A sorry UKIP soap-boxer in Tunbridge Wells this weekend was drowned out by the deafening silence of apathy and swallowed up entirely by an unwitting virtuoso performance of irony by the locals.
On a sunny Kentish winter day on the high street in Royal Tunbridge Wells – considered a heartland for the best of stodgy, British right-wingism – your BM correspondent was the only person taking any interest at all in the incompetent Eurosceptic ramblings of the UKIP campaigner.
Passers-by instead passed-by, more intent on Christmas shopping or brunch than Britain’s plight at the ‘hands of our European unelected masters’ etc etc.
Particularly poignant was seeing people stream past the ranting goon to pick up a cappucino in the italian cafe across the road staffed almost entirely by cheap labour from Europe’s south and east, or cram into the ‘Bistro Blanc’ behind the UKIP stall for a continental champagne brekkie, imported free of taxes thanks to the single market.
Perhaps even Telegraph readers have a secret, silent understanding as to which side their pain is beurré.
Or perhaps the illiterate inarticulate purple-faced UKIPPER simply wasn’t getting his point across with quite the winning eloquence necessary if they’re ever going to ‘wrest back Britain’s fishing rights from the Brussels mandarins who etc etc’ and the like.
Yours,
Dégouté des Puits du Pont de Tun.
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