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.”

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.

Jeremy Corbyn is said to be considering a full time career as a Nigel Farage impersonator following his recent attempts to emulate the amphibious, racist jizzmop in a series of increasingly bizarre speeches.

Mr Corbyn first indicated that he was a fan of Mr Farage, who is best known for his resemblance to a disconsolate salamander, last week, when he parroted his comprehensively discredited claim that there will be some sort of ‘Brexit dividend’ after the UK leaves the EU. At the time, it was assumed that Mr Corbyn had fastened his cardigan up too tightly, thereby restricting blood flow to his brain, but this theory was later discounted because he was wearing a shirt and tie at the time.

Corbyn’s apparent admiration for Britain’s least electable Nazi was further crystallised yesterday afternoon, when he went ‘full UKIP’ with the claim that employers are using EU labour to undercut British workers, despite a plethora of studies showing that EU migration has had no negative impact on wages and conditions.

A spokesperson for Mr Corbyn said, “It just seems like a natural progression. He’s taken off his sandals and dipped his toe into the pool of lazy dog-whistling, and his supporters don’t seem to give a solitary fuck. At this stage, he could wank a horse off live on Channel 4 News, and his base would almost certainly refer to anyone who found it even slightly distasteful as ‘Tory scum’. As far as we’re concerned, he’s a tweed jacket and a Poundland lizard mask off making an absolute fuckton of cash. He’s also very much looking forward to his fortnightly Question Time appearances.”

One of Mr Corbyn’s most loyal supporters, Summer Meadows, was fully supportive of his new career, saying, “If Jez wants this, it simply has to be the right thing and no amount of evidence to the contrary will convince me it’s not. Hashtag JC4PM.”

Mr Farage was unavailable for comment as he was attending the EU Parliament like he’s fucking supposed to. Kidding, LOL, he’s in America desperately prostrating himself in front of a guy who wants to fuck his own daughter.

It’s hard not to feel sorry for Henry Bolton, isn’t it? Following a series of occurrences largely outside of his control, the noxious divorce-enthusiast has achieved the unlikely feat of being unanimously declared too toxic for a party whose previous leaders have included a morose, Benson and Hedges-smoking turtle who only turns up for work every third Wednesday, and a facist Ade Edmondson lookalike who claims to have invented peas.

Bolton, of course, is rightly outraged by the gross miscarriage of justice that has caused UKIP’s NEC to expect him to take ownership of whether or not his penis ends up in a person who lacks the necessary restraint to ensure that the really bad racism stays within the party, and that only oblique, plausibly-deniable references to hating brown people make it into the public sphere. And, if we look at things dispassionately, how could he possibly have been expected to avoid the situation in which he now finds himself?

It’s a tale as old as time itself: he puts on his best Farah slacks and his smartest brownshirt, kisses his third wife goodbye, and goose steps off to his work’s festive party, cheerfully humming “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas,” and allowing himself a malignant little smile at the pleasing double meaning hidden within the lyrics of his favourite yuletide ditty.

Everything seems normal on arrival. He trades a few jokes that Bernard Manning rejected for being ‘a bit tasty’ with Godfrey Bloom, then heads over to the vol-au-vents, sipping contentedly at his second glass of white wine. Then, all of a sudden, he sets eyes on the woman who will change everything. She’s slim, blonde, less than half his age, and possessed of the hot, fiery brand of racially-motivated hatred that brings ‘Little Henry’ to the kind of urgent tumescence he last enjoyed when it was still ok to throw bananas at black footballers.

Fast forward a few days, and wife number three is well on the way to becoming ex-wife number three, as poor, biddable Henry ignores the pleas of his pre-school daughter and shacks up with the objectively abhorrent Kellyanne Conway tribute act who caused him to wander from the path of faithful devotion just a few days before the anniversary of the birth of White Jesus.

I suspect you’re probably thinking that the 54-year-old leader of a political party must bear some responsibility for his life choices, but what the hell was he supposed to do? Honour his marriage vows? Consider the feelings of his children? Not broadcast the fact that he was conkers deep in a Poundland Helga Geerhart all over Twitter like a horny, pant-spaffing member of the 2017 Hitler Youth?

None of this is reasonable. You might as well hold Bolton responsible for the fact that he thought pretending to ‘end the romantic element’ of their relationship would solve everything, as though it’s totally fine to have friends who assert that a mixed-race woman will ‘taint’ the hitherto exclusively white family she’s about to marry into, as long as you don’t shag them.

No, the blame must be laid squarely at the door of Nazi nork-model, Jo Marney, who has destroyed a marriage and a political party, along with, presumably, her own ability to ever close her eyes again without seeing Bolton’s leering, salivating face gazing lustily back at her, and his hairy, mid-fifties mantits bobbing up and down in unison for approximately ninety gag reflex-testing seconds.

I suspect that by mid-March, when the dust has settled and UKIP has finally expired in one last pant-shitting spasm of intolerance, history will judge Ms Marney as being the Eve to Bolton’s Adam, the Delilah to his Sampson. Because, if history teaches us anything, it’s that whenever anything bad happens, it’s ultimately never truly the fault of the well-off, middle-aged white man.