One Sunday evening, while I was trying to avoid ironing my shirts, it occurred to me that it would be a good idea to take Nigel Farage to Bulgaria or Romania. The Ukip leader is convinced that hordes of people from these countries are poised to pour into Britain when the rules are relaxed next year, so why not go there with him to see if he’s right?
A few weeks later, I put my proposal to him. ‘But nobody will come here from Romania,’ said Nigel. ‘They’ve eaten all the transport.’ So we went to Bulgaria.
‘I am getting lots of funny looks,’ observed the scourge of open-door immigration as we walked past scores of wide-eyed Bulgarians settling down on the plane to Sofia. ‘You can count on my vote, sir,’ the steward travelling in the opposite direction quietly assured him. ‘Can I get you anything to drink?’
I’d arranged to be met by a pair of burly Bulgarian bodyguards, and we drove straight from the airport to the Fakulteta camp, a gypsy ghetto in which horses and carts plough furrows along muddy roads.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in