#the farage mirage

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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’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 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.