The CHAOS Committee: A Shadowy Summit

An insider, who must remain unnamed for obvious reasons, sent us this report of secret goings on at the Home Office:

In the dimly lit bowels of the Home Office, far from the prying eyes of Parliament or the public, nestles a chamber that reeks of stale tea and suppressed ambition. This is the lair of CHAOS (the Committee for Harmony And Order in Society) a clandestine cabal tasked with safeguarding the woke globalist establishment from the barbaric hordes of populism. Or, as their charter discreetly phrases it, “defending progressive values against retrograde threats.” Today’s agenda: the annihilation of Reform UK and its infernal leader, Nigel Farage, that pint-swilling embodiment of all things unrefined and unglobalist.

Sir Reginald Wright-Pratt, the Chairman, clears his throat with the enthusiasm of a man who’d rather be at his club sipping sherry. A decent chap, likeable in that ineffectual way, with a perpetually apologetic moustache, he’s the sort who agrees with the weather if it speaks last. “Right, then, ladies and gentlemen, or should I say, esteemed non-binary comrades? Let’s call this meeting to order. CHAOS is in session. Our mission: to dismantle that ghastly Reform UK lot and their ringleader, Farage. Ideas, please. Civilised ones, if possible.”

Octavia Smarte, perched at the table like a porcelain doll who’d just inhaled a whiff of privilege, adjusted her pearl necklace with a sniff. Posh to her core, with a voice that could cut glass and a wokeness so fervent it bordered on religious ecstasy, she viewed Farage as the Antichrist in a Barbour jacket. “Oh, Reginald, darling, where to begin? Farage is the very devil incarnate, a Brexit-breathing, sovereignty-spouting menace who threatens our beautiful tapestry of diversity and inclusion. We must expose him for the patriarchal fossil he is. Perhaps a social media campaign labelling him a transphobe? Or better yet, dredge up some ancient tweet and cancel him retroactively. The Guardian would lap it up like mother’s milk.”

Bob Bull, the burly northerner slouched in his chair like a sack of potatoes with a grudge, grunted. Ex-special forces, with a face like a crumpled beer mat and a cynicism sharper than his old bayonet, he couldn’t give a toss about ideology. “Bloody ‘ell, Octavia, pet, you’re talkin’ like we’re playin’ pat-a-cake. Easiest thing? Slot the bugger. One bullet, job done. I’ve got mates in the regiment who’d do it for a pint and a packet of crisps. None of this poncy tweetin’ bollocks.”

Endabelly Chukyu, a mountainous presence who dominated the room like a human eclipse, slammed her fist on the table, sending teacups rattling. Nigerian-born, corrupt as a Lagos public sector contract and ever-ready to deploy the racism card like a get-out-of-jail-free monopoly piece, she sees bigotry in everything from the weather to wallpaper patterns. “Racist! That’s what you are, Bob Bull, you colonial relic! Suggesting violence against a man who’s clearly oppressing minorities by existing. Farage is the epitome of white supremacy. Look at him, all smug and English. We need to infiltrate his party with accusations of Islamophobia, xenophobia, and whatever-phobia I can think of next. And if anyone questions me, I’ll call them racist too. It works every time!”

Jonathan Grimshaw-Bloodless, seated ramrod straight with eyes like frozen cod, didn’t so much as blink. Clever, humourless, cold as a tax audit, and ruthless enough to make Machiavelli blush, he tapped his fingers in that efficient way villains do in films. “Endabelly, your enthusiasm is noted, but histrionics won’t suffice. We require precision. Farage’s appeal lies in his anti-establishment veneer. We erode that systematically: disinformation, division, dilution. No mess, no traces. Efficiency is the soul of subversion.”

Simon DeVile, the supercilious aristocrat with a sneer that could curdle cream, lounged elegantly, twirling a gold signet ring. Openly malevolent, with a wit as sharp as his cheekbones, he relished chaos like fine claret. “Oh, Jonathan, how delightfully droll. Efficiency? How pedestrian. Why not savour the destruction? Farage is a plebeian upstart, daring to challenge his betters. I propose we fund a series of salacious scandals, perhaps involving Frogs, given his French-baiting tendencies. Or hire actors to pose as his illegitimate children, all demanding paternity tests on daytime telly. The tabloids would devour it, and we’d watch his empire crumble like a soggy biscuit.”

Felicity Fellgrave, another posh specimen but with the intellectual depth of a paddling pool, blinked vacantly. Promoted purely for DEI quotas she ticked the ‘female’ box (and has influential family). She often contributes gems that made one question evolution. “Um, yes, scandals sound super. But what if we, like, make him wear unfashionable clothes? Or accuse him of not recycling properly? That’s so not sustainable. And sustainability is, like, everything these days. Right, Octavia?”

Octavia patted Felicity’s hand indulgently, as one might a dim puppy. “Quite, darling. Though perhaps we aim higher than his wardrobe. Aditi, you’ve been quiet. What’s brewing in that Machiavellian mind of yours?”

Aditi Adder, the Indian-born schemer with eyes like coiled serpents, smiled thinly. Ruthless, ambitious, and manipulative enough to make a spider envious, she plotted careers like chess games. “Oh, nothing too elaborate, Octavia. Merely the art of infiltration. We insert our operatives into Reform’s ranks—join as enthusiasts, then dramatically defect, decrying Farage as a sell-out, an egoist bloated on his own bluster, utterly untrustworthy. Imagine the headlines: ‘Insiders Flee Farage’s Folly!’ It’ll sow doubt like weeds in a garden.”

Abdul Al-Malice, the Islamist fanatic shrouded in a perpetual scowl, nodded sagely. Adept at taqiyya—deception for the cause—he hated everything Western with a passion matched only by his ability to feign moderation. “A wise strategy, Aditi. But let us infuse it with… cultural nuance. Farage peddles hatred against the faithful. We could amplify that, perhaps stage protests where our people are ‘victimised’ by his rhetoric. Or better, infiltrate with moderate voices to twist the narrative. Allah willing, we’ll bury him under his own hypocrisy.”

Sir Reginald nodded vigorously, having last heard Abdul. “Capital idea, Abdul. Infiltration with a twist. Sounds sporting. But Bob, no killing. Too messy, old chap. We’re civilised folk here.”

Bob snorted, lighting a fag despite the no-smoking signs. “Civilised? Aye, that’s why we’re plottin’ like Bond villains in a basement. Fine, no bullets. But if we’re goin’ sneaky, let’s make it proper. Set up fake right-wing splinter groups. Lure away his nutters with somethin’ even nuttier. Call ’em… I dunno, ‘True Britons Against Everything’ or summat.”

Endabelly leaned forward, her chair creaking ominously. “Fake groups? That’s cultural appropriation! You’re stealing from marginalised communities who invent movements all the time. But… if it destroys Farage, I’ll allow it. As long as we accuse the fakes of racism too, for balance.”

Jonathan interjected smoothly, his voice a monotone blade. “Feasible. We designate operatives: Beni Habibi, our master of deception; charming, persuasive, with a knack for fooling the anti-woke brigade. He’ll join Reform, rise quickly, then bolt, proclaiming Farage a traitor to true patriotism. And Rupert High, that silver-tongued toff, perfect for seducing the disillusioned right-wingers who’ve seen through our establishment veil. He’ll set up diversionary movements: ‘Patriots United’ or ‘Real Reformers,’ siphoning votes like a leaky tap.”

Simon chuckled malevolently, a sound like gravel in a blender. “Delicious. Rupert High—born with a silver spoon and a grudge. He’ll promise the moon: stricter borders, less EU nonsense, but laced with our poison. They’ll flock to him, thinking he’s the real deal, only to find it’s a mirage. Farage will be left preaching to empty pubs.”

Felicity clapped her hands, missing the sarcasm entirely. “Ooh, mirages! Like in the desert? That’s so diverse. But what about Muslims? Abdul, you’re Muslim, right? We should include them to show we’re inclusive.”

Abdul’s eyes gleamed with feigned piety. “Indeed, Felicity. A stroke of genius. We introduce rich, moderate Muslims, genuine anti-woke British patriots, mind you, who will almost certainly sign up with kuffar Farage. Then all the Islamophobes will denounce Reform as cosying up to Islamists fanatics, creating paranoia. ‘Farage’s secret pact with the caliphate!’ The irony will be exquisite, using tolerance to breed intolerance.”

Octavia gasped in delight. “Brilliant, Abdul! Taqiyya at its finest. It’ll fracture their base: the Islamophobes versus the pragmatists. Farage will be painted as both too soft and too hard. A veritable Schrodinger’s bigot.”

Aditi nodded approvingly, her mind already mapping alliances. “And to deepen the wound, we persuade former Tories to jump ship. Operatives will whisper in their ears; some genuine patriots, those rare souls whose scales have fallen, realising they’ve been duped by our esteemed establishment. They’ll join Reform with fervent loyalty, only for us to twist it later. Others, self-serving snakes, will flock for power or perks, but remain ostensibly faithful. Imagine ex-cabinet ministers defecting: ‘I repent! I’ve seen the light!’ The media frenzy will be our ally—until we pull the rug, exposing ‘infiltrators’ and claiming Reform’s rotten to the core.”

Bob laughed, a bark that echoed off the walls. “Bloody genius, that. Get the old guard in, make Reform look like Tory 2.0, then leak that they’re plants. Farage’ll be screamin’ conspiracy, and no one’ll believe ‘im ’cause it’ll be true. Poetic, innit?”

Endabelly folded her arms, satisfied. “As long as we frame it through a lens of equity. Accuse Reform of not being diverse enough when these Muslims and Indians join—then flip it to say they’re pandering. Racism either way. I love it.”

Sir Reginald, beaming as he echoed the consensus, rapped his gavel lightly. “Splendid, all! So, to summarise: Operatives like Beni Habibi and Rupert High join, defect, and splinter with fake movements to fool the anti-establishment lot. Introduce moderate Muslim patriots to stir Islamist sell-out fears. And lure in ex-Tories—genuine converts and opportunists alike—to bloat and betray from within. Reform and Farage will crumble under the weight of their own contradictions. CHAOS prevails!”

Simon raised a glass of suspiciously red liquid. “To the establishment; may it endure, while the plebs squabble.”

The room erupted in a chorus of agreements, chuckles, and one confused “Hear, hear!” from Felicity. In the shadows of the Home Office, the globalist web tightened, all in the name of harmony and order.

But as they filed out, Bob muttered to Jonathan, “Still think a bullet’d be quicker.”

Jonathan’s reply was ice: “Quicker, yes. But where’s the fun in that?”

Cue to the possible end:

The plan, once hatched, unfolded with the precision of a Swiss watch. Beni Habibi, a chameleon of Pakistani descent with a grin that could sell sand to Bedouins, embedded himself in Reform’s grassroots. He rallied crowds with fiery speeches against “woke tyranny,” only to stage a dramatic exit months later. “Farage? A sell-out charlatan!” he thundered on GB News, his eyes wide with feigned betrayal. “He’s all ego, no substance. Can’t be trusted further than you can throw a ballot box!” The faithful wavered, whispers spreading like flu in a Tube carriage.

Rupert High, meanwhile, was the epitome of patrician duplicity. Tall, with a voice like honeyed venom, he launched “True Patriot Alliance,” a diversionary farce promising “unadulterated Britishness without the Farage fluff.” Anti-woke right-wingers, those who’d glimpsed the establishment’s puppeteering strings, flocked to him. “We’ve seen through the globalist charade,” Rupert proclaimed at rallies, “and Reform’s just another cog!” Little did they know, he was the biggest cog of all, diverting votes into oblivion.

Then came the Muslim moderates. Wealthy, eloquent chaps like Ahmed Fairplay and Fatima Unionjack, genuine anti-woke patriots who’d wave Union flags at cricket matches. Induced to join Reform via CHAOS operatives, they genuinely praised British values and said all the right things, but CHAOS was working on social media to spread the work among the patriot populists that they were just taqiyyistas, who’s real aim was Islamo-supremacy and Sharia law. “Farage’s selling out to Islamists!” was the cry, citing fabricated alliances. “Look at his soft stance! It’s a Trojan horse!” Paranoia bloomed; Reform’s base splintered, with one faction crying “Too inclusive!” and the other “Not inclusive enough!”

The Tory defections were the pièce de résistance. Operatives whispered to disgruntled ex-ministers: “The scales have fallen, old boy, join the real fight.” Some, like Lord Turncoat, were genuine converts, their eyes opened to the establishment’s tricks. “I’ve been wrong all along,” he confessed in a tearful interview, pledging loyalty to Reform. Others, like Baroness Selfserve, joined for the limelight, but stayed loyal enough to avoid suspicion—until the leaks began. “Infiltrators!” screamed the headlines, planted by CHAOS. Reform swelled, then burst like an overripe tomato.

Octavia monitored from her Mayfair townhouse, sipping organic chai. “Darling, it’s working. Farage’s poll numbers are plummeting faster than a lead balloon.”

Bob, in his local, the Dun Cow, Sunderland, raised a pint. “Told yer. No bullets needed. Just good old backstabbin’.”

Endabelly, cashing a dubious cheque, nodded. “And the racism accusations? Gold dust. Every defection’s a ‘hate crime’ waiting to happen.”

Jonathan’s reports were clinical: “Division achieved. Dilution in progress. Destruction imminent.”

Simon savoured the tabloid chaos. “Exquisite. Like watching ants devour their own hill.”

Felicity, bless her, tweeted supportively: “Go team! #HarmonyAndOrder”

Aditi climbed the ladder, her ambitions fed by the fallout.

Abdul prayed for more discord, his taqiyya mask intact.

And Sir Reginald? He agreed with them all, content in his weakness.

But is this the real ending?  Or is it a bluff within a bluff?

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