There were more security guards outside the Little Mill village hall in south Wales than there were people trying to get in. Once inside, it became clear why. They were trying to do everyone a favour by keeping them out. An hour or so that nobody unlucky enough to be there would ever get back. Six months ago, a Brexit party rally could be guaranteed to have a certain energy. The thrill of the new, if nothing else. No more. This one would have died on its feet if it hadn’t already been dead on arrival.

Normally it’s shopping channel 3am graveyard slot presenter Richard Tice who gets wheeled out to compere these events. But with Tice otherwise engaged, hastily mugging up where Hartlepool is on the map and taking lessons in how to talk to northern people, before he announces he is standing to be MP there on Monday, it was Brexit party MEP, Nathan Gill who did the honours. A man who somehow manages to have even less charisma than Tice. The go-to person for the de-motivational speech.

Within seconds of Gill opening his mouth, any life there had been in the hall had been sucked out by his bland monotone. “We’re here because we’re here,” he told the two people who were still awake. Speak for yourself, Nathan.

Next up was Ann Widdecombe going through her usual Ann Widdecombe Strictly Come Dancing tribute act. Betrayal, treachery, surrender. It was an improvement on Gill, though not much. Die-hard old Tories – even ones now promising to destroy the EU – who did much to destroy parts of Wales are still greeted with suspicion in constituencies such as this one of Torfaen, which is held by Labour with a majority of over 10,000. Her main argument for Brexit was that it was what the animals would have wanted.

Then out came Mark Reckless, the former Tory turned UKIP MP for Rochester who lost his seat in 2015 and has accidentally ended up as the Brexit party leader in the Welsh assembly. At least I assume it’s by accident. No one who had actually spent more than 30 seconds with Reckless would knowingly stay longer. Reckless is someone who makes Mr Bean appear both coherent and charismatic. A man who has become his own art installation. A monument to mediocrity. Yet another failure for nominative determinism.

“Hu-lo,” he said, in a nasal whine. Most of the audience swivelled round, anxiously looking for the exits. Unfortunately they were all now barricaded in by the security guards who had originally tried to keep them out. “I want to talk you through clause 121 section six,” Reckless mumbled. Kill me now. Hell would be getting stuck in a room with both him and Gill talking over one another.

Inevitably, the main attraction was Nigel Farage. To all intents and purposes, he is the Brexit party. Without him the rest would be nothing. Or less than nothing in Reckless’s case. The Sunbed God – Nige has learned well from Donald Trump – came out on stage with a fixed smile that increasingly looks painted on. He is the one-time star, whose only gig is now a bottom of the bill residency in Las Vegas, playing to audiences who have dropped in out of curiosity in between hours at the slots. He is the homeopathic politician. The man with the memory of an idea but no actual measurable trace.

Farage had hoped it would be different this time round on the comeback trail. And at first it was. He drew the big crowds and Westminster was scared of him. But now his bluff has been called. Boris Johnson isn’t going to play ball with a no deal/leave alliance and the game is all but up. And Farage knows it. His people know it. His heart just isn’t in it anymore. He can still talk the talk but he can’t be arsed to walk the walk. So his patter increasingly sounds tired and formulaic. He only continues because he’s worried he may no longer exist if he stops.

The most telling moment came right at the end when he was asked why he wasn’t standing to be an MP. Farage mumbled something about leaders leading better from the back, but his eyes told a different story. He had had enough. He was punch-drunk. No longer able to pretend to himself that a handful of supporters at a village lunchtime gig in Wales were really his people. Or that he gave much of a shit. The facade had cracked.

There was so much more to life than this. Why keep on with the establishment anti-establishment clown politician routine? There was no money or glory to be found there anymore. He was wasted on the UK. He would go back to the alt-right US chat show circuit. That’s where the big bucks were. That’s where he would really make his name. Just hang on till after the election. Then like a bat out of hell, he’d be gone, gone, gone. Nige was dead. Long live the Nige.

John Crace’s new book, Decline and Fail: Read in Case of Political Apocalypse, is published by Guardian Faber. To order a copy go to guardianbookshop.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £15, online orders only. Phone orders min. p&p of £1.99.

https://guardianbookshop.com/decline-and-fail-9781783351930.html



