Nigel Farage, the allegedly charismatic face of closet gammons everywhere, has made his move. Having seduced the Conservative Party, put the wind up David Cameron and secured his reputation as a rentagobshite, resigning from UKIP is his latest desperate attempt to remain relevant.
His beloved Brexit is, at time of publication, collapsing in a tragicomical manner. UKIP has been reduced to a laughing stock, and is flirting with the entitled thug Tommy Robinson. This is a racist lurch too far even for Farage, who prefers his fascists to wear a suit.
“It’s time I returned to mainstream politics!” coughed the man himself, dragging on a Capstan Full Strength outside The Old Bull And Shit. “UKIP is no longer a suitable vehicle for my unrealistic fantasies. I only formed the party in an effort to seduce Katie Hopkins!”
Which begs the question, what does an MEP who rarely attends sessions, has quit his own party, and has his mucky fingers in more pies than Little Jack Horner, do now?
“Well, the obvious choice is to become Prime Minister!” Farage wheezes, chugging on his IPA. “Frontline means frontline. I could walk into the job tomorrow!”
That would mean an election. Or, put another way, it means allowing The People to vote again.
“Not at all!” spluttered Farage, stifling a belch. “It’s not a big deal. It will be the easiest deal in history. I need a disgruntled constituency party to deselect their sitting MP. Someone like Chris Grayling, or Nadine Dorries, or Andrew Bridgen, someone that nobody’s ever going to miss. Walk up to Number Ten, knock on the door, tell Theresa to do one. Cushty!”
Nobody is sure why Farage want to do this. He has a cushy number already, sucking on the EU’s teat while broadcasting bile to the nation on LBC Radio, and a weekly guest spot on BBC Question Time. His stock has fallen like gravy on the floor.
Brexit is at Breaking Point. Nigel Farage may be the man to break it for good.