In a crowded field, I think it was the flag that was the killer. The absolute state of that flag. Nigel Farage’s desktop Union Jack, with its little sucker pad leeching obnoxiously on to the unlovely beech of the European parliament chamber. Part of the genius of the TV series The Office was its ability to distil all human life down to a series of recognisable archetypes most people had encountered at work. To see Farage there with his desktop flag was to suddenly and irrevocably understand it: the UK is the Gareth Keenan of Europe. This is how we must look to those still condemned to share continent-space with us: petty, unlovable, essentially terrified, our workplace set up in a show of cod-martial defiance, which in fact only flags up our raging insecurity.

Farage has been building up to this moment his entire political life, as he tells everyone at every single opportunity. In which case, how is it humanly possible that his speech to the European parliament today could be so artless, so crass, a scarcely refined version of some England fans’ infamous recent chant: “Fuck off Europe, we voted out”? To couch it in the sort of imbecilic historical inaccuracy which is the only language Farage understands: this speech was so bad that they’re now quits with us for saving them in the second world war.

You may disagree with this reading of the war; Nigel would regard it as hugely overcomplicated. This, he repeated once more, was a victory against “big politics”. “Virtually none of you”, he bellowed at the MEPs, “have ever done a job in your lives.”

Watching him was like watching the live abortion of Churchill’s oratorial legacy. As the latter’s grandson Nicholas Soames observed: “Appalling ghastly performance by that dreadful cad Farage in the European parliament. #hownottoinfluence.” Agreed. There is soft power, and then there is politics as erectile dysfunction.

Indeed, it is becoming increasingly difficult not to speculate as to the psychological underpinnings of the Farage condition. “When I came here 17 years ago,” he shouted, failing to hide his nervous elation, “you all laughed at me. Well I have to say: you’re not laughing now, are you?” He made it, you losers! He got out. He’s in the big leagues now. He’s the guy who just turned up to his school reunion in a white limo with two dead-eyed escorts on his arm.

Above all, the performance offered a reminder that Farage makes everything in which he is involved a race to the bottom. The opposite of a Midas, he may as well be nicknamed Brownfinger. His excruciatingly aggressive display eventually drew boos from the chamber. “Ladies and gentlemen, I understand you’re emotional,” urged the assembly president. “But you’re acting like Ukip.”

Farage was loving it, just as his financial backer in the provisional wing of the leave campaign is revelling in their legitimisation. Arron Banks has spent much of his time since the weekend laughing at reports of racist and xenophobic incidents on Twitter. Two weeks ago he couldn’t even book 75% of Bucks Fizz for his Brexit concert ; now he’s taking a triumphalist dump on 50 years of race relations policy.

Meanwhile, presumably in a doomed attempt to own it – certainly out of an inability to transcend it – Farage embraces his smallness. The victory against “big politics”, he stressed again to the European parliament, was for “the little people”. Incidentally, during the general election campaign last year, I was in a Grimsby pub where Farage’s supporters were waiting for him in a long-scheduled visit . He blew them out to go and have fish and chips with reality television star Joey Essex. Footsoldiers of Ukip, they were crestfallen and couldn’t understand it. Yes, Farage is as elitist as the rest of them. Even the central London victory party for his senior referendum campaign staff was stratified, featuring a VIP snug into which he retreated for most of the night.

And still he rises. This time, the political leader who’s had more farewell tours than Barbra Streisand isn’t going anywhere. Whenever I touched on Farage’s malevolent guiding spirit during the referendum campaign itself, I was pleased to take all sorts of optimistic correspondence explaining that as soon as a successful leave vote was achieved, Farage’s work would be done, and he would retire triumphantly into the sunset.

How’s that working out for ya? As reports of racist and xenophobic incidents across Britain intensify, Farage appears on Channel 4 news to warn ominously against what he detects as “backsliding” in the leadership of the official Vote Leave campaign. My suspicion is that these two strands of post-referendum fallout will come together in what we might call “ever closer union”. All sides of leave know they can’t deliver all they promised – even most of what they promised – and the coming anger will serve as Farage’s greatest recruiting sergeant. Indeed, he may seem like the cuddly option compared to some.

Still, don’t take it from me. Let’s play out with the UK’s second biggest cheerleader in the European parliament, Marine Le Pen, leader of the French National Front. Turning to Farage after his speech, she smiled, and declared: “Look at how beautiful history is!”