9 hours ago
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What can Clacton possibly have done to deserve this? Is this some cosmic karma for a past existence in which the town executed hundreds of innocent women and children? Surely, even then, enough is enough. For the past few years Clacton seems to have been the centre of some abusive psychological experiment. The sort the Americans used to run in the 1950s and 60s, that have long since been banned. One run by Nigel Farage and designed merely to fuel his narcissistic dreams, with the voters mere cannon fodder.
Clacton’s relationship with Nige is and always has been entirely one-sided. The town’s job is merely to vote for him, whenever he commands. Even for byelections that are entirely unnecessary and will possibly have to be re-run before the end of the year. On a turnout of just 44%, little more than 60% of the voters duly obliged on Thursday, even though none of the main parties were standing and Nige’s main opponent was a man with a bin on his head. Maybe parts of Clacton are waking up, and are fed up with Farage taking the piss out of them.
Here’s how it works. For a few weeks during an election campaign, Nige breaks the habit of a lifetime and makes two or three visits to the Essex coast. He gets someone to buy him a beer or an ice-cream – most local businesses don’t take crypto – and poses with a pet supporter his team have rounded up for the day. He then gets the hell out of Clacton as fast as he can. And that’s all it takes for Nige to win. He isn’t a man who puts in the unnecessary hard yards.
And what does Clacton get in return? Next to nothing. An MP who scarcely bothers to turn up to Westminster. And who, when he does, invariably fails to give his constituency a second thought. The Jaywick ward of Clacton was the most deprived area in the country when Farage was first elected in 2024 and nothing has changed since. Nor does Nige appear that bothered. All he needs to do is to dispense a bit of unmediated grievance and the votes come tumbling in. Why bother to make people’s lives better when it’s that easy? It’s the ultimate dysfunctional relationship.
It was past dawn when the returning officer was ready to announce the result. Ploughing through a ballot paper that’s almost a metre long to accommodate the more than 30 candidates takes time. And where was Nigel at his moment of triumph? Absolutely nowhere to be seen. Surely now was the time for him to put on his public face. The Mr Congeniality. The common man. The politician who can connect with the little people. Except he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. There are limits even to Nige’s artifice. He just couldn’t conceal the fact he was having a giant strop.
Nige couldn’t escape the reality that he had been out-thought and out-played at every stage since his disastrous decision to call a byelection. He had hoped to kill off the investigation into the £5m gift he received from the Thai crypto billionaire Christopher Harborne that, even with the benefit of an extra six week’s thinking time, he has been unable to explain convincingly.
If anything, Reform’s finances have been looking even murkier over the past six weeks, with money apparently flying between George Cottrell (the man-boy who calls Nige Daddy), Fiona (Posh George’s unfortunate mother), Richard Tice and the Reform bank account. In Reform World everyone gets to be a millionaire for 15 minutes. Except the suckers who vote for the party.
Then there was Farage’s absurd attempt to portray the election as the people v the establishment. Only it became ever clearer that Nige was – always has been, always will be – the establishment. No more so than in a two-way fight between himself and a comedian with a dustbin on his head, claiming to be a space warrior from Planet Sigma Nine.
This was a psychological wound too far for a Nige close to breakdown. He just couldn’t bear to be seen standing next to a bunch of jokers, losers and Laurence Fox. So he pulled a sicky.
Dicky Tice tried to give it a positive spin. The police had insisted there was a “credible threat” and had advised Nige to stay away from the count. However, it is understood Essex police did not advise anyone to stay away, and had believed they had everything in hand. The only disturbance they had been expecting was a few heckles and a Led By Donkeys-style stunt. But that was too much for Nige. His facade too fragile, his self-esteem in tatters. Just a giant ball of childlike need. He couldn’t even bring himself to give the “major speech” he had promised for Clacton at 10.30am. He needed a quiet room in which to lie down. Sulks don’t come much bigger than this.
You might have thought Nige’s team could have persuaded him to make an ersatz display of charm, dignity and gratitude. You know the sort. “I’d like to thank the voters of Clacton for placing their trust in me. I won’t let them down.” Through gritted teeth and crossed fingers. Because he had every intention of letting them down. But Nige couldn’t do that.
All he could do was post on X: “The result in Clacton speaks for itself.” This was a little too close to the mark. Because 9,500 voters had chosen Count Binface rather than a career politician. The Reform bubble was bursting in front of Nige’s eyes. This was not the landslide he had been hoping for. Just a stunt that had backfired. Indeed, the speech of the night was made by the Count, observing that he was the clear winner of all those who had bothered to turn up.
Meanwhile, Reform retreated into their own world. Turning Clacton into a little bit of Glastonbury with their very own Farage Fest. If you can count a few members of the Reform elite dancing awkwardly and trying to look as if they were having a good night. Though perhaps, like some Glastonburys, this was a night where the aim was to forget rather than to enjoy yourself. It felt like the end of days.
Come Friday morning, reality was beginning to hit. This wasn’t the end of a victorious election campaign, but the beginning of a new one. With Lee Anderson insisting Reform would thoroughly cooperate with the reopened investigation. There’s a first time for everything.
