If I were Nigel Farage, I'd be tempted to spend this final week before the Euros on the beach at Dungerness with a decent beach-rod, a carton of Rothies and something to tempt any early Sea Bass. For one thing is certain - the mainstream media, press and entire political class and their dags and lackeys are set to deliver a week of lies, smears and distortions unparalleled in British politics.
The panic amongst the dying parties is palpable - and they will fight like cornered rats for their place in the feed-bin. And since we all know they're crooked, spavined, corrupt rackets with only a scarce acquaintance with anything approaching institutional virtue, none of us should be surprised at the outrageous attacks to come. They really are capable of just about anything short of murder.
But curiously, the harder they try, the more committed I am to making it to the polling booth next Thursday come hell or flood to put my X in the UKIP box; if I have to crawl there on bloodied hands and knees I will do so. And there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that is said, shown, broadcast, revealed exposed or uncovered about UKIP or Mr Farage between now and then will make any difference at all.