It turns out that it was just a cat that Farage was burying. In a dream. That he made up when talking to his therapist. In the pub over a compulsory and compulsive pint. No, it would appear that the oft wrong footed boy in red (or indeed silver when he’s attempting to make an attempt at a statement something along the lines of him being so much more than the stereotypical factory settings politician boxed up in a tidy crate with a scarlet ribbon neatly affixed to the top) is still alive and kicking.
And it turns out that what I’ve told you many a time before is indeed quite definitely correct. The man is really properly off his rocker. He’s plunged directly off the deep end thanks to the constant criticism and social pressures involved with the position he’s in at the moment and the one he’s gunning for thanks to no doubt perfectly pressing reasons apparent only to himself.
The key question at play happens to be do we really want a Prime Minister who’s out of his senses? Can we afford to go with one of the sane ones? Maybe it’s time and past for someone who can be relied upon to pull the very serious stunts that nobody right minded could possibly expect. Politics is, after all, incredibly boring in the large part so it’s hard to see anything that would manage to liven it up as anything but a blessing.
I guess at the end of the day that anyone who has such a yearning to be in charge of the country like that can’t be completely right in their mind. But little old Ed really does go the extra mile. Just something for you to bear in mind when you have your tiny pencil in hand in whatever cramped cubicle or portacabin you find yourself in.