It’s easy to mock Nigel Farage: a cartoonish nationalist who’s made more comebacks than any pop star, who’s failed to win a seat in Westminster on seven different occasions, and whose urgent mission to save Britain from disaster doesn’t stop him selling bottles of “Farage gin” on the side (£40). Farage is aware of this mockery, too – and you sense a desire for revenge is partly what motivates him. As he infamously told the European parliament after the 2016 referendum, “When I came here 17 years ago … you all laughed at me – well, I have to say, you’re not laughing now, are you?”
Even influential Conservatives – who desperately consume whatever Farage is selling, praying his followers will be included in the deal – heap insults on him. Michael Gove recently likened Farage to a clown or showman – a source of “amusement and diversion” – and called Reform UK “a giant ego trip”. David Cameron says that Farage is “trying to destroy the Conservative party” and offers only “inflammatory language and hopeless policy”, having previously called his supporters “fruitcakes and loonies and closet racists”. Farage’s friendly comments about Putin on Friday – that Nato and the EU “provoked” Russia’s invasion of Ukraine – has provided fresh opportunities for them to take the moral high ground. But Conservatives never square this condescension with their capitulation to his demands. Why, despite being in power for 14 years with ever bigger majorities, have they let Farage make such a strong claim to being the most influential politician of the period? Looking back on the soap opera of British politics since 2010, it is Conservative prime ministers who make cameo appearances, and Farage who is the arch protagonist, shaping events, sealing fates, hogging the media’s attention.
