Head down, ready for the rotten egg, exit Nigel Farage pursued by a so-called carnival of diversity in a bare-naked tale of the 2015 non-election.
Sunday lunch in the commuter village of Downe, where beige is also known as ‘browne’. Tothe George & Dragon with its suitably suburban rendition of olde worlde, the rag tag ofprotesters bobs along looking for the UKIP leader, who is known to frequent this hostelry in search of the perfect wallop.
You got your LBGTs (all very transgressive – yeah, right?!), and your breastfeeding mothers represented by plastic babydolls nestling in everyone’s bosom, and a scattering ofpatchwork capes and Lycra jumpsuits which zip up over your head; possibly containing the carnival’s immigrant population – who knows?
The assembled company could be on an outing to Comic Con, except that none of thecostumes is clever enough.
Except he’s not here. He’s in the other one, isn’t he? The one with the tiny leaded windows hardly seen in public since the most recent TV adaptation of Oliver Twist or David Copperfield or whichever one it was – the Queen’s Head. The protesters duly troll over to this other pub, where they are briefly united with their quarry.
Nige with his face crinkled up like a crisp – not the full Sid James but well on the way. Ducking and diving out of the bar, making for his car. But some ‘scum’ are already climbing on the bonnet and he’s scuttling off into the distance, as fast as his legs will carry him.
It used to be that the second time was farce, but now it’s a right Carry On from the first-off.