NIGEL FARAGE - A CALL TO THE KINGS ARMS
In just two days, ladies and gentleman of this country I have the fortune of calling “Great Britain”, we have the opportunity of finally rectifying all the wrongdoings of the last forty years by voting for a Brexit, and at the same time ensuring I get to make my 479th consecutive Question Time appearance.
The proof is in the eating of the pudding when it comes to days like Thursday 23rd June. When I say pudding, I don’t mean foreign sorbets and Italian ice creams with fancy-Dan wafers which don’t come from a traditional British Mr Whippy van or the dessert section in Iceland. I mean a traditional Heinz sponge pudding and custard afters from a standard British tin. That’s the kind of pudding I’m talking about. Actually, I just realised “Heinz” sounds a bit foreign. Send this last paragraph back to where it came from.
I find campaigning a wonderfully uplifting experience. Even those times when people take to calling you “bastard” “wanker” and “ shitbag”. And “twat”. I love knocking on doors and meeting the proper, hard-working, hard smoking people who make this country what it is (when I’m not in a BBC car on my way to a Question Time recording). When I’m on a platform, megaphone in hand, the common question I’m usually asked is “When are you going to leave, Nigel?” I understand the British public better than any politician, and I know that what they really mean to say is “When are we going to leave the corrupt EU and rid ourselves of the faceless Brussels Eurocrats, Nigel?”.
Our latest poster campaign has once again been (if I may say so) totally mis-read, and mis-interpreted by the left-leaning Trotskyite, elitist right-wing media. Time and time again they’ve chosen to take the image we used (in this case a long line of swarthy-looking, heavily-armed immigrants queuing up to get into watch the tennis at Wimbledon, deliberately pushing in and taking seats away from hard-working middle-class retirees who live in the Home Counties) and twisted it to suit themselves. The bastards.
Just think about all the things which make this country great: cricketers on a sun-bathed village green; roast beef & Yorkshire Pudding; a concrete beer garden with red-faced England football fans fighting one another following a failed penalty shoot-out; me standing on a stage having the election results read out by the returning officer and pretending I’m a good loser when I learn I’ve lost, but inside I’m really rather annoyed to the point I’d like to give my bins (which only get collected once a fortnight) a jolly good kick. If you don’t tick the right box this coming Thursday, all those wonderful things that never existed in the first place will be nothing more than memories.
I’ve found that the best place to get to know the “man-in-the-street” or the “woman-in-the-street” ( EU regulations say I have to include “women-in-the-street as well. Think of this when you’re in the polling booth this Thursday) is a good-old fashioned British pub.
Ah yes, what better place to chew the fat and get things off your chest than the good old “boozer”. Why, just the other day I was in the local golf club bar (members only) holding a Q&A session with some of the local areas’ leading borderline racists.
We spoke freely about what it is we most despise about being in the EU. After a few drinks we decided that we couldn’t quite put our finger on it, but what we most disliked about being in the EU was the fact we didn’t like it much, and that it was all rather ghastly. Oh yes, and something about the Germans, I can’t remember.
In the EU’s defence, Nicholas and Barbara said the Eurostar was wonderful, and Tony the club captain raised the point that he has a charming farmhouse in Provence. It was then that I felt I had to tell them the truth that if we vote “In”, 173 million Turks would apply for full membership of the golf club next year and the course would resemble a Glastonbury chemical kharzi within 24 hours. That soon shut them up.