What if Farage bungles the ECHR exit?
A question about 2029
Picture 2029. Nigel Farage comes into power with a large majority holding a mandate for change. Within weeks he notifies the world that he intends to withdraw from the ECHR, and closely argued negotiations begin with European counterparts, regarding the future of the Good Friday Agreement. At the same time, egged on by his bolshy Millennial lieutenants, he instructs the Home Office to start rounding up illegal immigrants relishing the spectacle of obstructing opposition politicians and woke activists being rounded up by Plod.
But there is a problem. Plod is woke. The Met’s diversity officers instruct their wellbeing teams to remain at home. The minority of police officers who do follow the government’s orders and attempt enforcement on the estates are badly outnumbered by Antifa and local community activists.
The result is a national crisis, and each moment that is stretches on is a fresh humiliation for the new populist right. Riots begin in some Northern towns. King Charles ‘lets it be known’ that he opposes the new policy, and even hints darkly that he may no longer have faith in his Prime Minister. Farage’s more radical advisers insist that the deploy the Army on the streets, and to give the order that protesters will be shot if they obstruct the rounding up. Farage, a liberal at heart, baulks at the prospect of bloodshed on the streets.
That is when the Spider begins to spin his web…
“Look, look to Ukraine, Nigel…tchhshsss…thshchhshs….”
At once Farage grasps the plan. After the Trump Peace is signed in 2027 there are hundreds of thousands of demobilised unemployed Ukranian men milling about on the streets of towns and cities across the country, essentially a sort of Freikorps.
“Trained men…phssscchh…pschshh…cheap too…good…value for money..hss…”
And so it came to be that hundreds of thousands of unarmed Ukrainian mercenaries began to land on the shores of England, not just unopposed but invited. And just like the Saxon, over a thousand years before, they are invited over to provide security for the native people.
At first their effectiveness will be remarkable. Ivan and Arkady have little truck with the various antifascist groups who attempt to blockade the dingy council estates in which the migrants are hidden. Little real fighting is necessary. MLE beliefs about the indefatigable strength of Eastern Europeans (‘dem man are serious’) keep the County Lines at home. Once a few bone crunching examples are made the obstructions begin to dissipate.
But then…
A crisis. During an enforcement visit in Birmingham an Afghan refugee fires a 3D printed assault rifle at a group of Ukranian war heroes, killing them instantly. Enraged, and increasingly physically imposing themselves on the Parliamentary Estate, demands are made that Farage revoke the order prohibiting the Azovians, as they have come to be known, from using firearms. Wishing he had just stuck impersonating Elton John on GB News, Farage swallows and assents to the request.
It is not long before the Azovians begin to assert themselves in other areas of the state, more out of frustration with the idiocy and incompetence of the British government than out of any malign intent. When the NHS threatens to go on strike, the Azovians threaten to demolish the British Medical Association with a swarm of Shahed drones, averting operational delays. When Grandnanas Stand Up To Fracking attempt to hold a ‘soup and samba’ protest on the Curraghinalt gold deposits they are forced at gunpoint to descend the mineshafts and begin digging themselves. When the Supreme Court rules the purchase of Uranium ore by sovereign individuals ‘unlawful’ the final court of appeal is threatened with a sarin gas blanket. Finding them more responsive, government departments begin to consult the Azovian leadership and sidelining No.10 all-together.
It is, from that point, simply a formality when, after three months, Parliament is dissolved, and the Grand Duchy of Azov is declared in London. Most of the British establishment wisely makes it peace with the rapid changes. Jenrick bows, pledging himself to the new power. Yusuf disappears with a loud bang followed by a puff of smoke. Farage is given a full-time job on daytime television selling jewellery on inflated interest rates to pensioners.
But there is resistance elsewhere. Not from the meek, cowardly, humble anglo-celtic peoples, whom have been nursed by the Welfare state into a haze of feeble dependence; chocolate, telly and crisps. No, the Azovian’s wider war aims are frustrated by the sudden emergence of other rival mercenary groups.
Landing in Northumberland a fleet of Russian submarines carrying the reconstituted Wagner Group, who establish a Republic extending south to Liverpool. To the West, Erik Prince arrives from Ireland with his Constellis group to conquer Wales, which is renamed The Marches. On the coasts of Devon and Cornwall come large groups of White South African refugees, who establish a Voortrekker Republic. In Northern Ireland the men of Ulster, the only natives with any agency, abandon their homes and become a nomadic fighting people, extinguishing life wherever they roam.
In truth the territorial boundaries in each part of the country is constantly in flux, with bannerless local warlords often establishing de facto authority over towns and villages. The rule of law rarely extends outside of the freshly fortified village walls, and so whilst the English countryside remains ugly and overdeveloped, it at least becomes interesting.
Thus, as it was during the time of Danelaw, Britain is sharply divided amongst rival warring peoples, of different homes, but of the same capacity for violence and brutality.
Britain, 2030
There is brutality, of course. Mass death. But this is also a time of progress, akin to that of Italy before unification. A few Anglooos are able to find Slavic patronage, funded by endless looting, with Boris Johnson finding employment as a classical poet in the Royal court of Azov. ‘Conservation’ heritage car parks are reduced to rubble by guided missile exchanges, allowing new buildings to rise in their wake, free from the traditions of dead generations. Entirely new architectural styles are thus synthesised. Rebar iron forests with exposed structural skeletons are twisted into the shape of collapsing Gothic cathedrals. Impossibly complex lattices of carbon fibre give structural integrity to hanging gardens which adorn vast crystal energy towers shaped like chrysalis pupas which soar from the White Cliffs of Dover. The London Eye is rolled into the Thames, its pods stuffed with the worst members of the old regime.
Without ethical concerns, the frontier of science opens once more, as scientists from across the globe flock to freshly lawless British Isles to conduct experiments. Using Crispr Cas-9 technology the first In Utero splicing of a Human and a Wasp is achieved in a Voortrekker research lab, creating a new race of fleshy flying yellow bugs, the size of small cats, equipped with human fingers and teeth. Such is the frenzy for genetic modification that pedigree dogs are banned outright and disposed of and replaced with Bully Extra Extra larges. The so-called ‘love affair’ between the Angloooo and his Dog is ended forever, one mauling at a time.
Many policy goals that the British right have fruitlessly pursued for years are abruptly achieved. Rapacious, unending demand for fuel forces the Wagnerites to issue new oil and gas licenses in the North Sea, against the wishes of local residents. The utter inadequacy of Blairite devolved administrations like the Senedd become clear as Erik Prince and his lieutenants turn Wales into an industrial and economic powerhouse after decades of failed attempts to shift the economic geography of Britain. The Welsh language is thus abruptly forgotten, eradicated within weeks. The lesson comes too late for Scotland, which unfortunately becomes an irradiated wasteland, its few remaining buildings being used only occasionally by foreign governments as extra-judicial torture black sites. The ‘rabbit-warren’ of Downing Street is abandoned after a nuclear suitcase is detonated in Central London, and the Duchy of Azov is forced to relocate its government to a Hollycroft Avenue in Hampstead. Both ULEZ and the London Congestion Zone are swiftly abolished, and a binding ban on LTNs is also implemented. Suffice to say the Monarchy does not come out well from this turn of affairs.
Because of modern military technology and population densities the rate of death caused by permanent war is extreme. Soon the deportations stop – as the constant bloodshed empties factories, homes and barracks of fighting age men. Instead the borders are thrown open with cash incentives for new immigrants, with most of the world’s climate refugees and those fleeing famine, or simply boredom finding their way to Britain to work in the fracking fields and to hold weapons. Many are vaporised by Iranian attack drones within moments, but still they come, increasingly against their will, turning the British Isles into a meat grinder. The so-called ‘Boriswave’ pales to the constant tsunami of humanity which each rival faction floods their respective ports and airports with to sustain their orgiastic murder states. In the year of 2031 the Office for National Statistics in Newport estimates that legal immigration has exceeded fourteen million in a single year.
Within three years almost all of the native ‘anglo-celt’ population of Britain has been sadly extinguished, with what remains of their precious Dogs flushed away with them. The only pause in the fighting comes briefly when all sides agree to a two month ceasefire, such that they can launch a joint punitive expedition to the Isle of Wight to exterminate the few remaining red squirrels.
The racial makeup of the British isles thus becomes a chaotic riot of colour, all shades of black and brown ruled over by a small layer of Slavic princes. The English language is soon forgotten, replaced instead by a Dutch-Ukrainian Creole with a few loanwords from Urdu and Arabic. The concept of ‘Britain’ itself is soon made redundant, with the ‘coffered ceiling of the chantry chapel’ demolished, the history forgotten and its people extinct.
In its wake, sprawling modernity. Each urban conurbation resembles Kowloon, with great structures of iron and asphalt emerging from the places where festering old buildings were once fussed over in the great open air museum which we once called England.
Wouldn’t it all be so terrible…?