2084 or The Nigel Farage Independence Party


It is the year 2084 and Britain floats far above the surface of the Atlantic Ocean in an impenetrable anti-gravity bubble. Nigel Farage is the most successful prime minister in history, having been elected every five years (on an ever-growing majority) since his shock landslide victory in 2015. Despite a life of drinking pints and smoking in public places, he has miraculously lived to the grand old age of 120. This is his Britain.

Nigel rules with an iron fist. In early years, he was known as ‘Big Bother’ by conservatives and left-wingers alike, but no one dare call him that now. He governs from a ten-storey, high-security orbital pub complex (the Citadel and Chickens), which is separated from the rest of Britain by an average altitude of ten-thousand feet.  Nigel, obviously, lives alone on the top floor, sending down his edicts scrawled on the back of used lottery tickets, cigarette packets and fifty pound notes. The constitution declares that everything Nigel says, writes or thinks is law. He speaks only ‘Truespeak’, unlike the leaders of the other parties (exiled in Calais), who speak exclusively in lies. All tapas and gelato bars have been sent to Room 101. Mango and mustard chicken is illegal. Thinking in foreign languages is against doctrine. Crème brûlée are shot at dawn. Brussels is a swear word. Déjà vu is sin.

His Cabinet are an eclectic bunch:

Foreign Secretary: The Rt Hon. Godfrey Bloom MP

Co-competencies: Oldest Bloke in the World (135), Ambassador to the United States of Bongo Bongo

Chancellor of the Exchequer: The Rt Hon. Clifford Wooster MP

Co-competencies: Landlord, the Citadel and Chickens, and a right good bloke

Home Secretary in Perpetuity: The Rt Hon. Kirsten Mehr MP

Co-competencies: Nigel’s wife (as ‘nobody else could do that job’)

Defence Secretary: The Rt Hon. Grumbly Bumplechamp MP

Co-competencies: Once a bully at Nigel’s public school, Dulwich College (founded 1619)

They all meet (sans Nigel, who hates any sort of meeting of individuals, states or otherwise) in the Citadel for a smoke and a packet of pork scratchings once or twice a week. Here, the cabinet decide who to be divisive about this week and distribute offensive tweets to party members while supping on pints of fresh tears. Nigel himself doesn’t get involved, as he is totally brainless. This is no insult, for his brain literally remains separated from the rest of his body by a hundred feet of barbed wire; this stops stray requests from his body immigrating up his spine and stealing neurons away from hardworking British thoughts.

What of the society of Britain? Non-smoking is illegal. Doctors recommend eating five portions of pie and mash a day. Ninety nuclear-powered submarines hide in wait in the College Boat Club. Those nasty foreign winds and weathers are kept at bay by the impenetrable bubble, which has the added benefit of making wind farms impossible. And Nigel has ensured that only good-quality British gravity is used in said bubble.

The political life of Britain has long since stagnated, though. Once the UK withdrew from the EU, the UN, NATO, the OECD, the OSCE, the WTO, the BBC, KFC, MTV and the JRR Tolkien fanclub, there was nothing much left for PM Nige to work towards, save further isolating himself from the rest of creation. His latest experiments focus on the possibility of declaring independence from space and severing all political links with time. He’s promised an in-out referendum regarding British membership of the whole ‘universe’ deal, which ‘none of us agreed to be part of in the first place’. Some fear this could bring about unforeseen economic consequences. But hey, at least everyone has a ruddy good time in Farage’s floating dystopia.

George Orwell never could’ve predicted this.

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