Nigel Farage stood on top of a cliff near Dover. A vein on his temple was throbbing and engorged. Earlier in the day he’d become angered when he’d read some briefs on a new set of EU fiscal policies.
He was now hurling insults across the channel.
“Piss off Europe!” he launched in the general direction of Calais.
“Europe you silly bitch!” he screamed, and threw a crumpet into the waves.
“Keep your red tape away from my island you continental cunts!”
On this his clenched fist caused his sherbet fountain to explode, enveloping him in a fine cloud of powdered sugar.
Worn out by his tirade he sat down, cracked open his fifth can of Ruddles County and sucked deeply on a Lambert and Butler.