Bennett Following Farage

On the Trail of the People's Army
1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-1-84954-951-6
Verlag: Biteback Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 304 Seiten

Hunting with Godfrey Bloom; lunching on expenses with Janice Atkinson; talking 'shock and awful' campaign tactics with Douglas Carswell - nothing is off the table when you're on the trail of UKlP's People's Army. Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72 meets Louis Theroux, Following Farage recounts one hack's journey as he follows, drinks with, laughs at and even occasionally defends the phenomenon that is the United Kingdom lndependence Party as it prepares to march upon Westminster. With exclusive interviews and unfettered access to all the disgraced generals, trusty foot soldiers, deserters and dissenters who make up its ranks, Bennett delivers the inside scoop on what makes the People's Army tick - all the while making the transition from elbowed-out hanger-on to the journalist Farage calls for an honest, post-election run-down of events. From the initial skirmishes and battle plans (the successful and the scuppered) to the explosive events of the battle for No. 10 itself - and the all-out civil war that broke out in its aftermath - Following Farage leaves no stone unturned, avenue untrod or pint undrunk in its quest for the truth about Britain's newest and most controversial political force.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Bennett, Owen

Leseproben

CHAPTER 1

FROM HODDESDON TO ETERNITY

11 APRIL 2013

‘DEXYS FUCKING MIDNIGHT RUNNERS,’ he spat out with venom. The group’s biggest hit ‘Come On Eileen’ was blaring out of the pub’s speakers.

‘Not a fan?’ I asked. (Us journalists can pick up on subtle hints like these.)

Nigel Farage sniffed before replying: ‘Honestly, I would ban music in pubs.’

He took another gulp of his ale.

I didn’t really know what to say to that. I’ve got nothing against Dexys. Granted, ‘Geno’ is a far superior tune to ‘Come On Eileen’, but I don’t think it was Kevin Rowland’s musical shift from a Northern Soul-influenced New Wave act to chart-topping pop star that had annoyed Farage.

Despite the anti-Dexys – or, rather, music in general – proclamation, Farage looked relaxed. Of course he was. He was in his comfort zone – drinking warm ale in a pub after spending an hour working up a thirst by canvassing. He was relaxed now, but the day hadn’t started off smoothly.

The UKIP bus had broken down, making him late. An hour and a half before our lunchtime pint, I had been with a small crowd of UKIP supporters gathered by the clock tower in the town centre waiting for Farage’s arrival. There were no more than thirty of them, but they stood out. To be honest, any group of people gathered together in Hoddesdon town centre on a damp, grey morning in April is going to stand out. The Hertfordshire town is not known for its hustle and bustle. The purple balloons attached to a table, complete with a giant UKIP banner tied between two bollards, added to the spectacle.

But still, it was only thirty people. I certainly didn’t look at them and think they were a ‘People’s Army’. But this was April 2013, before all the ‘People’s Army’ rhetoric. Before the UKIP fox was in the Westminster hen house. Before defections.

Farage was well known, but still seen by many – especially in the media – as an eccentric. Some felt he was dangerous; some felt he was comical; most felt he was irrelevant.

UKIP had a handful of MEPs, but they kept defecting, getting sacked or saying ridiculous things such as all Muslims should sign a declaration promising they weren’t going to become terrorists.

The party seemed destined to be on the political fringes. Even after successes in the European elections in 2009 and 2004, UKIP had failed to win any seats in the Commons in the following years’ general elections. It only had seven local councillors across England, and support for the party was erratic – its polling fluctuated between 10 and 17 per cent in the first eleven days of that April alone.

Farage was coming to Hoddesdon as part of that year’s local election campaign, and it was to be my first of many encounters with him.

Margaret Thatcher had died earlier that week, and suddenly everyone was a Eurosceptic Tory again. Good old Maggie, she wouldn’t have taken any of this nonsense from the EU. She would have controlled immigration. She would have defended our high-powered vacuums. She wouldn’t have voted to keep us in a single-market union in 1975. Well, maybe not the last one.

I was working for the Hertfordshire Mercury and, although Hoddesdon wasn’t my patch – I had recently been given the much quieter beat of Buntingford – I had been sent down to report on Farage’s visit.

I had already begun shifting on the Daily Express website at weekends, and, in a few weeks, would be leaving the world of local news and joining the Express permanently – hence the Mercury editor’s decision to relegate me to the trainee beat of Buntingford to serve out the last few weeks of my notice.

Farage was running late and so, notebook in hand, with a pen slotted into the wire rings at the top, I paced around.

I had already done my vox pops, picking out a number of supporters to get comments from – the youngest, the eldest, anyone who looked vaguely interesting.

No one had said anything too remarkable – ‘too much immigration’, ‘sick of Europe’, ‘down with this sort of thing’ – and I knew, even as I spoke to them, their comments probably wouldn’t get in the piece. Vikki, the paper’s photographer, was taking some pointless snaps. She knew they were pointless but, like me, wanted to look busy. It was all very different from what the local UKIP organiser had promised in his press release: ‘UKIP leader Nigel Farage will parade through Hoddesdon in a branded bus as part of his tour of the county ahead of the local elections next month.’

I was expecting an American-style, open-top election bus, complete with a loud hailer bellowing out into the streets of Hoddesdon that everyone must ‘Vote UKIP’ in the upcoming election.

I was expecting a carnival atmosphere; a swarm of people descending on the town centre, all hoping for a glimpse of their Dear Leader – all hoping for a wave from the man with a cigarette in his mouth, a pint in his hand and St George in his heart.

I was expecting too much, clearly.

As it was, with the grey April sky overhead threatening rain, I, like the others, was waiting to see if Farage would arrive at all.

UKIP’s local organiser, a market-stall holder called David Platt, chatted with members of the crowd before he bounded up to me. He cheerily told me the UKIP bus had broken down near Norwich, and Farage and other party members were on alternative transport.

I quipped that I hoped it wasn’t a plane, bearing in mind Farage’s near-death experience while campaigning in 2010. For a publicity stunt, he had decided to fly in a light aircraft pulling a ‘Vote UKIP’ banner over Buckinghamshire on the day voters went to the polls in the 2010 election. The banner got caught in the plane’s propellers, forcing it to come crashing to the ground. Farage was lucky to escape serious injury, although he was plagued with a back problem after the incident.

For commentators and headline writers it was a dream – UKIP’s campaign literally coming crashing to earth just a year after a successful European election campaign.

David Platt just looked at me, and thankfully the awkwardness was broken by his phone ringing.

Three years on from the plane crash, and Farage, who had stood down as UKIP leader to unsuccessfully fight the Buckinghamshire seat, was back in charge of the party.

I glanced down Hoddesdon high street, which, like most small towns these days, operates a confusing one-way system. Trundling up the road to the clock tower where we were all stationed was a plum-coloured minibus, with bright yellow writing on the side. From a distance it looked like a retirement bus from a care home for Ribena berries, but, as it got nearer, I recognised the distinctive yellow pound-sign UKIP logo.

An American presidential motorcade convoy this was not.

The van pulled up next to the clock tower, and out stepped a man wearing the most disgustingly coloured trousers I had ever seen – mustard yellow. The trousers were matched with a wax jacket, and the look was topped off with a felt trilby.

You can say what you like about Nigel Farage, but he certainly made an impression.

The combination of the trousers, his broad grin and the fact he had finally arrived appeared to send the gathered crowd into a very British kind of excitement. Everyone seemed to want to shake his hand, pat him on the back and have a picture with him, but they were aware this was not quite what you did in Hoddesdon to a man with mustard-yellow corduroy trousers on.

It was by now 11.30 a.m., and as Farage had been wearing the trousers for at least five hours in places where similar displays of colour, personality and uniqueness are equally frowned upon – my home town of Bishop’s Stortford just 20 miles north, for example – he was used to the reaction.

In true politician style, he worked the room – or square, as it was. He shook hands, he posed for pictures, he flashed his Cheshire Cat grin. He thanked everyone for their support, seemed deferential to those older than him, acted like a cheeky uncle to those younger, and greeted those of the same generation like long-lost old friends.

With his supporters and a few curious members of the public gathered round, he gave a quick speech: ‘I want UKIP councillors to expose the amount of money wasted on translation services, climate change officers and diversity officers. Somebody has got to stand up and oppose the building of these hugely expensive wind turbines which are spoiling the countryside.’

It was hardly the Gettysburg address, but as he couldn’t really mention the EU – it was a local election, remember – he didn’t have a lot to go on.

With that, he dived off into town for a walk around and to meet the great British public.

But town was empty. It wasn’t market day. The weather was a bit cold and there’s not much in Hoddesdon.

Unbowed by the indifference, Farage went into shops along the high street. The butcher, estate agent and, of course, a few pubs all got a little visit from the UKIP leader.

I followed him into one boozer and approached him at the bar. It was by now about 12.30 p.m., and as he lifted his pint of ale to his lips he saw me and smiled.

‘Been looking forward to that?’ I asked.

After a large, loud gulp, Farage turned to me and said: ‘Oooh, yeah – life on the road.’

It was only half past midday.

We sat down at a table together and I asked him how he thought the day had gone. After offering his opinion on the pub’s music policy, I...