Farage proves to be a knockout with his fans in Clacton
Nigel Farage darted around in a boxing ring with heavyweight champ Derek Chisora. On the outside of the building the words ONWAY UNTS hung perilously against the grey Clacton skies. No, you’re not having a stroke: welcome to the mad final day of the election campaign.
Conway Units was the location; a storage facility on the outskirts of Clacton with a boxing gym in it. Unfortunately the Clacton breeze had removed some of the letters and so it read ONWAY UNTS, like the sign at Fawlty Towers. On the way, we passed scores of Reform UK posters and enough St George’s flags to give Emily Thornberry an aneurysm.
Inside, every inch of wall was emblazoned with motivational posters. This was the gym “where winners train and losers complain”, which was on brand for Farage; pure Trumpain syntax. (Presumably though, for balance, those with boxing-related head injuries communicate only à la Biden.)
As Mr Farage arrived he was met by the eerie sight of a cavalcade of children sparring into midair. The photographers who flocked to him studiously ignored the ghost-fighting under-16s. Sounds of clacking cameras mingled with the grunts of the young boxers and the instructor barking out orders. A confused German TV anchor looked over and wondered what on earth was happening.
Farage, in his Mr Toad blazer, tried on some boxing gloves while sandwiched between a man who was about seven foot tall and wearing a cavernous white hoody and Derek himself who, in an elaborate metaphor for Reform’s campaign, was wearing what looked like a Union Jack hachimaki, the kamikaze headband, along with a boxing robe that said: “Reform UK: Nigel’s security.” Bansai!
Things grew even more surreal at Farage’s final event of the day – a rally at Clacton pier. It wasn’t quite as well-attended as the previous one last month but there must have been hundreds, if not more than a thousand people milling around. Better numbers, certainly, than you can imagine other politicians mustering at present.
Mr Farage rolled up in a giant armoured car to Without Me by Eminem. “Nigel! Nigel! Nigel!” yelled the crowd as his head suddenly popped out of the rooftop like a perma-tanned jack-in-a-box. People accuse us of importing US politics; today Nige was doing it without any shame.
It wasn’t clear whether the armoured car had Russian number plates but it would be unlikely to assuage any moderate fears about his agenda. But moderate fears did not appear to be top of Uncle Nige’s agenda; we heard about immigration (obviously but, alas given the record of the other parties, unusually), about the calamity of public services and how our schools train young people to hate the country they are from.
The crowd drank it in, metaphorically and literally. Earlier on, the local Spoons had been packed to the gulls with people in Reform rosettes getting a few drinks in before the rally. Some had clearly had more than a few. I was standing near a particularly well-lubricated super-fan who bellowed or heckled his agreement to pretty much everything Farage said. “We neeeeed you!” he’d yell.
Mr Farage’s performance was pure panto, featuring audience participation and numerous comedy heroes and villains. The first great “Booo!” of the evening came for the state broadcaster, which Mr Farage described as “the real enemy”. (“F--- the BBC!” yelled the inebriated super-fan). There was heckling and hissing for Rishi Sunak, for the D-Day debacle, for Keir Starmer. “Talk about boring, God help us,” sighed Farage, for whom end-of-the-pier entertainment comes naturally.
By and large, attendees were drawn from the ranks of the older and the very young which, ironically, makes Reform the only party whose rallies mirror their voting demographics. A jarring mixture of tracksuited 17-year-olds bearing Reform placards and tweedy gents from the Shires. Inevitably a few skinhead types were there, but by and large what was notable about the crowd was that they seemed normal people, not the gang of hand-picked wonks and activists who tend to accompany Rishi and Keir.
Doubtless some will describe them in scaremongering terms as heralds of the Right and monstrous exceptions to general civility. In truth they are neither; not necessarily angry, but people who feel sidelined because, well, they are. As a Labour super-majority dawns with a grim inevitability it is likely that things will only get worse for the good people of Clacton. Whether Uncle Nige MP can assuage this in any way remains to be seen.
