In Hungary, where the anti-migration prime minister Viktor Orbán has steadily tightened his hold on power since entering office in 2010, he has faced one major source of opposition in recent years: his former best friend.

Lajos Simicska has known Orbán since their school days, and is credited with building the business and media empire that helped him achieve a firmer grip on Hungary than perhaps any other EU leader has over their country.

Then, three years ago, Orbán and Simicska had a dramatic, acrimonious public falling out, and the businessman became a backer of opposition politicians and media.

In the run-up to parliamentary elections last April, liberal Hungarians had little hope that the fractured democratic opposition had any chance of unseating Orbán, but were waiting in the hope that Simicska would air some laundry so dirty it could collapse the government’s ratings.

The much-awaited “atomic bomb” never came. Orbán won a third consecutive term as prime minister and a two-thirds majority for his Fidesz party.

With four more years in power secured, Orbán moved to neutralise the threat from his old friend, and over the past few weeks the oligarch has sold all his businesses. More significantly for the political scene in Hungary – where most media backs Orbán and his fear campaign about migration – Simicska’s media empire has been systematically dismantled.

First to fall was the newspaper Magyar Nemzet, which ended its 80-year history a couple of days after the election. Lánchíd radio station also closed, and next came Heti Válasz, a conservative-leaning but broadly independent magazine that has ceased all operations.

Finally, Hír TV, one of the few stations to air views critical of Orbán, was returned to the pro-government fold in a swift and ruthless operation earlier this month.



Balázs Láng, a producer of a news discussion show on Hír hosted by Olga Kálmán, a popular Hungarian presenter, said government-friendly media executives arrived with little warning and “read out a list of people to be fired”, including Kálmán.

That evening, instead of the discussion show, the channel repeatedly played a recent Orbán speech. “It was a show of power,” said Láng.

“I’ve been doing this for 25 years now but I’ve had enough. I’m going to quit, because there’s no point being a journalist in this country any more,” he said.

For years, the relationship between Simicska and Orbán was a perfect match of political power with economic nous: “Without Simicska, Orbán would never have become prime minister and without Orbán, Simicska would never have become a billionaire,” wrote Orbán’s biographer Paul Lendvai.



However, after Orbán’s victory in the 2014 elections, the two old friends began to argue. In 2015, the conflict erupted spectacularly when the publicity-shy Simicska, who for years had avoided all media attention, gave a series of interviews describing Orbán as a “geci”, a Hungarian obscenity that translates literally as “sperm”. Because of the use of the word, the public breach has been known as “G-day” in Hungarian political and media circles ever since.

Those in Simicska’s circle say that in the run-up to G-day, he had become increasingly uneasy about Orbán’s cosy relations with Vladimir Putin’s Kremlin, a remarkable about-turn for a political leader who first rose to prominence in the late 1980s with demands for Soviet troops to leave Hungary.

“Lajos had the courage to turn his back on the system because he came to his senses,” said his longtime associate Sándor Csintalan, in an interview. “He was unhappy about the level of corruption and also furious about the level of Russian influence. Simicska always said that once you shake hands with the Russian bear, it will eat you whole.”

Lajos Simicska had provided advertising space for opposition parties such as Jobbik in the run-up to the April elections. Photograph: Laszlo Balogh/Reuters

Others laugh off the suggestion of such a principled stand, and suspect the dispute was a far more banal one about how to split up the pie, as a new set of cronies around Orbán circled for lucrative government tenders.

Whatever the reason for the split, Simicska in his new incarnation became the opposition’s best hope. He offered advertising to opposition parties, especially Jobbik, a far-right party that tried to move to the centre as Orbán adopted many of its nativist policies. “In this country, almost everything is in the hands of the state. There was nobody else to turn to but Simicska,” said Márton Gyöngyösi, the deputy leader of Jobbik.



The liberal opposition were wary of their new potential supporter but glad for a small breeze of fresh air in the media market. “It was hard for us to forget what he did before G-day. What Fidesz is now is a creation of Mr Simicska,” said István Vágó, the executive director of the Democratic Coalition, an opposition party that received 5% of the vote in the April elections.



But Simicska’s media outlets, initially bought up in the service of Fidesz, did offer rare opportunities for public criticism of Orbán and his policies. Now, his surrender removes the last potential threat to Orbán on the domestic political scene for the foreseeable future.

“He told me he had no choice but to sell,” said one associate of Simicska, who asked to remain anonymous, about the businessman’s decision to sell all his companies.

Orbán’s government is expected to reboot its relentless anti-migration campaign ahead of the European elections next year, and the prime minister also claimed recently that his latest election win was “nothing short of a mandate to build a new era”. He said this would involve embedding new “cultural trends, collective beliefs and social customs”, leading some to expect a full-on culture war against enemies of his populist, traditionalist government. An early taste last week was a government proposal to ban the teaching of gender studies at Hungarian universities.

With Orbán jubilant, and embarking on a plan to implement “great aims of a kind that were previously unimaginable”, even the political opposition say it will be hard to stop him.

“I don’t see any light at the end of the tunnel. It appears quite hopeless,” said Gyöngyösi. “It’s like when you’re climbing and you don’t see any ledge, anything you can get a nail in or hold on to. Just now it’s bare surface.”