An Alternative History...
In this piece I'm trying to imagine what would happen should the United Kingdom Independence Party achieve victory in today's UK general election, enjoy...
After his stunning and utterly unprecedented victory, UKIP
leader Nigel Farage walks triumphantly up Downing Street towards the door of
number 10. Photographer's flash bulbs turn the late spring evening into
something resembling the surface of the sun with their intensity. David
Cameron has already left via a back entrance, though his attempts to sneak away
unnoticed fail as yet more members of the press mob the defeated ex-prime
minister as he flees towards a waiting car, a lucrative life on the public
speaking circuit and the boards of various city firms already awaiting him.
Across the country the people of Britain are taking to the streets, either to celebrate the victory of their 'champion' or protest at this melted Trumpton character taking office, and the damage his reactionary policies and demented party might do. The police are stretched to the limit coping with running battles in town centres across England.
Meanwhile Scotland and Wales have declared independence and raising militias who begin to fortify their borders to defend their socialist local governments against 'the purple menace'.
All this is on Nigel's mind as he strides towards the big black door that is his destiny, forcing his trade mark manic grin and wide mouthed guffaw like a whale swallowing krill. There is a lot of work to do to get the country lined up how he wants, and piles of money to be made. No time to waste.
He finally reaches the door of Number 10, waves to the press a final time, turns the brass knob and pushes. The door won't open.
He heaves and strains against the elderly wood, and his aides rush over to assist him, lending their shoulders to the task, veins bulging and teeth gritted, but the door will not budge.
Farage refuses to let this beat him, offering an air of unconcerned amusement at the kerfuffle to the press, he thanks his lucky stars again that he's not Ed Milliband, those vultures on fleet street would have skinned the poor sod alive if he's had a problem like this, but he'll most likely get away with a mention in the Huffington Post or some other internet leftie site none of 'his people' read anyway.
The minutes pass and the door still won't open, a few work experience kids are left straining against the oak while everyone else shouts into their phones, trying to conjure up a locksmith as quick as possible. Nigel is just thinking about popping down the road for a beer when the roar of jet engines is heard overhead.
A large grey VTOL craft appears above horse guards, just beyond the massive iron gates of Downing Street and lands on the road, a Quinn Jet!
A muscular man with long blonde hair, a red cape and some form of armour disembarks from the craft, from his right hand hangs the most massive club hammer Nigel Farage has ever seen. The stranger, when he reaches the gates, swings the hammer around and around as if he is about to fling it. But instead of letting go, he somehow hangs on, as the hammer fly's over the gate and back down onto Downing Street itself. The man lands with an almighty boom on the cobbles as police rush to intercept him. Without even looking at them or breaking stride he stuns each man with a miniature thunderbolt, launched from the tips of his fingers, they fall down groaning, but unharmed.
The remainder of the people in the street back in terror to it's four corners, away from this monstrous apparition, except for Nigel Farage, who remains rooted to the spot, his mouth opening and closing like a startled goldfish, with no sound coming out.
"It's very simple Nigel," says Thor, as he strides past Farage, opening the door of 10 Downing Street and walking in,
"You're not worthy!"
The door closes again, with the sound of a hammer, forged in the heart of a dying star, hitting an anvil.
Word Count - 666 words! the other 1334 coming tomorrow
Across the country the people of Britain are taking to the streets, either to celebrate the victory of their 'champion' or protest at this melted Trumpton character taking office, and the damage his reactionary policies and demented party might do. The police are stretched to the limit coping with running battles in town centres across England.
Meanwhile Scotland and Wales have declared independence and raising militias who begin to fortify their borders to defend their socialist local governments against 'the purple menace'.
All this is on Nigel's mind as he strides towards the big black door that is his destiny, forcing his trade mark manic grin and wide mouthed guffaw like a whale swallowing krill. There is a lot of work to do to get the country lined up how he wants, and piles of money to be made. No time to waste.
He finally reaches the door of Number 10, waves to the press a final time, turns the brass knob and pushes. The door won't open.
He heaves and strains against the elderly wood, and his aides rush over to assist him, lending their shoulders to the task, veins bulging and teeth gritted, but the door will not budge.
Farage refuses to let this beat him, offering an air of unconcerned amusement at the kerfuffle to the press, he thanks his lucky stars again that he's not Ed Milliband, those vultures on fleet street would have skinned the poor sod alive if he's had a problem like this, but he'll most likely get away with a mention in the Huffington Post or some other internet leftie site none of 'his people' read anyway.
The minutes pass and the door still won't open, a few work experience kids are left straining against the oak while everyone else shouts into their phones, trying to conjure up a locksmith as quick as possible. Nigel is just thinking about popping down the road for a beer when the roar of jet engines is heard overhead.
A large grey VTOL craft appears above horse guards, just beyond the massive iron gates of Downing Street and lands on the road, a Quinn Jet!
A muscular man with long blonde hair, a red cape and some form of armour disembarks from the craft, from his right hand hangs the most massive club hammer Nigel Farage has ever seen. The stranger, when he reaches the gates, swings the hammer around and around as if he is about to fling it. But instead of letting go, he somehow hangs on, as the hammer fly's over the gate and back down onto Downing Street itself. The man lands with an almighty boom on the cobbles as police rush to intercept him. Without even looking at them or breaking stride he stuns each man with a miniature thunderbolt, launched from the tips of his fingers, they fall down groaning, but unharmed.
The remainder of the people in the street back in terror to it's four corners, away from this monstrous apparition, except for Nigel Farage, who remains rooted to the spot, his mouth opening and closing like a startled goldfish, with no sound coming out.
"It's very simple Nigel," says Thor, as he strides past Farage, opening the door of 10 Downing Street and walking in,
"You're not worthy!"
The door closes again, with the sound of a hammer, forged in the heart of a dying star, hitting an anvil.
Word Count - 666 words! the other 1334 coming tomorrow
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