Nigel Farage: If I Were PM…

Immigration? Done with. Finished. Kaput. The establishment’s been flogging this “diversity is strength” nonsense while towns like Dover drown under dinghies. I’d build a 100-foot wall across the Channel—yes, a wall, with laser turrets and a moat full of patriotic sharks. Net migration? Slashed to zero. Zilch. Nada. Only British-born brickies, bakers, and brain surgeons get in—everyone else can jog on. Illegals? Rounded up and deported on Brexit-branded buses to wherever they came from, no questions asked. Asylum seekers? Sent to a floating barge off the Falklands, where they can ponder their life choices. And don’t give me that “human rights” guff—I’d burn the European Convention on Human Rights in a Trafalgar Square bonfire, with a brass band playing “Rule Britannia.”

Culture’s next. I’d ban all flags except the Union Jack and St George’s Cross—none of this rainbow or EU nonsense flapping over our town halls. Every council must erect a 50-foot statue of Winston Churchill, preferably smoking a cigar. Schools? They’d teach proper British history: Agincourt, Waterloo, me leading the Brexit charge. No more whining about empire—kids will learn how we invented cricket, tea, and queuing. Integration? If you’re here, you speak English, salute the King, and eat fish and chips on Fridays. No exceptions. Sharia courts? Banned. Multiculturalism? Buried in a skip. Every village gets a mandatory pub, serving only warm ale and pork scratchings, to foster proper British banter.

The economy? Unleashed, mate. I’d slash taxes so hard you’d think I was wielding Excalibur. Personal allowance up to £50,000—stuff your tax, keep your cash. Corporation tax? 5%, making Britain a magnet for every red-blooded capitalist from here to Texas. Net zero? Scrapped. It’s a green con job cooked up by tofu-eating hippies. I’d frack every field, drill the North Sea dry, and build nuclear reactors so fast they’d outpace a Spitfire. Energy bills? Halved, because I’d personally negotiate with my pal Elon Musk to pipe in cheap power from his Mars colony. And China? They can keep their coal plants—I’d out-pollute ‘em with good old British grit.

Welfare’s getting a proper shake-up. Winter fuel payments back for every pensioner, plus a free Union Jack blanket to keep ‘em toasty. The two-child benefit cap? Gone, because we need more British babies to outbreed the bureaucrats. But don’t get comfy—benefits are for workers, not wasters. I’d make the unemployed dig ditches or polish Churchill statues to earn their keep. No work, no dosh. Simple. And every claimant gets a free pint on me if they sign up for the Reform UK fan club.

The NHS? A national treasure, but it’s knackered. I’d hire a British Donald Trump—think Alan Sugar with a better hairdo—to fire half the managers and digitise the lot with an app called NHSexit. Waiting lists? Slashed by making patients compete in a Great British Queue-Off—fastest queuers get seen first. Immigration’s crushing it, so I’d limit NHS access to anyone who can sing “God Save the King” without flinching. Private providers? Sure, but only if they’re British-owned and serve tea in the waiting room. No creeping privatisation—just patriotic efficiency.

The BBC? Defunded faster than you can say “woke propaganda.” The licence fee’s toast—I’d flog the Beeb to GB News and turn Broadcasting House into a mega-pub called The Farage Arms. Want public broadcasting? Fine, but it’s wall-to-wall Dad’s Army reruns and documentaries about Brexit’s glory days. The media elite can cry into their quinoa; I’d rather listen to the punters in the Dog and Duck.

Law and order? Hard as nails. Police get tanks, tasers, and a mandate to nick anyone who looks shifty. No more coppers twerking at Pride—burglars, knife-wielders, and eco-glue-sniffers get locked up in a new mega-prison called Farage’s Fortress, built on a windy bit of the Shetlands. Foreign criminals? Deported via catapult. The Human Rights Act? Shredded. I’d write a new British Bill of Rights on a fag packet, guaranteeing your right to a pint, a fag, and a moan about the weather.

Education’s gone soft, so I’d bring back the three Rs: reading, writing, and respecting Britain. No more gender studies or climate claptrap—kids learn welding, plumbing, and how to fire a longbow. Apprenticeships for all, with every teen trained to rebuild the British Empire (kidding… or am I?). Competitive sports mandatory, with losers sent to detention to memorise Thatcher’s speeches. Every school gets a Union Jack the size of a football pitch, and kids will salute it daily while singing “Land of Hope and Glory.”

Foreign policy? Me and my best mate Don Trump would run the show. NATO? Overrated. I’d form an Anglosphere Alliance—Britain, America, Australia, maybe Canada if they stop apologising. The EU? Told to sod off—trade with us or we’ll blockade their ports with our shiny new navy, funded by selling the Isle of Wight to Trump for his next golf course. Defence spending? Upped to 5% of GDP, with battleships named HMS Brexit and HMS Nigel. The UN? Ignored. The WHO? Defunded. Britain stands alone, waving two fingers at the globalists.

The establishment—your lot, LRB readers—will wail that this is madness. They said Brexit would tank us, yet here we are, thriving (ignore the naysayers). They’ll wheel out economists, luvvies, and NGOs to sob about “division.” Let ‘em. I speak for the blokes in the boozer, the cabbies, the nanas who want their country back. Reform UK’s topping the polls, winning by-elections in places like Skegness, and turning councils into patriotic powerhouses. Labour’s imploded, the Tories are a museum piece. As PM, I’d make Britain a land of cheap pints, secure borders, and unapologetic pride. If you don’t like it, move to France—or better yet, stay and have a pint with me. I’m buying, unless you’re a Remainer. Cheers!

Nigel Farage is the spiritual landlord of post-Brexit Britain, a pub philosopher in pinstripes, and Reform UK’s answer to both Churchill and a Wetherspoons quizmaster. Former commodities trader, serial MEP, and permanent thorn in the side of political orthodoxy, he is best known for leading Britain out of the EU with the steely conviction of a man ordering his fifth pint before noon. A pundit, provocateur, and pipe dreamer of a pint-swilling utopia, Farage has successfully blurred the line between politics, pantomime, and pub singalong. He currently resides somewhere between Clacton and a GB News green room.

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For this segment, The London Review of Books hands the keys to Number 10 to a rotating cast of guest contributors and asks: what would you do if you were Prime Minister—with a crushing Commons majority, no Lords to block you, and the civil service too stunned to resist? The answers range from the utopian to the unhinged, offering insight into the dreams, schemes, and nightmares that might unfold if politics were no obstacle and consequence merely theoretical.