Lord Howard Elston (DOA), war reporter par excellence, details how Nigel Farage is intent on taking the timeless crossroads of the world in northern Syria.
I am sitting amid the tumbled sandstone-coloured rubble of an ancient world as I see the cloud storms of UKIP shock troops approaching from the English Home Counties. Yes, King Nigel Farage is ready to sack Palmyra.
Fartage, the right-wing addled, leader of this ragtag army of rascist nutcases, desperately needs a victory after gaining just one seat in Westminster-land after last week’s Inger-lund elections.
Commodore Nigel and his amassed desert-stormers need a quick victory And so, his target is Palmyra, the city where east meets west, the city where Romans Greek and Byzantines crossed paths with Napoleon, Francis of Assissi and Nikita Kruschev and any other top dog that roamed this planet.
I can see his war flags now on the horizon, the battle yells of anti EU forward commandos, his UKIP banners waving in the searing desert wind, his vanguard led by a dusty fleet of BMW SUVs complete with Satnav and in-car entertainment systems blaring Cliff Richard ballads so beloved by everyone.
Last night, in a futile attempt to save my flagging career at this gimcrack website, I hired a Birmingham cab driver to take me to Commodroe Farago’s tent. There in front of a 48” flatscreen and kitted out in a rather natty Marks and Spencer range of yacht clothing, he told me:
“We won the England elections and they stole it from us. But look what happened. The Libdumbs, the lefties and all the other detritus of British adulterated democracy were tossed aside. I own England…now for Palmyra – and the world”
The Commodore then donned sand goggles, stood on a platform made from a pile of unread Labour Party manifestos and declaimed to his massed ranks: “Onward to a Non-EU Mid East where freedom rings for anyone belonging to a golf club.”
And with that, Sir Niggley disappeared among the cheering horde of soldiers who adore him. I shall report on the enclosing circle of UKIP troops squeezing this diamond of an historical site here in Northern Syria-land. Meanwhile, I awkwardly hide as Farago’s troops bombard this open air priceless site with copies of the Daily Express, sodden bundles of fish’n’chips and tattered remains of Dick Francis novels