Latex-faced Hitler enthusiast, Nigel Farage, announced exciting plans yesterday to march from Sunderland to another bit of Sunderland before getting in a bus full of other horrendous cunts and driving somewhere else.

This ambitious project is designed to raise awareness of the fact that some traitorous elements of the British population are still betraying the Will Of The People by not spending their every waking moment doing a racism, and also to fund that new 60-inch, ultra HD, 5.1 surround sound telly Mr Farage has been after that he might fully enjoy the DVD he just ordered off Amazon, in which Lee Hurst yells the word ‘snowflake’ at people who aren’t malicious fucking pricks for 93 uninterrupted minutes.

For the very reasonable sum of just £50, gullible racist bastards will have the opportunity to walk on roads they can walk on for free literally any fucking time they want to, carrying upside down Union Flags and singing Hitler Youth songs while normal people call them arseholes and empty jars of piss on their heads.

Fascist ham-mannequin, Farage, was in ebullient mood at the event’s launch, saying,

“Honestly, you should fucking see it. The colours are pin-sharp, and you can actually feel the subwoofer right in your fucking taint. I’m off to Curry’s as soon as enough of the dopey little shits have coughed up.”

When pressed for a comment on the thinking behind the stupid fucking walk thing he’d semi-organised, his mood changed.

“Did you know that in Britain today, more than 23% of newspaper columns don’t make any attempt to direct hate at Muslamics, coloureds, or even poofs? That’s not including the Mail and the Express, of course, but it’s still a shocking statistic. We will start walking, and we won’t stop until every single column inch is like one of the sweaty, feverish dreams in which I sticky up my jammy bottoms visualising a racially pure United Kingdom. I say ‘we’, I’m probably just gonna do the first and the last twenty minutes.”

Members of the Brexit Party in attendance at the launch were adamant that they weren’t being taken for absolute fucking mugs by the bastard offspring of the KKK and some tweed. Wayne, a hateful dickhead from Stevenage, said,

“He obviously has to fuck off in his private plane after a quarter of an hour because he needs to get back to London and fight the establishment. They’re trying to silence him by just letting him have his own radio show, a couple of newspaper columns and sixteen hours a week of unchecked ranting on BBC News. He can’t possibly be with us for the whole walk, so it’s important he has our support. And also our money.”

I put it to Mr Farage that he might be wasting his time on something that’s likely only to make most people regard him as an even bigger twat than they already did, but his response was unequivocal.

“It’s got Freeview and Freesat built in.”

Piers stirred into some misty semblance of consciousness, disorientated, confused. Where was he? He could feel the ferociousness of an angry sun on his scaly, reptilian back, the hot sand burning beneath his detestable, porcine face.

He remembered.

He couldn’t say how long he’d been on the island, but if he was back home, he’d have known that it had been at least a month since the end of the last of the week-long parties that had erupted following the national outpouring of joy when it was announced that he was missing, presumed dead. 

He had survived for what seemed like an eternity on coconut milk, seaweed and the bits of Donald Trump’s shit that were stuck between his teeth. But he was tired now. So tired. It was time to stop fighting.

But wait. Were those voices he could hear?

He strained to pull himself into a sitting position, the weight of his inexplicably bulbous and yet somehow still loathsomely self-satisfied head proving quite the challenge for his now emaciated skeleton.

As he was finally able to look up, he gazed into the tanned face of a man around his own age, but infinitely more handsome in spite of the weathering inflicted by a life at sea. The man did not recognise him, as the weeks on the island had taken their toll, but if he had, he would surely have headed back to his ship without a second’s hesitation rather than be the person responsible for rescuing the world’s most reviled human being.

With a kindly smile, the man held out a white paper bag, which Piers snatched from him as though it was his right, and not an act of kindness from a benevolent stranger. The bag was warm, and transparent in places from the grease covering the bounty that lay within. He noticed the unmistakable blue logo and his mouth watered. 

He tried to speak, but his voice was weak from dehydration and shouting misogynistic abuse at the mermaid he’d hallucinated. He beckoned the man to come closer. 

The ship’s captain obliged and got to his knees next to this wretched creature he had stumbled upon with his unfortunate crew. He leant forward, slowly, and as he did, he heard that uniquely foul and instantly repulsive voice as it whispered despicably into his ear,

“It’s not vegan, is it?”

The government today confirmed to concerned UK citizens that not shitting up almost every aspect of their already miserable lives sits at the very fucking bottom of the list of Conservative priorities, below ‘arsefisting the NHS to death’ and ‘inflammatory xenophobic posturing’.

Following suggestions before Christmas that the parliamentary break should be cancelled or curtailed that they might actually take steps to defuse the increasingly fucking volatile shitgrenade of Brexit, the laughter of many MPs was so vigorous that their bellies shook like bowls full of jelly in the manner of cunty, self-centred Santa Clauses. So ridiculous was the idea that they might actually make some small sacrifice to prevent the entire nation going to fucking shit, that at least three on the Tory benches threw up their roast pheasant in impromptu fits of uncontrolled mirth.

In a further bid to underline the complete absence of fucks given about the thing that promises to render cardboard our most valuable national commodity, Home Secretary Sajid Javid cut short his family holiday today to deal with a ‘major incident’ in which a handful of people displaced by the bombs we drop all over the fucking Middle East made an unsuccessful attempt to cross the channel in quite a small boat.

A spokesperson for the Prime Minister’s office said,

“Look, this is really fucking simple. Although Brexit will adversely affect hundreds of millions of people across the continent, the racist little cunts who keep us in power seem to really want it to happen. Of course Sajid flying home is completely fucking unnecessary, but it panders to those same jingoistic arseholes who’ll ultimately give us the backing we need to continue buttfucking the economy into oblivion for personal gain. Also, when it’s all over, Jacob has offered to take us all out somewhere not as nice as the Ritz but better than a Harvester with his winnings.”

We approached former UKIP leader and current Hitlery jizzpipe, Nigel Farage, for a comment, but he was said to be unavailable, and was last seen heading towards the White Cliffs of Dover banging a yard of metal pipe into his palm and muttering something about there not being any black in the Union Jack.

With Mr Javid set to touch down in the UK in the next few hours, we can at least rest assured that these penniless, non-white immigrants turning up on our shores will be immediately and unceremoniously returned from whence they came, just like his father wasn’t.