I see you on your podium, a little wearier, a little more haggard. You’re mad as hell and you’re not going to take it any more, unless “it” is an MEP’s salary, in which case you’ll hoover it up and invest it in pints and fags like a patriot. Gone are the purples and yellows unless they’re on your tie at the launch party, a final not-so-subtle middle finger to Gerard Batten and your first child. Ukiparus flew too close to the sun, burning every inch of his gammon hide alongside Tommy Robinson. You know the game all too well to carry on with that lot, don’t you? Racism and fear-mongering should be implied and not heard. Holding up a megaphone to the dog whistle just isn’t subtle enough, particularly when the party leadership has been nothing more than a series of catastrophic misfires. Gerard Batten can barely keep the party’s chin above water, which probably goes some way towards explaining why it already looks like his own has collapsed into the sea of his neck.
It’s time for something new, something fresh, something anti-establishment and something different. It’s time for a multimillionaire former commodities trader who failed seven times to get elected to launch a new party that does the exact same thing as his old one, putting himself at the helm of it like he’s done every single time for the last twenty fucking years. It’s time to shake up the system of entitled political hacks by shoving your entitled political hack’s face straight back in to the trough, throwing a thumbs-up behind you to the plebs as you gorge yourself like Augustus Gloop.
Once again we’ll get the complaints and protestations – that you didn’t want this, that it’s not for you, that you’re only doing it because you have to. You’re the hero we need, not the one we deserve. You’re here to save us once again, shouting “betrayal!” from the battlements, leading the charge in the pursuit of truth and decency.
What a laughable, festering crock of disingenuous bollocks that is.
You bloody love this, Nigel Farage. The referendum result was a pyrrhic victory that robbed you of your outsider status, throwing you to the sidelines of the chaos you created. You had no desire to steer the ship, running off to talk radio after you embarrassed yourself by failing to get a job as a pilot fish cleaning the crumbs away from Trump’s arsehole. Like every other Brexit cheerleader you had nothing of substance to offer the process, washing your hands of the ludicrous unicorns you promised as soon as the result came in. You’ve been dying to claw this position back, that of the rabble-rouser offering everything and delivering nothing. You’re the first tier on the pyramid scheme of Brexit, tumbling down the responsibility until everyone at the bottom is miserable and bankrupt.
The Brexit Party has already been in full swing for years. It was shit in the first place and the uppers have now worn off and everyone left standing is now suicidal. You can’t turn up at 4am with Annunziata Rees-Mogg (or Dolores Oxbridge for short) and expect to reignite the spark – the passion’s dead, the will for it all but exhausted. Yes, there’s a few ardent Brexiteers still hammering away at each other in the spare room, but at this point they’re so coked up and furious that they’re going to chafe themselves to death before anyone cums.
This is just another distraction, another pointless fucking vehicle to publicise Nigel Farage. We may well end up with a few Brexit Party MEPs but at this point, honestly, what’s one more embarrassment on the road to a fudged compromise of a Brexit that satisfies absolutely nobody? You’ll run in to the same problems you always did with UKIP, chiefly that you won’t be able to attract anywhere near enough candidates without swastikas in their closets to make a meaningful dent in the electoral map. We’ll end up with another raft of local councillors losing their new jobs within a week because it turns out they love nothing more than a stranglewank in a Travelodge to Enoch Powell speeches and that’ll be the end of it. We’re tilting further and further right but you’ve set your stall out now, insisting you’ll be intolerant of all intolerance. Remind me, how did that work out for UKIP in the end?
There is absolutely no established consensus on how the fuck we should be managing this catastrophe and there won’t be until there’s a second referendum and a clear mandate on the type of exit the people actually want, if they truly still want it at all. It just never ends, a Sisyphean effort to push a ball of turd and broken glass up a hill that leads to nowhere.
Then there’s you, Nigel Farage, pint in one hand and hosepipe in the other, dousing the whole mess and guffawing to yourself as May and Corbyn cover themselves in wet shit and go sliding downwards for the thousandth time.
Look who’s back, back again. Nigel’s back, tell a friend. Once again you’re shouting from the sidelines, making everything worse, refusing outright to put your back in to anything and waving to the masses as if you’re one of them. It would be depressing if it wasn’t quite so tediously predictable.
I see you, Nigel Farage. I fucking see you.
