Wikileaks Farage eMail Shock

From: N.Farage []
Sent: 07 January 2013 12:50
To: Charles Louis Farage de Mille Feuille
Subject: Notre Victoire!


Mon Cher Papa,

There is nothing more depressing than an English winter.  It is dank, it is foggy, il est gris!  Nothing on earth is more calculated to make a Frenchman pine for la patrie than Farnborough in January.  These English in their deathly suburbs with their club ties and their blazers with little brass buttons, their gin and tonics and their four by fours; this is the only country in the world that prides itself on a complete absence of culture – and to think I have to pretend to be one of them.  Sacre bleu!

I have said it before and I will say it again. Nothing grieves me more than being unable to use the name you gave me at my christening.  But I cannot deny that the identity you created for my mission bears the mark of genius.  Who could possibly suspect a man called Nigel?

What name is there that better captures British médiocrité, their insularité, their contemptible lack of style, than this ‘Nigel’.  At least I am able to keep my nom patronymique. These stupid English, they are too dim and slow witted to suspect a thing.  But how I long to stand up, to claim back my true identité and declare; “C’est moi, Napoleon Farage!”

If there is a solitary ray of soleil it is that our plans for the destruction of Grand Bretagne move forward apace.  Oh how delicieux the revenge that has been 200 years in the making.  Not since le petit Corporal paraded the Grand Armée at Boulogne have our prospects been so bright.

Mais écoutez moi!  They must suspect nothing.  When the British talk of leaving Europe we must reassure them like this; ‘do not worry.  There will be no problem.  Of course we will trade with you.  We will have special arrangements.  It will be like before only better.’

I feel almost sorry for them.  They have such a childlike, such a naïve view of Europe, it is pitiful.  They think that having lorded it over us all this time, having made life for us in Brussels a living hell, having foisted their stupid language on us, that they can have all the good things that come with belonging to Europe without having to share the pain.  They have no idea how we have suffered having to be nice to both them and the Germans, at the same time.

Non.  We send them on their way with sweet words like the last guest at the dinner party and then nous fermons la porte avec un boom.  And when they knock to be allowed to come back in we pretend we’ve gone to bed.

They have no empire left.  They have offended almost every nation in their Commonwealth.  The Americans can’t stand them, these Englishmen who go on all the time about things that no one who wasn’t at their stupid schools can understand.  What is this Wall Game merde?  Cameron; zut!  Ile est une pomme de terre avec le visage d’un cochon d’inde.  Forty per cent of their trade is with the EU.  Only four per cent of the rest of the EU’s trade is with Britain.  They are beyond mere imbeciles.   They are… finished!

But enough of this papa.  I have once more to wear that ridiculous blazer, pretend to be a proper Englishman and to secure our revenge.

A Bientot



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