BREAKING: Turns out, Nigel Farage is Justin Bieber’s Dad
Well. This is news, isn’t it? Gumf.com was conducting an interview with former UKIP grifter Nigel Farage, about his second retirement from politics and his move into wishing monied oddballs a happy birthday on celebrity video message site Cameo, when a knock at the door interrupted the Zoom call. Not waiting for invitation to enter Farage’s study, the visitor barged in, and it’s only Justin bloody Bieber! Yes! The actual Canadian heartthrob! This tween barges in, with a baseball mitt, asking arch-Brexiter Farage: “apa, can we play some ball in the yard?”
I’m sitting on the other end of this Zoom call absolutely flummoxed by this revelation. Did Justin Bieber just call Nigel Farage ‘papa’? Are you seriously trying to tell me that Nigel Farage conceived this youth, and is about to toss a baseball to him outside? Can you really see Farage in his mustard-coloured corduroy slacks shouting a jovial “go long, son!” to this popstar, before slinging a fastball into his glove? Like a royalist Charlie Brown pitching to a cherub-faced Shroeder? Having said that, Shroeder was a pretty cherub-faced guy anyway, but he certainly wasn’t playing Beauty and a Beat on that little piano of his. Turning over these thoughts in my mind, I watch the scene unfold via subscription-based video conferencing software.
“Can you give daddy a sec, my lad? Farage says, half turning backwards to the open door. “I’m doing an interview [with renowned Internet comedy magazine, Gumf, which is available for free on www.gumfmag.com] with this thing, Cunt Magazine, which seems to be some sort of twonk publication written by unfunny bastards who think making it aggressively yellow passes as a unique selling point, when really it should be content-driven, and needs to have a bit more of a cohesive creative vision.” I allow myself a wry smile at this glowing praise from the chain smoking politico.
“But pops, you promised we could have a ballgame today, right after we oiled my new glove! I have a Little League game tomorrow and I want my skills to be as sharp as a tack!”
“I’m doing an interview [with renowned Internet comedy magazine, Gumf, which is available for free on www.gumfmag.com] with this thing, ‘Cunt Magazine’ ”
“I know, my sweet. I’ll be with you after I’ve [finished talking to this fine young hunk who writes some, frankly, pretty funny articles for the magazine] gotten rid of this fucking bastard.” Bieber, clearly some kind of Farage Jr. type of guy, retreats from his old man’s home office. Looks a little dismayed, but ultimately he’s satiated at the prospect of throwing a baseball in the back yard with Nigel Farage, his dad. “So where were we? Oh yes, so I’ve signed up with Cameo and it’s been pretty bleedin’ sweet so far. You get people paying for these shoutout videos, and-”
“Cut the fucking crap, Nigel.” I interject, politely. “Somewhat obviously I couldn’t give half a motherfucker about this shoutout website, I wanna know why pop sensation Justin Bieber has just walked in and called you ‘daddy’...” The guy freezes. He’s frazzled, like the bacon-flavoured potato snack, Frazzles.
“[Bieber] looks a little dismayed...but ultimately he’s satiated by the prospect of throwing a baseball in the back yard with Nigel Farage, his dad.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“Oh yes you fucking do. The bloke who featured on Spanish language hit Despacito has just come in, on-camera, and asked to play baseball with you, his dad. Or at least I assume that’s why he’s calling you ‘papa’, unless this really is some sort of sordid little arrangement.” Farage is ashen-faced. He looks guilty. A flash of belligerence appears on his Nigel visage, but it is soon replaced by a coy, sheepish look. He’s caught red-white-and-blue-handed, but he persists with the denial.
“Is it too late now to say sorry?” he proffers.
“Where have you heard that?”
“Just made it up, mate.”
“Have you bollocks! That’s one of your youth’s songs. We’ve all heard him singing that, and here’s you pretending you made it up! Sad, if anything.”
“Why are you singing my song, father?” comes a distant voice, miraculously picked up by his microphone.
“Ah-ha!” I exclaim triumphantly.
“That could have been anyone’s voice!” Farage attempts, embarrassing himself.
“Oh ah?” I jab, accusatively. “Just how many 27-year-old Canadian lads are in this house of yours?”
“None of your fucking beeswax, baldy!” he retorts, clearly confusing me with someone else. “Why don’t you keep your bastard hooter out of my family life?”
“Ah! Family life eh?”
“Yes.”
“The life of families?”
“And what of it?”
“Families. That’s that thing where you have fathers and sons, no?”
“I guess.”
“Oh, you guess? Personally, I think you’re up shit’s creek, here. Devoid of paddle, as well! Just admit that Justin Patrick Bieber [couldn’t find his Wikipedia page to check his middle name, so just guessed. Maybe he doesn’t have a Wikipedia page yet?] is your son! Your own flesh and blood! Why are you so embarrassed? He’s a pretty noteworthy guy!”
Before the rosy-cheeked patriot can reply, the door to his study swings open again with such velocity that the Barbor jacket hanging on the coat hook is flung across the room.
“Son, I said give me a moment, please!” shouts the frantic Farage. I watch, keen for a second glimpse of Biebs.
“But daddy, we’re having a family ballgame, and we need our ace pitcher!” I’m in awe of what I see next. In walks none other than Ed Sheeran, of Shape of You fame. He’s toting a Louisville Slugger in his right hand, and he’s absent-mindedly throwing and catching a battered old baseball in his left.
“Can it wait?” the pop progenitor asks, with his back to me now.
“No-can-do, daddio!” rejoins the red-headed songsmith. “All of your sons are waiting for you. There’s me, Justin Bieber, Post Malone, Lil Nas X, 24kGoldn, who recently did Billboard Top 100 number 1 hit, Mood, featuring Iann Dior. We’re all waiting for you, our father, eurosceptic UKIP candidate for South Thanet in 2015, Nigel Farage.”
What the fuck, man? I mean, what do you even say about that? Actually mad when you think about it.
