LONDON — Ever since the Brexit Party emerged, I have found myself drawn to it in much the same way that the boy in the Hans Christian Andersen story felt compelled to follow the emperor pointing out his nudity. While not wishing to mix my children’s classic texts, it’s a habit that can frequently lead me down a rabbit hole.

Take the way I spent bank holiday Monday in August. The skies above London were blue, the sun was shining brightly, and while my kids sat in the garden, I whiled away a good proportion of my afternoon arguing online with Brexit Party MEP June Mummery — about fish.

After three years of debating membership of the EU, I know far more about fish than any man should, unless he’s chosen a life at sea. I know that in the U.K. almost twice as many people work for low-price retail chain Poundland than as trawlermen. I also know that fishing contributes less to Britain’s GDP than the Harrods department store in London. And yet this cottage industry making up just 0.5 percent of the U.K. economy has become a major political issue.

Mummery is the managing director of BFP Eastern, a fishing auctioneer in Lowestoft in eastern England, and clearly believes that Brexit will benefit her industry. I was eager to understand why she also believed that her sector should benefit to the detriment of the rest of the U.K. economy.

The party's key people seem to be drawn from the cast of a yet-to-be-made comedy film.

After a bit of toing and froing on Twitter — June’s response was this: “So what you guys are saying is people who live in coastal communities can't earn a living.”

I was not saying that at all, but her response was instructive as to what passes for thinking in the Brexit Party — a movement that is more akin to a religious sect than a traditional political organization.

In Brexit Party leader Nigel Farage’s cult, facts and logic are dirty words, and fish are quite literally the holy cow. True believers view October 31 as a mythical day of judgement: an all-solving panacea that will raise Great Britain from the dead.

At times, it can be tempting to dismiss the group as a political sideshow, but as Farage demonstrated with his previous vehicle, UKIP, his one-policy parties have an unfortunate habit of determining Britain’s political agenda.

Boris Johnson may be the guy occupying No. 10 Downing Street, but it’s Farage and Brexit Party Chairman Richard Tice who are currently setting the course of Britain’s destiny. Johnson needs their voters, and to get them, he needs to steal their clothes.

There’s an old saying that the problem with political jokes is that they have a habit of being elected — and as with so many comedy sequels, UKIP 2.0 simply isn’t very funny anymore.

Given the Brexit Party’s influence it’s worth taking a deeper dive into Britain’s newest major political movement.

Let’s start with the name. It may be called the Brexit Party, but in truth it’s no more a “party” than a man sitting alone on a couch with an opened can of lager is a society ball.

Like the Freedom Party in the Netherlands, the Brexit Party has no actual membership. You cannot join it; you can only register yourself as a supporter. It has no National Executive Committee. The few policies it ascribes to are decided behind closed doors. And with profound irony, this “party” which exists to take back control of our democracy from the “unaccountable EU” has an unelected, self-appointed leader as its head.

One thing that can be said in the Brexit Party’s favor is that it is certainly a broad church. MEPs include one-time ultra-Conservative minister Ann Widdecombe and her colleague the libertarian BBC panelist Claire Fox, a former leading light in the Revolutionary Communist Party.

That group spent years defending atrocities carried out by the Irish Republican Army and various unsavory dictators before its in-house journal, Living Marxism, was closed following a libel trial. Several of Fox's long-term comrades — including another leading Revolutionary Communist Party figure, James Heartfield — are prospective parliamentary candidates.

The party's key people seem to be drawn from the cast of a yet-to-be-made comedy film. When its newly elected MEPs set off for their first day at the EU institutions it was revealed that one of them, Brian Montieth, representing a constituency in the North East of England, actually lived thousands of miles away in the south of France.

Inevitably the stress of competing interests will eventually pull the party apart. In the meantime, its sway on the destiny of Britain is set to continue.

Another, celebrity doctor David Bull, spent the whole eight-hour long journey on Twitter, complaining that Strasbourg was nowhere near his home in Norfolk and that he had to change trains several times to get there.

On arrival at the European Parliament, many of the new MEPs were outraged to find themselves ... in a Parliament building. Martin Daubney, MEP for the West Midlands and former editor of Loaded magazine, compared it to the Star Wars prequels, suggesting that his points of political reference are probably in need of an overhaul along with his DVD collection. Annunziata Rees-Mogg meanwhile was livid to be handed a taxpayer-funded encrypted iPad — not realizing that the same work-tool is provided to British MPs, including her brother.

As the U.K. seems increasingly likely headed to a general election, the party has set about announcing a roster of prospective MPs — a process that has likewise turned up some curious individuals. They are too numerous to be covered here, but special mention should be made of Lourdesiree Latimer, the candidate for Stroud who spent much of 2016 trying to get elected to the house of representatives — in the Philippines.

Another candidate, Darren Selkus, celebrated his appointment by suggesting that Tory Remainers should be taken to the Tower of London to see what used to be done to traitors. A third candidate stepped down after it transpired that he had spent much of his recent life living on the Isle of Man, which isn’t even in the EU.

Despite claiming to be a party of “ordinary people” who are different from the “career politicians,” a good proportion of the Brexit Party’s leading lights are … career politicians. The former Conservative Party chair in Sevenoaks, southeast of London, is standing, as is Kate Allsop, the town of Mansfield’s second directly elected mayor. Many of the other candidates are either very rich or very well connected to the party leadership.

In a bold attempt to live up to the party’s populist credentials, an online application process for wannabe MPs was launched back in June, to which anyone could apply. It is unclear as to how many of the thousands of people who filled in the form and paid the £100 non-refundable deposit got so far as the interview stage, but since writing about it, my inbox has been inundated with emails from angry and disaffected applicants who paid up and heard no more.

It seems unlikely that former Bucks Fizz singer Jay Aston, standing in Kensington, or Ken Hodcroft, the former chairman of Hartlepool United Football Club who is hoping to be elected in his home town, were selected on account of online applications.

What we have here then is a classic populist party, lacking detailed policies, claiming to be anti-elite while being filled to the brim with hedge fund managers, businessmen, celebrities and chums of the party leadership. Unlikely to ever be asked to form a government or even join a coalition, they can afford to stand at the sides, like hecklers at a football match, telling the teams on the pitch where they are going wrong.

Farage has been doing exactly that for 20 years. But with the U.K. at a critical turning point in the road and with so much at stake, it is frightening that this assortment of characters, former revolutionaries and chancers — with their cultish narrative — should be having such undue influence on the future of the country.

Inevitably the stress of competing interests will eventually pull the party apart. In the meantime, its sway on the destiny of Britain is set to continue.

Otto English is the pen name used by Andrew Scott, a writer and playwright based in London.