Seeing the bumptious Nigel Farage making a fool of himself over in Donald Trumpland reminds me that he makes a thinly disguised appearance in Lady Thatcher’s Wink as the Excalibur Party leader Monty Muckle. Here he is in typical Mr Toad vainglorious mode:
Monty Muckle breezed into his local betting shop after a happy day of pint quaffing and crowd pleasing.
‘Evening, squire!’ he greeted the grizzled teller at the only window still left open. ‘What are your odds on Excalibur for a straight win?’
The reply took a time to come, and seemed to be addressed with patient deliberation to someone of limited intelligence.
‘Would that be at Wetherby?’
‘I mean the general election on Thursday.’
‘You have heard of it, I suppose? People go into booths and put a cross by a name.’
‘Very droll.’ He pointed languidly, affecting to be the most bored individual on the planet. ‘There’s a list on the wall if you can be bothered to look.’
Muckle inspected it.
‘Ten to one. That’s not very generous, is it? Has it moved today?’
‘Hard to say,’ the teller said. ‘Wouldn’t know.’
‘It was twelve to one this morning ,’ a helpful voice called out from somewhere behind the counter.’
‘That’s what I’d have expected,’ Muckle said smugly. ‘And what are the odds on Monty Muckle for prime minister?’
‘Monty Muckle. He’s the leader of Excalibur.’
His combatant ran a slow finger down a sheet of paper, apparently with no success.
‘A Ronny Suckle,’ he called behind him. ‘We got odds on him? Heavily against him, I should reckon. Strange name.’
‘Monty Muckle,’ repeated Muckle with heavy emphasis.
But the distant voice came to the rescue again: ‘Twenty to one. Came back five today.’
‘That’s what I’d have expected,’ Muckle said. ‘Thanks.’
‘You going to place a bet then?’
‘Did it a month ago, pal,’ he said jauntily, turning on his heel. ‘I could spot the trend. That’s how you beat the bookies.’
As he returned to the street the voice at the back of the shop said ‘That was Monty Muckle himself.’
‘Course it was.’
‘You knew that all along?’
‘Course I did. How could you mistake him? Fake tan, quiffed hair, cheesy grin. I may end up voting for him, but he’s the sort of cocky bastard you just want to punch in the mouth.’