You wholeheartedly agree with your Dad, and offer a full and frank apology for your misguided years as a lily-livered Guardian-reading liberal wet lettuce. You love Nigel Farage, and you do NOT appreciate the foreigns. Coming over here, being here for ages, or possibly leaving after a bit, behaving in endlessly different ways depending on a range of self-determined or external environmental and political socio-economic variables, much the same as the people who were born here. Bastards!
It’s a beautiful moment, a re-connection between father and son, a sudden healing of old wounds that is sure to last for the rest of your natural lives. Your dad pours you a brandy. You light a cigar.
As you revel in your new-found respect for each other, a spark falls from the end of your foul-smelling slim panatella, igniting the brandy, which spills onto the polyester tablecloth and BURNS DOWN YOUR SORDID DEN OF RACISM.
CHRISTMAS IS RUINED.