of the belonging felt by Sydneysiders to the urban environment and aides the capitalist system to exploit the individual. Nightlife provides a healthy distraction from the specialisation of labour symptomatic to capitalism as we know, while Cemeteries, now similar to an industry, provide a place to store the remains of the system’s discarded tool and facilitate in the decisively bourgeois and subversive “grieving process”. Public transport forms the last link in this unholy trinity, providing the means to ferry the lifeless worker to both Nightlife and his meaningless occupation, and then finally to his place of eternal rest. The cemetery. Truly the only way to end this endless cycle of oppression and listless destruction is a Zombie Apocalypse, in which the undead arise to create a classless, stateless and decidely equal society. The Decaying Worker’s State.

Sydney: Part One

Sydney? Me and you need to have a talk.

That’s sounds really stupid and passe and whatnot, but it is fundamentally true. I went down to Sydney last week, (as you may have noticed from one of my previous posts, if you pay any sort of attention) and it’s left me all contemplative and melancholy. Like my first, last and probably only failed relationship, I’m filled with things I feel I need to say, questions I need to ask, and I… can’t stop thinking about you. Sydney, I may have anthropomorphised your sprawling brick and glass, dirty, urban acres into an ex-girlfriend, but please don’t be offended. My intention was not to diminsh. Besides, me and my ex get on great.

Let me just set the scene. I am, at heart, a country lad. I’ve been living in this charming parochial backwater for five years now, and while I did spend some time in the ‘big smoke’ when I was a wee lad, I was born in said parochial backwater too. My English teacher would probably ask me to relate this back to the concept of Belonging but I’ve got better things to do. Like procrastinate with both hands.

So my return to the gleaming heart of capitalism which is Sydney’s CBD was like a sort of anonymous prodigal son/messiah figure returning to his place of ascenscion. The fact that I was with two hundred of “me mates” did however dampen the sombre mood. I will go through a number of topics which hit as I traversed through the urban landscape.

George Street

I Posed One Legged On Those Stairs There


That was the first thing I thought of. Apart from sex. There’s so many of them. A lot of them are really tall and made of glass, and some of them are odd shapes (I’m looking at you Opera House). The ramifications of these simple facts are wide ranging. When I walk through the ancient streets of old Sydney Town, down George Street where my forefather’s got pissed and traded the stockmarket in an ever repeating cycle, down Pitt Street where my relatives still toil, I am affected with a certain feeling. That folks is apathy. The whole scene is so… big that my mind just goes ‘kewl buildings’ and blocks most things out. I walk zombie like through the place, guiding my compatriots to places I hardly knew existed, while a strange undercurrent runs through the back of my head, like a leaking septic line saying “Shit..”


Sydney people are weird. There’s two things you need to learn about Sydney people. There’s a whole lot of them, over four million, and lots of them are foreigners of the mustachioed and non-mustachioed type.

They also can be quite rude. One thing Sydney people could learn to do is be polite. Up hear in the sparkling Great Lakes, when one person sees another on the street the common thing to say is something along the lines of the cliched, yet still extensively used ‘G’day’, or at least a curt nod. When purchasing things in the local trans-national super conglomerate of your choice country folk use manners, and sometimes even attempt to formulate highly mundane conversation. Sydney folk don’t. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that curtly nodding at everyone you meet in the street on a trip from Martin Place to Darling Harbour would probably severly damage your spinal cord. Perhaps its the fact that everyone’s suffering from the building affect.

Ethnic Map of Sydney

Admire the Wit and Artistic Skill of this Map's Maker

People (Part Two) Race

It certainly isn’t foreigners, no matter what Pauline Hanson tries to ‘exploin’ to you. Once my mum almost hit a Subcontinental woman over the head with an umbrella. The woman was neurotically cheerful about the whole situation, insisting that the whole affair was nothing, and that Jihad was totally unneccessary, banishing all of my stereotypes to the darkness of the Netherlands. Admittedly the whole Jihad question was a little stupid on my behalf, but I was younger then.

I don’t fawn over Multiculturalism like all those other neoliberal bleeding heart hipsters, mostly because I try to be an internationalist when I can, and am probably a closet Fascist, but I do value it immensely. It’s one thing I love about Sydney. An aspect of multi culturalism I don’t like is the phenonemon of ethnic ghettoes. An entire suburb overwhelmingly dominated by Lebanese, bordering one dominated by Vietnamese and then one dominated by Anglos reminds me more of Northern Ireland than a classless, raceless utopia.

But birds of a feather flock together, and although people aren’t birds, neither are ducks. I’m talking about the whole webbed feet business. Mercifully the CBD, as the hub of the entire city is actually an example of the ‘melting pot’ multiculturalism’s all about. Or is that assimilation? That’s bad. Refer to the Borg.

Here Endeth Part One…


We should be more like Vikings.

Vikings were a group of travelling salesman who plied the North Sea waves from the 1960s to early 70s, broadcasting rock music to Yorkshire’s revolutionary youth. Vikings were also aggressive Scandinavian fellows who followed Deng Xiaopang’s Three Point Plan of looting, pillaging, and raping the entire continent of Europe for up to several centuries. Typical communists. There are six important things you should know about Vikings.

Deng Xiaoping

"It Is No Sin To Be A Viking" Deng Xiaoping 1876

1. They had beards. This is the most important thing you should know. If you ever see a Viking without a beard he is not a Viking. He is at best a Pirate and probably a Gypsy. We all know Gypsies should not be trusted. We know this because the letter ‘J’ has always been associated with trickery and tomfoolery. Jordan is a key example of this. It can be either a country or a person. How devious.

Beards are highly important. They are symbols of a rapidly diminishing masculinity in our sad, sad culture. It is all a conspiracy. Probably run by those Gypsies who run America’s banking system. Woman shop more, so the powers that be wish to turn us into women, so we men will shop more and generate more money for their mines of Gypsy gold.  Some men are actually shaving hair that is on their bodies. Others are driving cars that are fairly small. This is symbolic of our society’s deteriation. Eventually men will begin to develop breasts. This gives me strange feelings. I’m not sure whether this is a good thing or not.

2. Vikings like to be violent. Violence! Everyone likes violence! We should be more violent, because violence is masculine. Grr. Masculinity. Vikings used to invade other nations, steal their gold, burn their rooves and shuffle awkwardly around their women. We should also do this. Australia should develop its own raiding fleet, and traverse the seas raiding the opulent and highly irritating coast of California. Maybe we can steal Kim Kardashian and reinstate her as rightful Queen of Armenia.


With Armenia Our Client Kingdom, And Finland As An Ally, Eurovision Will Be Ours.

But really, the time has come for Australia to project it’s naval dominance across the world. We need an aircraft carrier and a hundred longboats to make our presence known across the Asian region. We shall surely be able to decimate the tin-pot navies of Indonesia and Malaysia, and thanks to years of seasonal migration, Bali is an almost an Australian colony, and useful springboard for attacks on the rest of the islands. Only bogans go to Bali, and statistically they have more beards per capita than the general Australian populace, therefore this endeavour is doomed to success.

I shall then move to Bali, grow a beard and bench press Afghani asylum seekers to prove my dominance. Upon this premise I shall become King of Bali, appointing Barnsey as my Chief of Staff, as he would make a good Viking and rally thousands of Bogans to my cause. As soon as I learn to swim, to row and discover the finer points of sailing I will sail to North Korea with my Viking-Bogan fleet. I will sail up the river to Pyongyang, capture Kim Jong Il and Kim Jong Un and transport them to Texas, where they shall be forced to make a demeaning and soul destroying sit-com about their lives.

I will also capture their nuclear weapons. With a nuclear deterrent the newly renamed Bogan Isles will be impregnable to US Invasion. Not that they could organise one anyway, it’d cost way too much, and they are in debt. They are in debt because of their ridiculous foreign policy of occupying foreign nations rather than simply raiding them and return to their home ports, laden with crude oil, frankenscence and hommus. Silly Americans.

Longboat from Poland!

If The Chinese Can Fit Missiles In Their Submarines, We Can Fit Them In Our Longships.

With my powerbase cemented my mind will no doubt grow restless, and my hear yearn for something more honest and wholesome then pillaging the weak, middle class lands of the Earth. I will sail to Armenia, where I previously installed Kim Kardashian as a puppet monarch, and make her my queen. She will no doubt provide engaging conversation about how much economic regulation I should place in my fledgling nation’s economic system, and will be a good shoulder to cry on when the pressures of power become too heavy a burden to bear on my own.

That is all you need to know about Vikings. Unless you want to be some sort of Viking scholar, who lives in Norway and only eats that type of cheese that has the holes in it, in which case I highly reccomend the Wikipedia article on Vikings and cheese respectively. Good hustle.

Na Zdravie! The Vodka Party!

A few of you might have heard of the Tea Party Movement in America. They want to restore traditional American values, those bygone paradigms, written into the Bill of Rights, like a right to own your own personal rocket launcher, fundamentalist Christianity, Islamophobia and a foreign policy based on the Book of Revelations. The Tea Party were named like this because of a momentous occasion in America’s early history, where a group of patriots dressed as (IRONY WARNING!) Indians poured a bunch of tea into Boston harbour. Presumedly, like most Americans, they prefered coffee.

But in far off Boruslavia, the Tea Party’s meteoric and lulfilled rise to prominence has been emulated by another group. These people are the Vodka party, an increasingly powerful player in Boruslav politics, tipped to gain the rural seat of Ostrockzawierz in the upcoming election. This is  their story…

Vodka Kalashnikov
A Vodka Kalashnikov: The Vodka Party Philosophy Made Manifest. One of the VP’s Chief Election Promises Is the Legalisation of These Harmless Educational Tools to All Boruslav Children.
The Vodka Party of Boruslavia was founded in late 2010 by Dmitry Zlokgohzvik, a 1989 Eurovision song contest hopeful and convicted sex offender, although to his credit, the goat however was both an adult and consenting. “Zlokgo” as his adoring fans heckle him, is a devout Christian of the Boruslav Ultra-Orthodox Church, which many Christians see as heretical, for it’s belief that Jesus was a Slav, gypsies are the devil’s people, and that God gave all goats, sheep and ducks the abilities to change their shape and communicate telepathically.
Zlokgo wants a return to the values of old Boruslavia, where men were drunks, women were whores, and children were drunks as well. He wants to do away with political correctness, Russians, traffic lights, gypsies and most large rocks. He considers the electoral process a waste of time, time that can be better spent drinking, whoring, blessing houses against gypsy attack, or all of the above simultaneously.
A madman, you cry! Well, all of you are soft, coffee sipping Western scum if you can’t see hidden somewhere the truth behind Zlokgo and his party! For he is appealing to all Boruslavs, young and old, drunk and tipsy, male and older male, with his platforms of alcoholism, dictatorship and persecution of minorities. Some foreign policy analysts within Boruslavia predict that Zlokgo will be the country’s next Stalin, bringing freedom, truth and economic miracles to all of the nation’s peoples. And gruesome death to any minority groups unfortunate enough to be extant after his inevitable election to office.
Boruslav Capital

Here is the Main Street of Boruslav's Capital Borschtgrad. Notice the Boruslav Flag Flying Proudly Over the Parliament Building.

In 1889, on a cold and windswept day in the Baltic port of Jakovecik one of the most climactic, crucial and least known events in Boruslavia’s history occured. It was on a Sunday, and the Russian freighter Bigsky Freightersky Maksimilovich was unloading cask upon cask of cheap Latvian vodka onto the wharves, when young entrepeneur and town drunkard Petr Stanislavski was hit by a most curious thought.
The Russians had been oppressing the Boruslavs for centuries, capitalising on their ignorance, inbreeding and alcoholism. A mountain in Australia, Mount Slok, had been named after one of Boruslavia’s most famous freedom fighters. If that wasn’t significant, what was? But with the tyranny of the Russians, and the ever present and hopelessly insane Germans lingering around nearby, Boruslavia had remained under the Tsar’s unsteady heel.
Petr knew all of this, he understood all of the reasons, but when he saw all that cheap Latvian vodka being rolled out on to the docks, vodka that would corrupt their youth and bring profit only to the Russians, the true meaning of tyranny finally hit him. Boruslavia would never be free until it could make its own decisions, until it could corrupt its own children with its own alchohol! And so Petr got together with a group of friends and decided to take action. Their names would be immortalised in history, and known by every true Boruslav for weeks to come.
In the darkness of midday, Ivan Kosnovov, Mikhail Gestrova, Bor Solidarity and three others climbed aboard the Russian freighter dressed as gypsies. The rationale was simple and effective. Who would dare discriminate against the virtuous and perpetually lauded gypsies? Who would dare question their presence around a busy wharf handling alchohol. This assertion, made in a tavern under the influence of plum brandy and sleep deprivation would prove false. The seventeen fair patriots were spat upon and heckled as they travelled the streets, and arrested and beaten as soon as they reached the docks. They were stripped naked and left on the outskirts of town by Russian authorities.
The next day they returned to the docks, and found that the Russian freighter was still stationary, and with half its cargo still aboard. The going had been slow, as the stevedores unloading had accidentally broken a cask, and refusing to let the alcohol go to waste, began to consume it, and any other casks nearby, that could have been contaminated with splinters. Petr and his gang took their chance and ran aboard the freighter. Immediately they began to drink the vodka.
Petr Stanislavski on Boat

Stanislavksi's Dying Wish Was To be Dismembered and Ferried Around on a Boat for all Eternity. Unfortunately his Relatives Sold his Body for Alcohol and So a Statue Was Made From Melted down Gypy Gold Instead

And there they would have stayed if not for Petr’s fortitude. Halfway through his third cupped-handful of vodka he spat on to the deck, and raised his arms. He proclaimed the vodka “horsepiss” and urged all his fellow Boruslavs to cast the casks off the side. Reluctantly they followed Petr’s orders, for wasting grog, unlike rape, was a captial offence in Boruslavia at the time. But he was after all their favourite cousin. In a stroke of genius however, the patriots donned their gypsy gear, and began their wicked work.
Ever since then, the story has been told countless times, twisted, bent and relaxed, shaken like a crumpled foreskin by the rigorous and collectivised Boruslav rumour mill. Another unforseen consequence is the particularly strong anti-Gypsy sentiment existing in Boruslavia today, setting it at odds with most of Eastern Europe.
With the far-right Democratic Freedom Alliance falling into a backwards slump following leading light Simo Simovich’s alleged homosexuality, and the newly reformed Communist Party of Boats and Hos failing to appeal to a folk-dance obsessed younger generation, the Vodka Party is looking a good chance in the upcoming parliamentary elections. The ruling party, the pro-Western and free market Coca-Cola Amatil McDonalds Emirates Party of California Freedom Apple Pie and John Wayne, is deeply unpopular. This is primarily due to its sell off of the police force and law systems to Japanese Telcom congolmerate, Moshi-Moshi, and it’s consistently bad tastes in music. The big clincher however are the damaging allegations that a junior staffer of the Sports and Recreation Minister’s maternal fifth cousin, twice removed, was cursed by a half-gypsy.
A Gypsy Woman

Would you Trust this Kindly Old Woman? No! She is in Fact a Gypsy!

But the most telling and perhaps obvious sign of the Vodka Party’s success is its name. It contains in it the words “Vodka” and Party”. And if the grand council votes in favour of a recent proposal to introduce the words “goat-friendly and “Russian-gypsy hating” into the party title, they will be almost assured of an electoral victory.