It has been a while since I wrote a proper blog post – by which I mean something that isn’t sponsored, written specifically to appease Google or attempting to demonstrate that I am a useful and employable member of society. This is clearly unacceptable, so I considered several sensible topics and naturally landed on: Nigel Farage.
Anyone who has followed this blog for any length of time will already know that I cannot fucking stand Nigel Farage. This is not new information. In fact, for my 40th birthday, my so-called friends PAID the odious, frog-faced charlatan himself to record me a Cameo wishing me a happy birthday.
And fair play to him, he didn’t just rattle off some general platitudes into a camera, he had apparently Googled me first. He even mentioned ‘Pimty Tare’, which was particularly disturbing because that meant Nigel Farage knew more about my internet history than several members of my own family.
There are few moments in life more unsettling than realising Nigel Farage has been reading your blog.
Anyway, coming on for three years later my feelings have, if anything, matured beautifully from ‘I think Nigel Farage is a cunt’ into ‘I think Nigel Farage is a cunt and why the fuck is he not in prison?’
And before anyone feels the need to email me and complain, I am not the Guardian, and I am not the Crown Prosecution Service. I am a 42-year-old woman sitting at a laptop complaining on the internet, which is basically what this website was invented for. If you don’t like it, bite me.
My loathing goes back a long way – over ten years in fact – to Brexit, for which I still hold the bastard personally responsible.
As a direct result of his nonsense, everything is more expensive, every trip to Europe now involves joining the sad little queue for people who voluntarily voted to make their own holidays worse, and I’m fairly sure half the continent now views us Brits the way you’d view a drunk who set fire to his own shed and then blamed the neighbours.
UGH. Still not over it.
So, with Reform currently having a considerably less enjoyable time in the polls than they once were (boohoo) I thought I would celebrate in the traditional British way: by being petty.
As a side note, it is actually quite surprising to see them dropping at all, because you get the feeling that for a sizeable chunk of Farage’s most devoted followers (also known as ’roundabout painters’), politics is treated less like choosing people to run the country and more like supporting a football team. Nigel Farage could probably enter their wives and wipe his dick on the curtains on the way out, and they’d still be there on polling day putting a cross next to Reform because HE’S OUR NIGE and you have to back the team.
So the fact that some of them finally appear to be reconsidering their life choices is, frankly, fascinating. I have to wonder what tipped the scales. Maybe it’s the Russian bribes. Maybe they’ve finally realised he doesn’t give a fuck about them. Maybe they’ve noticed that being photographed holding a pint does not, in fact, transform a publicly educated toff into a man of the people. Maybe it’s the fact their own benefits will be taken away and they’ll be left to starve to death. Maybe it was the oysters and Guinness-topped champagne. Likely it’s simply natural wastage.
And talking of waste
And while we’re here, can we revisit the absolutely ludicrous Clacton by-election? It already feels like a fever dream. Farage resigned the seat he had already been elected to, triggering a contest estimated to cost taxpayers more than a quarter of a million quid, because he was facing scrutiny over his financial affairs and he didn’t like it. The main parties declined to join the circus, Count Binface ended up his nearest rival, and after creating the entire spectacle himself, Farage didn’t even bother turning up to the count.
A quarter of a million quid. A 90cm ballot paper. Thirty-four candidates. A bin. And the man responsible for the whole thing was somewhere else because apparently even Nigel Farage had better things to do than attend the Nigel Farage show.
He still won, obviously, because enough people in Clacton apparently looked at this enormous waste of everybody’s time and money and thought, ‘Yes. More of this please.’
Utter morons.
Here, then, are ten things I trust more than Nigel Farage.
1. A fart after a night of drinking cider
A dangerous proposition. And yet, faced with the choice between that and trusting Nigel Farage, I am dropping my shoulders, relaxing my sphincter and putting my faith in God.
2. A Labrador who says she hasn’t been fed
Izzy can finish dinner, lick the bowl clean and then greet the next person through the door with the hollow-eyed expression of an animal who has been surviving entirely on rainwater since 2019. I AM STARVING, MOTHER.
She is a shameless, manipulative liar but she is absolutely more trustworthy than Nigel Farage.
3. A text message telling me my parcel could not be delivered
‘Your parcel is waiting. Please pay £1.62 redelivery fee at evri-definitely-real-and-not-a-scam.ru.’
Tempting. And yet, more convincing than Farage.
4. My kids telling me they’ve ‘already done it’
Homework? Done. Bedroom? Tidy. School bag? Packed. Wet towel currently developing sentience on the bedroom floor? Absolutely not.
There is still, technically, a chance they are telling the truth, which puts them ahead of Farage.
5. A Facebook Marketplace seller called Damo with a Lamborghini profile picture
I mean, maybe that iPhone 18 isn’t stolen. There’s always a chance.
6. Someone who says ‘I hate drama’
They always fucking love drama. Within twenty minutes you’ll know why Jade isn’t speaking to Bethany, what Liam did at Christmas 2023 and which screenshots have been sent to whose sister.
7. The British weather app
‘Sunny all afternoon.’ Twenty minutes later Berkshire is underwater and a trampoline has flown past the window.
8. A man saying ‘I don’t need the instructions’
He absolutely does. We all know he does. But there is still a theoretical chance the wardrobe will end up with the doors on the front. See also: Directions.
9. The ‘one serving’ calorie information on bags of Maltesers
Eight sweets? EIGHT SWEETS? Behave.
10. A hotel kettle
I have absolutely no idea what the previous occupant did with it, and if the internet is to be believed, I’m probably better off not knowing.
Nevertheless, I will fill it with water, switch it on and use the resulting liquid to make tea, and that is trust.
That was alarmingly easy.
Apparently I trust almost everything on Earth more than I trust Nigel fucking Farage.
Will this change anyone’s political opinion? Absolutely not.
Will it make me feel better about living in Britain in 2026? Also no.
Did it waste 20 minutes? It sure did.
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