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Every woman in Britain fantasises about Nigel Farage when making love. And most of the men

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who believes that once we’ve sent the migrants to Rwanda, we should nuke it

THE BBC pretends he doesn’t exist. ITV tried to smear him. But there has not been an orgasm in this country post-2013 not accompanied by the thought of Nigel Farage. 

Admit it. You’ve been there. Riding your husband like he’s a Boris bike, desperately trying to picture someone societally sanctioned like Harry Styles or the man from Poldark when the impish face of Farage pops in and pushes you over the edge.

He just gets us like that. There’s something deep in Britain’s sexual core that responds to corduroy, to a tweed flat cap on a man in the saloon bar expounding wisdom with a pint of mild in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other.

And the men too. There’s nothing gay about it – about Nigel? Perish the thought! – but every man in Britain’s been brought to the boil by his leather-tanned face winking like the capering spirit of Sid James. It’s not a kink. It’s normal.

Over the last month, these fantasies have been imbued with fresh vigour. Farage’s unflappable middle-England serenity, keeping his head while all about him flagellated themselves for insufficient wokeness, won hearts, loins and I’m A Celebrity. 

ITV suppressed the win, of course, but we all knew it. And as he flew back to Britain, French concubine in tow doing the only thing the French are good for, ie oral, I’m reliably informed air hostesses swooned over his strawberry-sorbet blazer and linen shirt.

He’s back on home turf. Despite denials, he’s ready to take over the Tories the moment they swallow their pride and ask him to. Democracy? Perhaps you’ll remember this man was elected president-for-life on June 23rd 2016 by 100 per cent of patriots?

Take your place in Downing Street, Nigel. Take the country that’s been laid out waiting for you for so long. Take us while we lie back and think of England. Of you.

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Why I still shoplift from newsagents, by Timothée Chalamet

PIN-UP and Wonka star Chalamet tells us why fame hasn’t changed him and he still sticks a Yorkie up his jumper whenever he pops into a high street newsagent: 

My team picked the wrong endorsements

I’m young. I’m hot. They should be giving me the big brands ads, like Pepperami, Sports Direct and Fray Bentos. But instead I’m stuck with Hollywood bullshit like Chanel, Nike and Apple TV. I never come home with a trunk full of Monster Munch, Toffos or copies of Crafty Carper. Is it any wonder I have to use the five-finger discount?

For much-needed edge

It’s a while since Call Me By Your Name and the queer kids are restless. They’re starting to notice that I’m only in sci-fi blockbusters and Disney musicals and I’m dating Kylie Jenner. So I need to get my edge back, and for that I shoplift. Consistently. Brazenly. Shouting ‘Timothée Chalamet is stealing this Warburtons Toastie loaf’ as I do it. Because I’m a bad boy.

I have an entourage

Those signs, saying ‘no more than two schoolchildren at one time’? I breeze past them. Not because I’m not a schoolchild but because I’m a star and I roll six deep; make-up, PA, PA’s PA, coke-chopper, a couple of other dudes. So when I’m lifting a pocketful of Wispa Golds and a Kinder Surprise, I’m camouflaged.

It saves me money

I command upwards of $5m dollars a movie. Post-Wonka, I’m doubling that. But what if my career tanks and I end up like Corey Haim stroke Feldman? I look after the cents by lifting everything I can – Bountys, padded envelopes, 50th birthday cards, these places have little to no CCTV. If only the Rothmans weren’t behind the counter.

It makes me feel alive

My life might seem exciting – fame, money, trousers. But, in truth, it’s mainly standing on a cold set in front of greenscreen followed by six months of selling that shit on pissant chatshows. So I need the thrill of pinching some tea towels, four cans of Strongbow Dark Fruits and a packet of Space Raiders to stay alive. Do it. Steal a Twister from the freezer. You’ll never look back.

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