I’m in a modern house. Nigel Farage is there, it’s his place. Everything is white, the walls, the floors, the woodwork. Bright white light illuminates everything.
I’m uncomfortable in this environment. A camp black guy with blond hair extensions tells me it’s ok. I don’t believe him. There’s a noise from downstairs. In the cellar, Nigel keeps his monsters locked away. They are on loan to him from the CIA, who bred them just for this purpose. Mumbles of racism, sexism and homophobia can be heard from the green, glowing darkness the stairs descend into.