Nigel Farage's worst week ever.


It all began so well. The Europeans were threatening to slam the door against Madame Mayhem and her tribe of warring Brextremists. There would be no deal. It was just what Nigel wanted. Britain, freed of European domination, would strike out into the wider world, except the bits full of Indians, Africans, Hispanics, Arabs and Chinese, of course. Britain would scoop up vast amounts of loot from grateful natives in exchange for whatever trinkets she chose to bestow on them.

Britannia would rule the waves again and the Europeans could bugger off. Meanwhile, Barnier and Junker were playing their usual game, demanding a vast amount of cash in exchange for agreeing to look the other way while the Brits escaped through a hole in the fence around fortress Brussels. There was no way the plucky Brits could submit to such extortion. Better still, Liam Brexit, dimmest of the three Brexiteers, was said to be confident of negotiating an innovative, high-speed trade deal with Burkina Faso. The fledgling states of South Sudan, Bosnia-Herzegovina and Nepal were also said to be clamouring to negotiate free trade agreements.

It all seemed so promising but, sadly, that was the high point of Nigel’s week. He was speechless for half a second when a high-ranking Tory female called Patel was dumped over the side for disloyalty to Mrs Mayhem. Nigel was appalled. How could someone called Patel worm her way into the senior ranks of the Tory party? Could there be any clearer evidence of Anglo-Saxon decline? How did she get past immigration? She should have been sent packing the minute she tried to get off the plane. Nigel's temper was not improved when he heard Ms Patel was implacably opposed to paying a penny to the nauseous Europeans. “Tell them to sod off,” she was reported to have said.

It was almost too much for Nigel. Being rude to Europeans was his job. She should sod off, back wherever she came from, but he would soon have more urgent matters to contend with. Nigel’s enjoyment of his first cigarette of the morning, over gin and cornflakes, was interrupted by dramatic news on the radio. He dropped his copy of the Daily Express and rushed to the TV. He scanned his usual sources, Russia Today, Dave Ja Vu, Babestation XXX and Fox until he found the news he was looking for; a member of the royal family was engaged to be married to some American bird of dubious origin. Nigel studied the images closely, could it be? Was she? Surely not?

He visited some of his usual contacts, in London, later, seeking enlightenment. It was as bad as he feared. One after another, his informants confirmed the awful truth. Her Maj was welcoming a foreign female of mixed ethnic origins into her royal flock. The thought was too horrific. Nigel ordered a triple gin and sucked another fag. How had it come to this? Just as the brave Anglo-Saxons took the first step towards liberation from the Stalinist-collectivist Europeans the royals were losing the plot, welcoming one of the teeming hordes of tanned immigrants into the family. Nigel did his usual rounds of the watering holes in search of relief from the depressing news but there was worse to come.

He was on his way home on the multi-cultural slow train from Charing Cross, standing check-by-jowl with a shower of tanned foreigners bawling in every language except English, when he read something truly shocking amid the usual globalist drivel in the Evening Standard. Nigel hurried to the pub near the station, and downed a swift one while catching the full gory details. Mrs Mayhem had agreed to pay the Brussels ransom! She was ready to pay £50billion, £60Billion or more, whatever it took to get some sort of talks about talks about a possible transitional deal to eventual re-unification with the disgusting Europeans. It was the ultimate betrayal. First the royal family and now the government were running up the white flag of surrender. It was enough to make any self-respecting Anglo Saxon despair.

Nigel tottered home to bed. He was due on the ITV early morning news, to lead an expectant nation in howls of outrage. He was still struggling with the tide of depressing news and the effects of Lidl special-offer, cut-price gin as he entered the ITV studios early the next day. He found himself stuck between some pinko journalist and a self-proclaimed expert on absolutely everything, facing an angry tirade from Piers Morgan. It was as much as he could bear to tolerate such harassment but the TV appearance fees came in handy, especially since the Euro cash would soon ran out and he had to keep his hand in somehow.

Things went from bad to worse when Nigel was berated by Morgan for talking rubbish, only to be outdone in indignation by a shower of Tory fifth-columnist collaborators yelling at microphones in various parts of the country. It was a far cry from that glorious dawn when Nigel blinked into the cameras to lead a grateful nation in the aftermath of victory. He feared his greatest achievement might be slipping away. Morgan switched to Boris Brexit appearing by video link from Cote d’Ivoire where he was celebrating Britain’s impending trade deal with the impoverished African nation. “What about the £350million a week for the NHS?” Morgan demanded. “Piffle. Let them go whistle,” Boris boomed. “It will all be worth it in the end.” Nigel held his hands to his face. This shower of Tory backsliders were hopeless. If they carried on like this Britain would be back in the EU as if nothing happened. Surely things could sink no lower than this? It was only Wednesday. What else had this dreadful week to offer ....?

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