The Man At The End Of The Bar (ukip)

He’s of indeterminate age.  He resides in every pub and bar in the land.  An everyman with a pint glass.  He doesn’t appear to have any friends… unless they’ve all used the excuse of going to the toilet.  He’s a self-regarding oasis in an ocean of anomie.  This man is an island… He’s most definitely not a peninsula.  If he were the butterfly wings of chaos Sinking a pinttheory then heaven help what’s happening on the other side of the world.  If there really is six degrees of separation to Kevin Bacon – then he’s number seven.  If all famous rock bands have an unlucky early member who leaves prior to them making it big – then it wasn’t him.  If he had a makeover no-one would notice – because no-one would remember what he originally looked like.  His sole purpose in life is to make comment on conversations he isn’t involved in; to people he doesn’t know; while delivering his wisdom to an audience of none.  He offers his opinions regardless.  Without thought.  Or fear.  Or favour.  Or reason.  His only obvious social skill is setting a tumbleweed of indifference adrift among a desert of silent disbelieving looks.  Who said that?!

The Man at the end of the bar


“UKIP?  Always sounds like a cure for insomnia to me… Get new UKIP from JML!  Available at all good retailers – and Robert Dyas… believe me you don’t want to know.


“Why should I like Nigel Farage?!  Just because I enjoy a pint?!  I’m not a racist: I’m a people person me – years ago I’d have been described as the salt of the earth.  What do you mean you’ve never heard of that expression?  Anyway, Nigel was always the uppity kid on the school bus; I remember he was always travel sick… wouldn’t sit next to the girls, fat John with the perspiration problem – or the kids with turbans.  Hmmmph… they were the only ones who’d sit next to me…


“I don’t care if they do well in the European elections… Why?!  I’ll tell you why… Because old Nigel has poked a stick under a stone deep into the dark underbelly of the English persona and stirred up a hornet’s nest – that’s why.  There’s nuthin’ worse than someone rummagin’ around in your psyche… we don’t like it: we don’t want to be poked or put on the spot; we want a peaceful life; we want to get on with our neighbours – quid pro quo and all that… we like to leave our backdoors open so to speak: we prefer to leave politics to those who enjoy all that backstabbin’ stuff.  They smile in yer face but all the time they want to take yer place… Who?!  The backstabbers!


“Me… apathetic?!  No way!  I just can’t be bothered – that’s all… I still have my role to play.  I’m the man on the Clapham omnibus; I’m the litmus test; I’m the man in the street… well obviously that’s metaphorical you knob!  I’m the political barometer: I’ve been known to swing both ways accordin’ to Peter Snow…


“Let’s cut to the chase… If he pronounced his name as his mother intended – Nigel Far-idge – and not Nigel bloody Far-aaahge then believe you me we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation… Put another one in there will you Dave?”




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