Pictures Of Nigel Farage With A Pint

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COLLECTEMS: BIG IRON - Pre-Release Blog #1

PLEASE REBLOG IF YOU LIKE THIS POST - AS SOMEBODY WITH ZERO AUDIENCE, IT WOULD BE GREATLY APPRECIATED.

Hi.

So this is something I’ve been sort of vaguely teasing about over on social media, but it’s not really something I’ve gone into detail with. So, long story short: I’m in the latter production stage of a 25-minute animated pilot for a 1960s crime series that’s also an official prequel to that video-game everyone was excited for a few years ago. It’s called BIG IRON. If you liked that concept or are interested to know more, follow this blog and my twitter for more updates.

Long story long: Sadly the original Collectems game team, for which I served as a writer, was not able to follow through on our initial concept at the time. It was overly ambitious for our inexperienced staff, and was even at the time an extremely amorphous concept we’d struggled to get to grips with. I, however, along with a couple of associates from the team, continued to ruminate on it. There were things we wanted to do with the world, ways we wanted to establish a setting that would make Pokemon-like beasts feel like they belonged in a real-world setting. Over the last couple of years, a dozen different ideas have popped into my head regarding this world - but eventually I decided enough is enough, and I wanted to put those concepts to practice. I wanted to give back to those people who were so hyped so long ago, and draw from my love of shows like Fargo, Mad Men, Twin Peaks, Utopia and Breaking Bad to create something special.

A tale of a gunslinger. BIG IRON is the 60s-set story of Travis Stiletto, a half-Native American war vet struggling in his role as Police Chief in the crime-infested, racially intolerant Baton Rouge, Louisiana - that is, until an eccentric billionaire offers him a job in the cold, isolated and mysterious Tamotan Peninsula. What Travis thinks will be a cushy security position winds up being much more, as he’s forced to deal with violent class conflicts, political espionage, assassination attempts, gang warfare and even rumors of paranormal creatures lurking out in the frozen wastes. Action, drama, and psychological horror are all in the cards for Hellhound Stiletto and his infant son, Cal.  

There’ll be much more information soon. As you can see, this is only my first blog entry - and I don’t want to give the whole game away from the off. For now all I’ll say is, if what you’ve read so far has intrigued you, please follow me on twitter, follow this blog and subscribe to my youtube so you can stay updated on the progress of this forthcoming series - and hey, if you’re feeling generous, reblog this so that more people have a chance to read it for themselves. It’s all greatly appreciated. Thanks so much for reading, and have a fantastic night. 

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My buddy is making a new pilot animation. I've read the scripts and seen the early stages, it's looking really amazing! And I'm not just saying that because he is my buddy.

If you're a fan of Pokemon, Twin Peaks, or even Mad Men I think you'll get a real kick out of it! So follow him (if you want to) and give him your unadulterated love and support!

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Guess who is back? Well, don’t actually guess, because the answer is obvious. It’s Nigel. Some of you may have wondered why I had stopped chronicling the adventures of our one true lord and saviour. 

This is why.

Nigel has spent the last couple months making real inroads with President-elect Trump. While it’s true that Trumps so-called “fascistic” ideas have been a common part of his public image for decades, Nigel has been helping him really hone them. Nigel knows that if you let an American just go off, half-cocked, you're bound to run afoul of the loony left. Those whiny crybabies just can't handle the fact they lost fair and square. While they've laid out numerous studies and sources that show voter suppression is an internalised part of the system, like employers hiring with racial bias in mind, or the police force targeting racial minorities. 

What real good are facts, anyways? You can prove anything with facts. Facts are boring. Donald won this election with charisma and a platform of 100% honesty. You see, if you don't know anything, how can you be lying? If you believe everything you say, then it isn't lying. Donald knows that and so does Nigel. Truly they are the two canniest politicians in the game right now. 

Nigel has been telegramming me all the adventures he has been having in America. I'll be relaying them to you all very soon. So hold tight Farage Fans.

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Nigel sat bolt upright. His whole body felt like it was on fire. He raised a hand to forehead and felt that it was coated in more sweat than usual. That dream had been so vivid. Unlike most dreams, he could remember it perfectly. Every detail was still sharp in his mind. Had it really been a dream? Maybe the spirit of Winston Churchill had contacted him...

No. No, that was insane. He chuckled to himself as he began to look around the room. The first thing he noticed was the heavy blanket that was covering his lap. He ran his finger over it. It felt unlike any type of fur he had felt previously. It was close to bear but felt altogether more...otherworldly. He threw the blanket to one side as he swung his legs around to touch the floor. Peering around the room he remembered that he had fallen unconscious outside...Could the be Ann’s cottage? He had assumed this whole thing had been a set-up by Ann and Peter Mandelson to sell him to those that feared his meteoric rise to power. Maybe it wasn’t a trap? Or maybe the forces out to get Nigel had not arrived to collect him yet. 

The room he was in was small, an estate agent might try to spin it as cosy, but Nigel could only think of it as cramped. Standing up he placed his hand on the doorknob. Anyone could be on the other side of this door. There were so many possibilities. His brain churned trying to account for them all. He needed to escape, he needed to find Paul and Mark, he needed to confront Ann and Peter. So much to do, so little time. 

Nigel took a deep breath. He would not achieve his goal by standing in this pokey little room. He had to act, and that is exactly what he was going to do. If all the dirty foreigners could cling to the bottom of trucks to come and steal jobs from hard-working British citizens, then he could open this door. rallying himself once more he turned the knob and strode out into the hallway. This was the beginning of Nigel’s fight back. The words Churchill had shared with him, reverberated inside his head. Now was the time to do his work!

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Nigel rose from the plush leather chair he had parked his rear in. He had to wake up from this dream, he had things to do. Important things. He looked out into the darkness that surrounded him. The darkness was oppressive and stretched out for as far as he could see. Nigel had never had a lucid dream before, he had no idea how to wake himself up. He needed to figure it out though and fast. For all, he knew his unconscious body was already in transit. Being whisked off to some secret government facility where they would brainwash or kill him.  

Nigel rubbed his temples. He had to think. Surely, if this was his dream, then he could do anything? He closed his eyes and began to focus. I need to wake up, I need to wake up he repeated that mantra to himself over and over again, willing his body to wake up. He had no idea if this was going to work. He didn’t really believe in imagination. He had always thought that imagination and freewill made people too...different. After all, wouldn’t everything be better if everyone was the same? If everyone was just a white Britain, then you can bet the world would be in a better state than it is now. He knew he was right. the looney left always wanted to argue that different cultures made the world a more vibrant place. Nigel knew that was hogwash, though. 

Nigel realised that his mind had started to drift. At first, he thought that was a bad thing, he soon realised, however, that it was actually exactly what he needed to do. As his mind drifted so did his dream body. He opened his eyes and saw that he had started to float off the ground. Slowly but surely he ascended into the light, his brain may not have much ability with subtle metaphors but at least it was to the point. He was rising upwards, being enveloped not just by the golden light, but by purpose as well. He now knew he was the chosen one. As he looked up, he saw the source of the light. It was a beautiful, incandescently white ball of light. He reached out to touch it and just as his fingers were about to brush the surface he jolted awake. 

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For what seemed like an eternity Nigel and Winston Churchill merely sat in silence. The pervasive quietness of the void they sat in was almost violent. Nigel couldn’t be sure what Churchill was thinking, his face was in that famous bulldog-Esque position he was so fondly remembered before, serving as a perfect poker face. Was he scrutinising Nigel? Was he in awe of Nigel? What was it? Nigel had no way of really knowing. As much as he wanted to break the silence, to pierce the bubble of stillness in which they dwelt, he found himself unable to. Something beyond his comprehension was restricting his ability to speak. 

After what could have been hours, months, or even years, Churchill spoke. “I’ve had my eye on you for a long time Nigel. Me and...the others, we have high hopes for you. I am here to ensure you do not disappoint us.”

Nigel finally found himself relinquished from the invisible force, he was able to talk again. “I would never dis-”

Before Nigel could finish his sentence, Churchill had raised a hand, indicating him to stop. “I don’t do small talk, Nigel. You of all people should know that. I am here for a reason, I have a point to make, and I do not intend to dilly-dally.” All Nigel could do was nod his head. The expression on his face was one of awe, at the legend that sat before him. “Nigel, the fact of the matter is this: your investigation into those who seek to subvert you has stalled. As you advance your investigation, those that would see your destruction also move. You need to knuckle down, stop being a prat and do your work.”

Nigel was dumbstruck. No one had put it to him in such simple terms. His yes men were far too scared of his wrath to say such a thing to him. Churchill was right, though. His investigation had stalled. He nodded at Churchill “I understand sir.” Nigel’s voice was confident, his resolve almost being audible underneath.

For a brief moment, Churchill cracked what Nigel was sure was a smile. “That’s all we wanted to hear. Go forth young man, save this great country. You’re the only one who can.” Churchill’s voice was no longer stern, now it was affectionate. 

As quickly as Nigel could blink Winston Churchill had disappeared. He was left alone in the spotlight, surrounded but the inky void. For a moment he sat with his hands steepled, pondering. He had to escape from whoever Ann had sold him down the river to. He clenched his fists and let out a determined roar. Now was the time for Nigel to fight back! For him to claim his rightful place as the saviour of Britain! 

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Nigel woke up again. No...this wasn’t what being awake felt like. It felt more like he was...floating. He looked around darkness again. Well, this time, there was some light around him. For a meter in every direction, there was a bright yellow light. I was almost like Nigel was under a spotlight. Despite the inky void that lay before him, his vision was sharp. He must have been dreaming. That was the only logical explanation, despite how illogical it was. Was his subconscious trying to communicate with him? It certainly seemed like that was the case. What could it be trying to convey, though? He would need to explore.

Nigel approached the edge of the halo of light that surrounded him. Nigel hated the dark, and he means that in both senses of the word. Stepping into the blackness would be an unpleasant experience. Like going to Ilford or having to be served by an Eastern European at Marks & Spencers. Taking a deep breath, Nigel decided to take his chances. As he was about to step forward into the unknown, a voice called out. 

“Where are you going you rambunctious fool.” The voice was deep, it resounded with authority. Nigel couldn’t help but feel his body tense up. He did a u-turn, like a UKIP MP that said something a little too obviously racist. Nigel knew he must be dreaming, this confirmed it. Standing on the other side of the halo was one of his greatest heroes. Standing there, bathed in the soft yellow light, was none other than Winston Churchill. 

Nigel’s mouth had never felt so dry. He had imagined this moment so many times. He had spent so many hours in dull classrooms daydreaming about meeting this man. Now it was happening. This wasn’t a dream at all. He was being contacted. The very nation of Britain itself was trying to communicate with him. He really was the chosen one. He would be the one to save this country from the nefarious European Union. Nigel could have cried if his tear ducts hadn’t closed over from years of neglect. 

“Sit down. We have much to discuss.” Spoke Churchill, his voice booming in the darkness that surrounded them. This was it, this was the moment Nigel would receive his mission statement. Without thinking, he went to sit down. As if it had appeared by magic, Nigel’s bottom met with a chair. it was an opulent armchair. He ran his hands over the plush leather and relaxed. He grinned and waited for Churchill to speak again. This could be the most important conversation of his life. 

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“AGHHHH!” Nigel screamed as he jumped to his feet like a cat with particularly bad arthritis. He had hoped for his great escape to be a stealthy affair, but he needed to shout, it helped him summon up strength. He thrust his hands out clumsily, his eyes had not adjusted to the darkness and he needed to steady himself. In the past, an act of athletics like the one he just performed would have been child's play. Now, like all real working class men, his knees were less sturdy. Years of sitting down at his desk, and lifting the phone to his ear, had made his joints weak. He didn’t have time to reminisce though. What he needed to focus on was escape. He looked around the inky blackness, searching for any source of light, anything that might signify an escape route. 

As Nigel’s eyes darted around the room he began to feel a breeze on the back of his neck. He stopped reaching out and began to focus on the wind, he needed to find its source. If he could track down where the air was coming from, he could find a way out of here. Slowly but surely Nigel made his way to the source of the draft. As he moved towards it, the wind grew stronger and stronger. The darkness was still oppressive around him, he was going to be forced to clumsily grasping to find the seam of whatever door or hatch was letting in the air. Once again, Nigel flung his hands out in front of him, hoping to find a way out of this prison. Unlike his previous attempt, his hands no longer sailed through the ai. This time hit something, something plastic, and more importantly,  spinning 

“AGHHHH!” Nigel yelped for a second time. His hands recoiled in pain, as he stumbled backwards. The murky darkness made him feel like an immigrant trapped in the back of a lorry on its way to Britain. No wonder they scrounged off our welfare system and abused our NHS, they endured such a terrible ordeal to get here. With these seeds of a philosophical change planted, Nigel couldn’t help but smile as he felt himself falling towards the floor. As the back of Nigel’s head caught the side of something wooden, and sharp, he felt his consciousness fading once again. The warm sensation of blood pooling around his head was almost pleasant in a strange way. His eyes were closing again...his mind going blank...he had to remember...immigrants might not...be so bad...

(Sorry for it being so long since the last one. I was roadtripping through Europe. Purely to gauge their military strength of course.)

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All Nigel could see was darkness. He began to wonder ‘Are the backs of eyelids black? Or do they just cut the light off?’. He had lost a fair amount of blood from crashing into the door, and his mind felt murky. He considered the question for some time...the idea that some part of him wasn’t the same shade of pale, Caucasian, beige, that the rest of him was made his waxy skin crawl. After some time, he wasn't sure how much, it could have been hours for all he knew, Nigel started to stir. His eyelids felt heavy, like two lorries loaded with immigrants, slowly they relinquished their closed position and opened up. 

“Ahhhhh!” Nigel hissed as his eyes were forced to adjust to the harsh lighting, of where ever it was he was being held. He kept blinking, trying to hasten the process, and slowly but surely things came into sharper focus. He was looking up, up at what appeared to be a ceiling. It was pure white and littered with minute cracks that came from years of general wear and tear. 

As Nigel lay there, staring at the cracks, tracing over them with his eyes, his mind began to race. Where was he? Was this Ann’s cottage? Where here and Peter in on the hit? Was he somewhere else entirely? Where Paul and Mark even alive? So many question, and absolutely no answers. All Nigel knew was that he was alive, but he couldn’t be sure that would last. For all he knew that might just want to interrogate him and then dump him in the Thames. No, he had to formulate a plan, he had to get out of here. This couldn’t end here, not his glorious revolution...deep breaths Nigel he thought to himself, he had to remain calm. He was going to get out of here, and he was going to do it right now!

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Nigel clutched his nose. He held his nostrils closed in an attempt to stem the blood flow. Unfortunately, all this achieved was a build up of liquid, causing him to choke and let go of his nose. As what seemed to be a pint of blood flew from Nigel’s schnoz and splashed across the concrete floor of Ann Widdecombe’s pathway, he began to collect himself. He knew what to do, he would get some tissue from Mark or Paul, those two were always so eager too please, they’d give him their hankies if he asked. Sadly for Nigel, he was unaware of the chaos going on just behind his back. In his frantic attempt to stop the waterfall of blood coming from his nose, he had set off a domino effect that resulted in both, Mark and Paul, having bloody noses as well.

“Mar...Paul...geht me ah ‘issue” Nigel’s voice was murky and the blood filling his nasal cavity stymied his enunciation. As he spun around he was shocked to see both of his mooks, clutching their noses on the floor. “Wha tha fhuck appened ‘ere?” Blurted Nigel, still unable to speak properly. 

Neither man was in any state to shout vaguely racist rhetoric at immigrants, let alone answer Nigel’s question. Seeing his injured accomplices sent Nigel’s mind into overdrive.Had this whole thing been a set up? Had Peter Mandelson lived up to his ‘The Prince of Darkness’ moniker? Had he played a blinder, and tricked Nigel? Sent him on a proverbial wild Romanian chase? None of it was outside the realms of possibility. Maybe the people watching Nigel, the people who had been holding him down all these years, maybe this was their plan all along. Feed him a clue, let him follow the breadcrumbs to a secluded cottage and then BAM! Political assassination! My God what sort of trap had he walked into? He had to move! He had to get away! It was only a matter of time!

Nigel went to start running, to flee the scene. Paul and Mark were a lost cause now, he had to prioritize. He was the leader of UKIP, the head, without him the body would spasm weakly before ceasing to function. It was no use however, he had lost more blood then he realised. His legs gave out from under him, he felt his head bounce off the grass. His vision started to blacken...everything was fading...he could barely hear...what was that? He thought. In the corner of his eye he could make out...a...a shadow...lumbering towards him...No...stay away! Nigel tried to scream, but nothing came out. His eyelids felt like lead weights...sleep...he needed sleep...

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Nigel hobbled down the stone pathway. The lawn around it was slightly overgrown, encroaching upon the masonry like immigrants encroached upon the British way of life. The path couldn’t have been more than a few meters, but traversing it seemed to take an age. Nigel found he had time to think about all sorts of things. For example, the EU referendum. He thought about all the false facts, all the unsubstantiated claims that were designed to feed on peoples fear and political ignorance. He also thought about the propaganda, he was particularly proud of that. Inspiration had come from a little known minister of propaganda called Joseph Goebbels. The name vaguely rung a bell to Nigel, but he couldn't place it and didn’t have time to do research, he had never checked his facts in the past and it had worked out for him so far. 

Nigel’s mind really was churning, he was so wrapped up in his own brilliance that he forgot the path wasn’t very long. Nigel wasn’t sure how he ended up on the floor, or why his nose was so sore, but he knew he had to get up quickly. Before he could even try to get up he was hoisted up quickly by his backup. He felt the large, clumsy hands of Mark Reckless and Paul Nutall grab his arms awkwardly. They heaved him up and brushed him down.

Now that he was vertical again Nigel thought to check his nose. He placed a finger underneath, he could feel a sticky, wetness there. He pulled his fingers back to inspect...Red, he was bleeding. He wasn’t just bleeding, he was pissing blood from his nose, as a medical professional might say. Thinking quickly he threw his head back to stem the bleeding. Unfortunately, Nigel had not considered his positioning. When he threw his head back, he headbutted Mark right on the nose. Mark stumbled back, flinging his hands into the air, looking for purchase that never came. Mark’s mad flailing did achieve one thing, as he fell to the floor, his right fist caught Paul right on the nose. Both men hit the ground one after the other, their noses also pouring blood. Nigel was oblivious to the this of course, he still had his head lent backwards. 

There they stood, well, Nigel stood, the other two were still on the floor. The three most powerful men in UKIP, clutching at their noses like yobs who had just gotten into a fight with a bouncer outside some nightclub. What would their next move be? How will they combat this dire situation? Do any of them have some tissue? 

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Nigel’s hand hovered over the latch to ‘Mad’ Ann Widdecombe’s gate. The gate wasn’t large, or even made of metal. Nigel could probably rip it from it’s hinges with his mighty geezer strength. What was he saying? Probably? He could definitely rip it from it’s hinges. Getting into this lady garden wasn’t about strength, it was about cunning, it was about sheer force of will. He couldn’t crumble, not now, not with Paul and Mark right behind him. He took a sharp breath, holding the air for a few seconds, before exhaling slowly. He could do this. He could face her.

“Come on you great big Jessie’s” Nigel boomed. His voice sounded confident, he wasn’t though. He had steeled himself, sure. What he couldn’t be sure of was if Paul and Mark were ready. 

For a moment there was silence. An oppressive, heavy, silence. Then they spoke “Yes, Nigel.” They were almost completely in unison at this point. They seemed to have put aside their enmity for one an other. Now they had become a solid unit, a mighty rod to prop up Nigel’s backside. Nigel was almost proud of them, he knew how powerful their hatred for each other was. Yet, here they are, supporting him. He almost smiled to himself. Almost. 

Nigel undid the latch and flung the gate open. He didn’t know his own strength however. The gate hit the wall and swung back almost as fast as it had opened, knocking against Nigel’s shins. He didn’t react. He couldn’t react. He couldn’t show weakness, not now, not in front of Ann, Mark and Paul. Instead he just pressed on. Mark and Paul were awed. This was their leader. They had to be bold, they had to be strong for him. They strode after him. They were going to help him get the truth. No matter what. 

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Nigel stared at Michael Heseltine while sexually drinking his pint.

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Nigel bounded out of the car. He was full of confidence, stretching as he waited for Mark and Paul to get out of the car. Nigel’s visit to Peter Mandelson, the previous day had somewhat prepared him for this moment. He knew that he had been able to outsmart and outmaneuver ‘The Lord of Darkness’, compared to that ‘Mad Ann’ would be a walk in the park. Mark Reckless and Paul Nutall were not so sure. Of course, neither of these two men had the mental, or physical, power of Nigel. 

Eventually, both Paul and Mark had slunk around to join Nigel at the front gate of Ann Widdecombe’s house.The cottage was simple. It was befitting of the frugal nature so often attributed to Ann. Nigel unhooked the gate and pushed it open. Immediately he felt the presence of...something....no, someone. Did Ann have bodyguards? Would Nigel need to start flinging haymakers? Maybe she had turned turncoat...*Ahem*. Maybe she had changed sides? Sold out and joined with however it was trying to hold Nigel down. If she had that would mean all of this was a trap. Whether this was a trap or note didn’t matter to Nigel, he didn’t have much choice in deciding his actions. He needed to get info from Ann, and he was going to get it, one way, or the other.

“Nigel...I feel like we are being watched” Mark’s comment broke Nigel out of his paranoid, internal ramblings. He narrowed his eyes to look for any possible places for enemies to hide or jump out at them. Nothing. The garden was devoid of trees or bushes. It was just a remarkably well kept, grassy lawn.

“I hate to say it but Mark is right” Chimed Paul, he really did hate to admit Mark was right. He hated that Mark had made the observation first even more though.

Just as he was about to give up, just as he was going to step forward into the garden he noticed it. The corner of the curtain was ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, ajar. From that small crack peered a beady eye. Mad Ann. Nigel could tell he was going to be in for one hell of a ride on this one and there was only one thing to do, buckle up.

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Nigel could feel it. That hideous pressure, pushing against him, against his very senses. He knew this feeling well though. All politicians of a certain...power level, they all exuded this aura, this sense of gravitas. Nigel knew that he gave it off too. It was why people avoided him in the street so often, they were too in awe of him. In his planning, Nigel had prepared for the likely, now certain, possibility that Ann Widdecombe would be one such politician. This was why he had decided against bringing Roger “The Todger” Helmer, Roger may be loyal to a fault, but he could barely withstand the lascivious, snake like aura of Peter Mandelson. He would have no hope against Ann.

“Are you both ready?” Nigel’s voiced boomed and echoed around the car, shaking his two soldiers out of their stupor. Their senses were keen, not as keen as Nigel’s, but a close, joint, second in UKIP. He knew they were feeling it too, what he wondered though, was if these two could handle it. 

“Mhmmm” Replied the two men, almost in unison. They seemed to be collecting themselves, shoring their reserves of stoicism that all great, privately educated, British men have. 

“Good, because we are about to go from the frying pan, right into the fire.” Said Nigel as he unfastened his seat belt. He knew that he had to lead by example. It was like whenever he played chess, he always made sure to lead with his King. Sure he lost a lot of chess games, but it was a jolly good metaphor...except the losing part.

“Right.” Spoke the two toadies, again, in unison. Soon they would be ready. Now was the time to strike, there may not be another chance. It was time to enter the inferno. 

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“In five minutes you will have reached your destination” Droned the lady that lived inside the Sat Nav. 

Nigel had dozed off at some point during the journey. Neither Paul or Mark had actually noticed this, instead they had continued to argue like children, both hoping to get one over the other and secure Nigel’s favour. However, now it was slowly dawning upon the two men, they were just now realising what they had gotten themselves in to. “Mad” Ann Widdecombe, was a force to be reckoned with. Everyone knew that. Yet here they, just five minutes from knocking on her door. How would she react? Would she lash out violently? She was known to break the legs of uppity interns with but a single hand, what on Earth would she do when she more than just a little cheesed off? They both shuddered at the thought. They were both learned in the finer points of the Drunken Fist, many a night in the pub had ended in a flailing of limbs. To the untrained eye, this ancient, British, form of combat may seem like little more than a sleepy dog reflexively, and weakly, striking at what is keeping it awake. Of course, it was so much more than that, and both of these men were masters of it. 

“Are you both ready?” Yawned Nigel, his face contorting in a way similar to when he laughed. It made him look like a giant, monstrous toad, Mark and Paul couldn’t think of anything more intimidating. 

Nigel’s question had originally startled both men, but as they gazed upon their leader, and his toady face, their worries were washed away. What had they been thinking? Ann Widdecombe may be regarded throughout the country as one of the toughest politicians to ever live, but there was no doubt to them who was the toughest, and he was sitting right behind them. Suddenly things didn’t seem so scary, even as they pulled up outside the small, innocuous, cottage. 

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For most of his political meetings, Nigel was usually driven in a privately rented car, or rode first class on the train or a plane. Some had decried this, they say its a poor way to spend party funds, that he should use that money to increase campaign awareness. What those small minded fools didn’t understand, was that Nigel was doing exactly that. UKIP had no better means of raising awareness for their campaign than having their leader attend every speech he possibly could. Nigel knew that if he kept doing speeches, kept talking about one issue, over and over again, making sure to aim it at a particular group of continuances, ones that would never question the veracity of his “statistics”, ones that were looking for a scapegoat to blame their previous poor voting decisions on, that’s how he’d win this election. Some might have thought that good policy, honesty and affability would have been what was needed to effectively run a country, Nigel knew the truth, all you needed was to trick people long enough for them to vote for you.

While Nigel sat and thought about how clever he was, he had failed to notice the growing tension between Mark and Paul. Nigel had insisted on sitting in the back, ostensibly to make plans, but really just so he could stretch out. This meant that Mark and Paul, the rivals for the position of Nigel’s right hand, had been forced to sit in close proximity. No words had been exchanged yet, but the tension between them simmered, like a pot of water ready to receive some pasta. Unbeknownst to Nigel this simmering tension could boil over at any moment. These two titans of xenophobia could erupt into a ball of violence, throwing weak punches and ineffectual slaps at each other like a pair of 6 year old children.  

Nigel needed his two attack dogs to be working effectively if they were going to get anywhere with this lead. Ann Widdecombe is not a woman to be trifled with. She was known throughout Westminster, and among the political elite, as “Mad Ann”. She was said to be one of the toughest, most belligerent, and strongest MP’s to ever serve this country. Nigel couldn’t be sure how much the rumors he had heard were true, all he did know was that if even half, no, a quarter of them were true, he would need everything thing he could muster. It was going to a long day.    

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Nigel hoisted his rucksack onto his shoulder and looked at the two men that would be accompanying him, after the test he had just put them through, Nigel saw fit to lighten the mood.

“Come on then you two, the sooner we get going the less long we have to spend around old Widdy” Nigel grinned, patting both his compatriots on the back as he walked past.

As Nigel strode off in the direction of the car park, Mark and Paul glared at each other for a moment. As it stood both men were roughly even so far, Paul had been the first to volunteer for the mission, but Mark had volunteered his car very quickly. Both men didn’t take their eyes off each other as they followed Nigel, this was a bad idea as they both promptly walked into the door frame. After having recovered, both men men now followed Nigel whilst rubbing their noses.  

“I know what your trying to do here Mark” Whispered Paul, he needed to let Mark know that he wasn’t rattled, but he didn’t want Nigel to hear them fighting “It’s not going to work, I’ve been Nigel’s right hand for years now, he uses me for everything that a man uses his right hand for...”

Mark didn’t reply, he just narrowed his eyes at Paul suspiciously.

“My point is” Paul started whispering again “You won’t be replacing me, Nigel will never trust you like he trusts me.”

“Oh, is that right?” Mark’s voice was hushed but heavy with intrigue “I think you’ll find that I can be very persuasive” With that Mark increased his pace before Paul could reply. “Nigel I’m parked just out front. I can drive, or you can if you want?”

“Hmmmmm” Nigel pondered for a moment “You can drive, Mark. I trust you not to kill us” laughed Nigel as he patted Mark on the back again. At Nigel’s touch Mark couldn’t help but grin, slowly he turned back to Paul. He didn’t say anything, but his look, his look conveyed his message perfectly “Nigel trusts me, and that means you’re in trouble”