NIGEL FARAGE: ON THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
When we look back at 2016, it will go down in history as the year in which all the so-called “experts” who write books and have qualifications coming out of their ears were finally proved wrong. The Guardian-reading, Ken Loach box set-owning elite sat in their metropolitan ivory towers, eating vegetarian Tofu or whatever it is they insist on calling food, have had their day - the voice of the common people has finally been heard.
It all began on that fateful day in June when the people of Great England voted by a massive, huge majority of…well quite a lot, actually, that Britain wants out of the EU and into the place that isn’t the EU. Wherever that is. We’ve had enough of being told what to do by faceless bureaucrats in Brussels who’ve never done a stroke of work in their lives. They have no idea what it is to get up at the crack of dawn like myself…only to go back to sleep when you realise it’s the crack of dawn and your alarm has gone off two hours too early. What people can’t seem to grasp is the fact that I’m not just another faceless Eurocrat – I have a face. A Nigel Farage face, an anti-establishment face which isn’t afraid of ripping up the EU rule book and drawing big, hairy cocks all over the pages, some of them with droplets of semen shooting from the Jap’s Eye (can I say Jap’s Eye or is that deemed un-PC? It wouldn’t surprise me anymore).
Independence Day dawned that fateful day in the most British month of June. The people had spoken and all was well with the world again, and my piles had taken a turn for the better. Britain had taken a massive step in the right direction. However, what we hadn’t taken into account was the minority voice of all the moaning minnies who decided that whining and whingeing was the best way forward. Democracy is something we hold very dear in this great country of ours. But I make this plea to the 48% who voted to remain - GET OVER IT YOU REMOANING LOSERS.
If that wasn’t bad enough, we then had to go through the farce of three so-called High Court judges embarrassing themselves and the judiciary by making a massive cock-up of the whole thing and ruining my big moment (although I must reiterate this isn’t just about me.) It may sound like sour grapes on my part, but up until the time these judges gave their ruling I had the utmost respect for them. However, after we lost, I thought they were a bunch of miserable little shits who couldn’t give monkeys about taking back control of our borders. That may sound a little disrespectful and immature, but I’m a passionate man who cares deeply for my country. So there.
I’m not a bitter man, I’m not driven by petty vindictiveness, and I always walk when I nick the ball through to the wicket-keeper – I behave like an English, sorry, British gentlemen. I accept the outcome with good grace and simply move on.
Actually, I’m not prepared to let this go. On December 5th we march on the Supreme Court to demonstrate our displeasure with the rotten system and the fact it’s all so unfair. Current estimates say that 100,000 people will join the march, make their voices heard and stop off for a quick half in every other pub on route, although by the time we get to our destination it’ll be more like 317 as a result of people getting comfortable in a Wetherspoons after stopping for a quick leak.
Some of you may be aware that I am one of President-elect Trump’s closest allies. Before, during and after the campaign he has sought my advice and support. Recently I flew over to the States in Air Force One – at least that’s what Donald said it was. It’s not quite as glitzy and glamorous as what you see on the films or the “movies”, as they say. During the 17-hour flight (contrary to popular belief, Air Force One is powered by propellers) I was sat next to a man who chewed tobacco the entire trip, and when I checked the in-flight magazine, I noticed a sick bag with ‘Laker Airways’ written on it.
I, along with various other VIPs had the honour of being invited to Donald’s humble gold encrusted Manhattan bungalow for a celebration party following his glorious election victory. “Donald!” I said as I reached out to shake his hand “Hi Tom – great to see you again. Everyone, this is Rick the cable guy all the way from Wales in Scotland, England.” That’s the great thing about Donald – he has the most wonderful sense of humour, and he doesn’t like foreigners much, either. Apart from the wife he met on Guardian Soulmates.
Speaking of whom, Donald’s other half, Melania is the most delightful woman. She’s not only warm and charming, but she’s also the wife of a man I’m doing my utmost to get in with. I chatted with her briefly. “Hello Mrs Trump – or should I say ‘First Lady’ “, to which she came back with “TiVo - it does not work – I miss Bachelorette and Walking Dead, you fix now cable guy.” That’s the great thing about Melania – she’s such a bloody good laugh, right down to the practical joke in which she saw me escorted out of the building by security. Marvellous people.