Flying Free E-Book

Nigel Farage

• Herausgeber: Biteback Publishing
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 548

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

In an age of colourless bureaucrats, Nigel Farage is a politician who is impossible to ignore, provoking controversy and admiration in equal measure. A fun-loving iconoclast whose motto is work hard and play harderA", Farage's charismatic leadership and determination to battle the forces of anti-libertarianism have made him a Robin Hood figure to many, and propelled his party, UKIP, into a position of real power in the country. Never one for a quiet life, this paperback edition includes the story of Nigel's extraordinary escape from death in a plane crash on the eve of the 2010 general election (the light aircraft he was flying in got caught up in a UKIP banner it was towing and crashed shortly after take-off, badly injuring Farage and his pilot), his recovery and return to the leadership of UKIP in November 2010. Featuring sometimes hilarious and often terrifying encounters with a stellar supporting cast, including Tony Blair, Gordon Brown, Nicolas Sarkozy, Jose Manuel Barroso, and UKIP's short-lived, silver-gilt masco, Robert Kilroy-Silk - and told with Farage's customary wit and humour, Fighting Bull is a candid, colourful life story by a fascinating and controversial character. It also shows that one fearless, determined individual can still make a difference.

Leseprobe

FLYING FREE

NIGEL FARAGE

CONTENTS

Title Page

Acknowledgements

Preface

Part I

1. Why’s Wally?

2. Dulwich

3. Lucid but aggressive

4. ‘Sovereignty will cease’

5. Escape plans

6. Birth-pangs

Part II

7. New bugs

8. ‘Media savvy’

9. The cost of freedom

10. Pros and cons

11. Silky skills

12. Silk unravels

13. Bull-baiting

14. Liars, cheats and frauds

15. Busman’s holiday

16. Making an impact

17. Relaunch

18. Surveying the wreckage

Epilogue: No farewell

Index

Copyright

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I have been on the road for over a decade and owe an incalculable debt to my family, who have made huge sacrifices yet somehow kept a warm, welcoming place in the nest against my occasional visits on leave. The small parts which they play in this book reflect my neglect, not the parts which they have played in my life. I must also thank the extended family of dedicated UKIP supporters whose time, creative skills and passion have sustained me through thick and thin. Of all my colleagues and friends, three who have fought unwaveringly at my side warrant particular mention. David Lott – he of the one-man-and-his-horsebox crusade-John Whittaker and Graham Booth have remained loyal over many years and have kept me laughing under fire. Without Annabelle Fuller’s perceptiveness and goodwill and Mark Daniel’s unfailing flair and imagination, this story would have been considerably duller.

PREFACE

I am gazing down on one of the most beautiful sights on God’s earth – chequered green turf beneath a pale blue sky. There are shiny smiling faces down there, and bright cottons. There are children playing catch.

And I am more nervous than I have ever been in my life.

I have in my time stood up in front of the European Parliament and lambasted Presidents and Prime Ministers. I have faced hostile crowds and hecklers in front of audiences of millions. I have bet fortunes at odds against…

Nothing has ever got me as keyed up or as overawed as this.

I suppose the childhood ambitions are ultimately the only ones that matter. They are simple, beautiful and generally deliciously improbable. The adolescent ones are fulfilled, moderated or banished by practicality, the adult ones short-term and dreary. The childhood ones linger. And this is one which has been with me since I was in short trousers.

I adjust the headphones. I lean forward. Despite the presence of gods all around me, I dare to talk. My interviewer wants to talk about politics. I have far more important things to discuss.

For more than half an hour, he just lets me witter. He even pays me the compliment of insulting my blazer! Soon I have a broad smile on my face. I forget the millions listening around the world. This is the purest pleasure.

This is Test Match Special from the Rose Bowl. The gods are Philip Tufnell, Vic Marks, Christopher Martin-Jenkins, my polite interviewer Jonathan Agnew and, greatest of all, dour England opener Geoffrey Boycott, the man who stood firm and often alone for his country against hurricanes Lillee and Thomson, Holding and Croft.

And we are talking about cricket.

At the end, I hand the cans over to Boycs.

‘’Ey, ’e knows ’is stuff does that Nigel Farage,’ says the legendary Yorkshireman. ‘Tell you what. Why don’t we swap jobs? You do the cricket and I’ll take your job and tackle the Europeans…’

Tread softly, Geoff, for you tread on my dreams.

I don’t suppose that I will ever win knighthood, peerage, Nobel Prize or the British Open claret jug.

But I have just received Geoff Boycott’s approval.

I can die happy.

PART I

1

WHY’S WALLY?

Who – or what – dunnit?

That seems to be the question on most people’s minds when they ask about my life off the political stage.

Obviously detective-novel enthusiasts or Where’s Wally? hounds, they are convinced that somewhere, hidden amongst all those commonplace milling memories and confusing clues, there lurks ‘the answer’.

I suppose the question is: ‘What turns an alarmingly normal, cricket-loving middle-class English boy into a full-time troublemaker, leader of a rabble in revolt against a mighty empire, thorn in the flesh of Presidents and Prime Ministers and spokesman for an entire generation of libertarians and democrats?’

Or, as a man with glazed, cobwebbed eyes rumbled at me in a Westminster bar the other night, ‘Oi, Nigel. ’Ow’d you get to be so, like, totally doolally?’

Well, welcome to Why’s Wally?.

Enjoy the hunt.

For myself, I don’t believe the quarry exists.

I was an alarmingly normal, cricket-loving Kentish boy – albeit a bolshy, argumentative and perverse one. I remain an alarmingly normal, cricket-loving Kentish boy, as bolshy and argumentative as ever.

There were two horrific moments for which I will forever remain grateful, moments which did not so much change me as cause me to review my priorities and so irrevocably to alter my course, but those occurred when I was in my early twenties and confronted by imminent death.

I do not believe even these made me significantly doolallier than before.

They merely woke me up to the fact that I wanted something more on my gravestone than ‘fed, drank, made money’, that we English boys and girls were under threat and that, if further generations were to enjoy all that I had, someone just had to stand up and fight.

And, being doolally, I reckoned it might as well be me.

*

Sexual intercourse began

In nineteen sixty-three

(Which was rather late for me)…

It may have been bad timing for Larkin, but it was perfect for me. Because, in direct consequence of this admirable innovation, I emerged – as ever at the forefront of fashion and technological advance – into the light of Farnborough Hospital on Friday 3 April 1964.

The following day, the Beatles made history by occupying the top five places in the US Billboard charts. I claim no responsibility for this almost equally impressive demonstration at once of British supremacy and of the fact that the sixties were now truly underway.

I also therefore know far more precisely than most people where I was on 22 November 1963, the day that Kennedy died. My mother had no doubt shed tears with the rest of the world for the promise and the naive but inspiring dreams which perished with its fallen king.

I opened my eyes, then, on a world at once looking to the future and counting on the young, breaking free of the cautious conventionality instilled by two World Wars but now aware that there was no magical silver bullet which could not be counteracted by one of copper-jacketed lead.

Materialism – some would say realism – had already lurched hawking and cursing into the reveries of the sixties.

My parents – or, more exactly, my mother, because my father was busy earning a lot and spending a lot more in the City – took me home to Downe, a still-enchanting village in the North Downs of Kent.

Downe is one of those place-names apparently designed by the devious British to confuse foreigners. The village is set in a wooded valley in a ridge of chalk downland (by which we mean uplands of course) which terminates abruptly in the White Cliffs of Dover.

Just to add to the confusion, its most famous resident, Charles Darwin, lived at Down House, Downe, which he called Down House, Down because he refused to accept the slightly chi-chi ‘e’ appended to the village’s name. My family home backed onto the grounds of Darwin’s. It was a pair of Victorian semi-detached workers’ cottages which, by the time I arrived, had already grown into what estate agents would call ‘a desirable residence with two acres of garden’ and would in time acquire a ‘substantial’ in the description as the two became one and extensions were tacked on until now it is a seven-bedroom ‘villa’, whatever that may mean.

I therefore spent the first summer of my life beneath rowan trees in my Silver Cross pram, reflecting, no doubt, on the virtues of natural selection (of which I was living proof ), in what was, in effect, Darwin’s garden, and was pushed along the Sandwalk where he had done his best thinking.

Now I think that this, unlikely as it sounds, really did have an influence on me. Darwin’s status has since risen to that of a prophet, but, back then, he was, for the bulk of the general public, merely an illustrious but contentious figure. In Downe, he was ours.

There were villagers whose grandparents had worked for him and his family, whose grandparents had played cricket with him or had been members of the ‘Darwin Coal Club’ and remembered him with affection. We were aware of him and loyal to his memory, much as many Christians grew up with unthinking loyalty to creationism.

Certainly a central tenet of my convictions since then has been that whatever has evolved is superior to, and fitter to survive in its peculiar environment than, that which is designed by one hubristic age (let alone an alien culture) on a drawing-board.

As ‘Radical Jack’ Durham said at the time of the Great Reform Act, demonstrating a similar ecological concern for indigenous forms:

I wish to rally as large a portion of the British people as possible around the existing institutions of the country… I do not wish new institutions but to preserve and strengthen the old. Some would confine the advantages of these institutions to as small a class as possible. I would throw them open to all who have the ability to comprehend them and vigour to protect them.

Our weights and measures system, over which our supporters fought so long, gallant and victorious a battle against dirigiste idiocy, are a minor but significant case in point. It may indeed be simpler for the cerebrally challenged to work in decimal because they can count on their fingers and, where necessary, toes.

Our ancestors, however, did not sit down cackling, intent on devising a system of measures in multiples of twelve which would thoroughly confuse children and idiots. The system evolved from use and is, in consequence, more user-friendly, adaptable and natural than its alternative, which was designed (along with a ten-day week made up of ten-hour days and 86.4 second minutes. Ah, sweet simplicity!) by Napoleon’s bureaucrats.

Or take the most successful medical innovation of the twentieth century – which is…

…Well, penicillin has a claim, but no human brain invented and developed that. It was merely discovered. The other great life-saver was developed by a pair of very sick lay-people who got together one day and compared notes, then allowed the experiences of other sufferers to complete the job. It has saved the lives of millions. It is called Alcoholics Anonymous.

I had cause to be grateful to AA very early in life.

As I sat there in that Vanden Plas coachwork sarcophagus, ruminating on mysteries somehow too deep for speech and accustoming myself to life, my father was making a determined attempt to kill himself just 20 miles away in the City of London. He solemnly swears that the two things were unrelated.

He was twenty-nine years old and doing precisely what I was to do – having what he felt sure was a ‘good’ time amongst the boys in the City.

He was seldom at home, so he contrived that trick which so many fathers worked back then. He appeared from time to time, expensively dressed and telling glamorous stories, whilst my mother, who had to deal with workaday problems like nappies and mounting bills and suffered the additional disadvantage of being there all the time, paid the proverbial price of familiarity.

Guy Farage – the name alone surely indicates his mother’s Georgette Heyer-style aspirations on his behalf. No. Hang onto your hats: Guy Justus Oscar Farage…

A man with such a moniker would have been welcomed at the gaming-table by Percy Blakeney, Brigadier Gerard or Sidney Carton.

He would of course be a dandy – and yes, with his handmade shoes and Savile Row suits (worn, of course, as per stereotype, with the obligatory bowler hat and brolly), my dad is remembered as the best-dressed man on the stock exchange at that time. He would be a gambler – and yes, he took exceptional risks, some of which actually came off. He would be a toper.

But of course, Miss Heyer’s bucks had extensive lands and holdings. Guy Farage had neither. They disported in a regulated and structured society, he in a curious era where social strata were melting and melding and the universal aspirations of his childhood – military, class-ridden, Edwardian – were being displaced by rude, laid-back, liberal, hippy values. Many of the prettiest girls and fanciest motors seemed suddenly to belong to the smelly-socks brigade, which was outrageous.

Ten when the war ended, twenty-five when the sixties dawned, he saw his heroes age by half a century overnight.

And in truth, his temperament was not that of the successful aristocratic buck who, having sowed wild oats, could settle to the care of his estates. He was sensitive and compulsive. Trained to aspire, he aspired with all his heart and soul, not as a passing diversion. He collected miniatures and antique silver, butterflies and moths – an acceptable foible in a Heyer hero – but he became expert in them and collects them and loves them to this day. His games were not kept compartmentalised – discreet diversions, unrelated to real emotions – but absorbed him.

And, whilst many of his fellow City stockbrokers drank prodigiously but retained control, he plunged into that world and found that he no longer knew which way was up.

Of course, I knew nothing of all this. Even had I been older and more capable of understanding, this was an era in which such things were not discussed, at least not in my family. Damn it, we weren’t even allowed to discuss World War I because it had been nasty and embarrassing and several members of both sides of the family had fought in the trenches.

I knew only that my father was generally absent somewhere mysterious and represented better food, fancier presents, exciting tales and convivial company whilst my mother was the kind, dutiful person who performed the altogether duller tasks of dressing and feeding me on a day-to-day basis.

This put-upon soul was an exceptionally glamorous twenty-five years old.

I know now about the crippling loneliness which is perhaps the worst aspect of life with an alcoholic as, night after night, he sank into the arms of his great, obsessive love. He did not lose his charm or his wit when sober – all that comes much later in the alcoholic’s decline – so there was always hope that tonight he would be the loving, responsive person whom he showed to the world by day. And every night, as he telephoned with another incredible tale about working late or as he passed out making a noise like riffled cards intermingled with whale-song in his armchair, that hope was dashed again.

I know now about the worries which must have grumbled like thunder throughout her slumbers and sometimes awoken her as searing lightning – the debts piling up, the continuous worry about his personal safety and the children’s future should he not return.

I know now about the need – in those days also the bounden duty – to cover up for him. ‘Exhausted…’, ‘…slight cold…’, ‘…terrible drugs from the doctor…’, ‘…Well, why shouldn’t he let his hair down after all that strain…?’ ‘…Yes, but he’s always been a cavalier type. It’s one of the things I love about him…’

*

I was barely toddling when my brother Andrew was brought home and took his place in my Silver Cross.

He was totally unworthy of that hallowed position. His thoughts, so far as I could tell, were not interesting at all. He seemed to think exclusively of his physical requirements, which was very tedious. It made one doubt natural selection.

Thanks to that natural self-interest, no doubt, he now earns in a month what I earn in a year and is a generous and amusing companion.

As my father’s problems worsened, it fell to my mother to tell us that we could not have this or that treat and to nag us about thrift. This only served to make my father’s appearances more wonderful.

Most middle-class families in those days had some sort of staff – a nanny, an au pair or at the least a daily cleaner. We could not afford them, so, as mum tended Andrew, I found myself more and more at liberty.

I wandered, at first around Down House and what is now Downe Bank Nature Reserve, then further afield. I wandered, I chattered away equally to people and animals I met in my wanderings – and I rummaged.

I suppose it came from my collector father, this rummaging thing. By the age of eight, I would not leave the house without a fork and a trowel with which to hunt for treasure. I have many of the treasures thus uncovered to this day: clay pipes, coloured glass bottles, possets, lead soldiers, coins and fragments of pottery and masonry. I still spend many a holiday on battlefields, recreating in my mind the tawdriness, the terrors and the occasional squibs of everyday human magnificence and picking up relics. Even in childhood, I never hankered after hoards of gold. I just wanted to feel the connection between me and the land and the people who had come before me.

Weird child.

Only two things drew me back home: food and cricket.

At the end of 1968, I remember thinking, ‘This has been the most important year EVER, and there will never be another like it.’ As it happens, I was not so far wrong, but I blush to admit that the Tet offensive and the student unrest in France and Chicago had quite passed me by.

I was aware of the deaths of Martin Luther King and of Bobby Kennedy and (an instant hero by merit of his charm, his fiery delivery and his quickness on his feet. I had never witnessed a top-class lawyer in action before, and brain and tongue working so in synch struck me as no less a marvel than a leisurely cover-drive in response to a John Snow thunderbolt). I was aware of the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia. Every child was. We understood about bullies.

Above all, however, this was the year when I became self-aware and England failed to recover the Ashes, even though John Edrich, Geoff Boycott, Colin Cowdrey, Tom Graveney, John Snow, Alan Knott, Derek Underwood et al., plainly the greatest cricketers EVER, all performed prodigies.

1968 was also the year in which I discovered Europe.

We went to Portugal, which was obviously the best country EVER.

My father had decided that what we really needed to make everything better again was a couple of weeks on the Algarve.

I had not flown before – nor even visited Heathrow before, nor knowingly visited London – so even the airport was an exotic foreign country. There were girls with architecturally unstable cairns of hair and black eyes that looked like Dennis the Menace’s dog Gnasher. They wobbled about the terminal on smoked-glass egg-timer legs.

‘Lady Madonna’ and Gary Puckett’s ‘Young Girl’ were bouncing out of the PA system, Viscounts and Stratocasters whining on the tarmac outside. It was all so… modern. I ate my first Wimpy hamburger and chips washed down with Coke. I vomited for the first time in – well, really quite near – a public convenience.

This was living.

In Portugal, there were old women dressed all in black, stray dogs on the streets, goats on the hillsides and young women dressed in almost nothing on the beaches.

I was four. Food still had precedence over young women. There was lots of garlic – still then a culture shock inspiring jokes about bad breath and kissing and displays of gastronomic machismo. A steak proved to be fish – fresh tuna, which was alarming but good – and they had vicious trick sausages which pretended to be the bland, soft things provided by Messrs Walls but turned out to be chewy and to bite back.

There were also ingenious sardines which had somehow escaped their tins. The correct masculine thing here was to crunch them, bones, burned skins and all, whilst females and infants grimaced and said ooh.

I already knew my role. Because my dad, my glamorous, beautifully dressed, funny, generous, adventurous dad – well, what else could all those prolonged absences mean save adventure? – was my model, I crunched the skin and bones and said that it was good, and was rewarded for being like him with some strange lemony biscuits which seemed to be called lavatories.

I said that they were good too. In the shiny black-and-white picture, my mother is vaguely smiling amidst all the laughter as she sees another potential ally going over to the other side.

*

I was not only talking by now, I was talking volubly. In fact, I considered a moment not filled with piping Farageisms wasted – unless Brian Johnston or John Arlott were doing the soundtrack, in which case a respectful silence was required.

The retired Indian Army neighbours, therefore, the gardeners at Down House, the village idiot (yes, every village had one back then and provided casual employment for him or her before the state tidied them into its solicitous bins) and every kind old lady foolish enough to ask me how I was, all heard at length my views on ‘abroad’, on which I was now an expert.

Abroad (except for sausages which were just mean) was good.

I have never changed my views on that. I have spent a huge part of my life – working and leisure – on the mainland of Europe, enjoying the food, the company and the diverse cultures and exploring the churches, the battlefields and the people.

It would be many years before I began to explore Britain with the same enthusiasm and so came to marvel at the astounding diversity of culture, landscape and language contained within our own shores.

And that, of course, has been another major factor in my battle against the growth of the European soviet – the love for Europe’s astoundingly rich diversity and the respect for each cultural phenomenon, each custom, rite, dialect, foodstuff and cultural or genetic characteristic which has grown naturally from its very special and very peculiar environment. Each, it seemed to me, deserves to be protected no less than each local species of flora and fauna.

They are already threatened by globalisation of course – my Lisbon airport now boasts a McDonald’s and a Pizza Hut and offers Lacoste, Swatch, Tie Rack and all the other usual brand-names which render it indistinguishable from any other airport in the world. That, until a major upheaval, is an unfortunate and inexorable fact of life.

But as every other man-made union of nations in the world fragments agonisingly back into its constituent parts – the USSR, the states of the Eastern Bloc, Yugoslavia (even Italy’s union now hangs in the balance and I am none too sanguine about the United States); as our own home nations (Scotland, Northern Ireland, Wales, Cornwall…) assert their autonomy and demand self-determination; as even the smallest regions promote the integrity of their home-grown foodstuffs and identities amidst the homogenising tide – now a strange group of bureaucrats and outdated idealists seek to smear them all into one featureless landscape.

They call it a ‘level playing-field’.

Just think of that.

Mountains, hills, moors, pastures, deserts, coastlines, fishing-grounds – all levelled (and marked with ‘No Dogs’, ‘No Smoking’ and probably ‘No Heavy Petting’ signs) so that orderly men in cities can play a silly game according to man-made rules.

I knew even then that I wanted diversity to thrive.

I did not know – I would not have believed – that anyone would try to take it away from me.

*

I should have known better.

In 1971, a whimsical little ditty called ‘Imagine’ appeared. It preached the hateful message of globalisation by imperialistic homogenisation. ‘If we can get everyone to believe the same things and feel no loyalties, wouldn’t life be sweet?’ was its Victorian missionary’s message.

No matter that, if someone had penned a song called ‘Let’s get rid of all species except rabbits’, or ‘Who needs any food but McDonalds or any language but English?’ it would have been quite properly derided, this song was to become an almost universal mission-statement to a war-weary world.

You know the one. It begins quite promisingly. The piano goes ‘gurdle gurdle gurdle gurdle dum’. Then the dirge-like singing starts and the sugar-coated imperialism kicks in.

Get rid of all your diverse human ambitions and passions (and so, presumably, art and personal loves and standards). Get rid of all your nations, possessions, faiths and loyalties (and so, presumably, families, languages and diversity in habitat, custom and culture), get rid, in short, of your identities and of everything that makes you human, and everything will suddenly be oh, so simple and lovely.

The man might just as well have said, ‘Why not kill yourselves while you’re at it? That way you can be sure of peace.’

It reminds me of the blandishments of the ‘peaceful’ people possessed by alien seed-pods in the classic Invasion of the Bodysnatchers:

Love, desire, ambition, faith – without them, life’s so simple, believe me.

I don’t want any part of it.

You’re forgetting something, Miles.

What’s that?

You have no choice.

Many UKIP members see the EU as a SPECTRE-style conspiracy to attain global domination. I seriously believe that, no matter how devious and power-hungry they have become in pursuit of it (just look at the ‘idealism’ of Soviet Communism!), a good 70 per cent of Europhiles are actually motivated by adolescent infection with this ecologically wicked, fuzzy vision.

The gurdledum song does not represent a philosophy. It is about imagining.

It is so easy to imagine things. In fact, if imagining, not working the raw, gritty clay of this earth into beautiful and practical forms, were anything more than a diversion, philosophers, artists, musicians, chefs, couturiers, architects and the like could all retire and do something useful instead. Instead, they must devote their lives to wrestling with intractable, resistant materials – like human beings – to give them life and beauty.

After all, people have imagined horses, carpets, broomsticks and even buildings which fly, and very nice too, but, whilst you might invest in an airline or an earthbound thoroughbred stallion, I don’t think you’d be placing your hard-earned cash in a company selling intercontinental flights on Axminster rugs, or giving your beloved daughter a broom and a packed lunch and waving her goodbye from the top of a high building as she sets off for her gap-year in Australia.

Even back then, I despised the gurdledum song and the insipid, universal niceness which it implies.

I loved – love – the world in all its manifest diversity and believed – believe still – that ideas and cultures, like species, must compete untrammelled with others for their survival, that evolution cannot and must not be arrested by the imaginings of one self-appointed class in one generation.

Such overweaning arrogance based on ideal visions – whether by initially well-meaning Christianity, Islam or Communism or by the great empire-builders – has caused infinitely more suffering than just muddling through and evolving at our own natural pace.

Nations, cultures, clubs and languages all exist for a reason. If you attempt to destroy them before their time, their suckers will merely sprout more vigorously and often twistedly than ever. Supranationalism is a sweet idea. It is also a silly one. No imposed alliance has ever held, just as no one has yet been able to command happy marriages.

But the gurdledum message went almost unchallenged and unconsidered back then, and a whole generation was to grow up unprepared to try ideas on the testing-ground of argument and intent on destroying precious cultural constructs, habitats and identities in pursuit of a childish fantasy.

I was already enough of an ecologist to shudder when I heard this ecological wickedness

I shudder from it still.

*

The arguments were as muffled as no doubt the sex had once been. The grief and anger were manifest only in the stutter of the salt cellar on the tabletop, the occasional pan banged that little bit too hard, the light laugh swallowed that little bit too quickly, the honed knife-edge momentarily ringing beneath the velvet in answer to a child’s daft question.

We sensed it, of course, Andrew and I, and like all herd animals exposed to frailty in their leaders, no doubt asked more daft questions than were needed and punished my mother for her inattention by dangerous and downright stupid behaviour.

The word ‘divorce’ was still terrifying, the concept louche, American, all but unthinkable. Divorce happened to Zsa Zsa Gabor and Burton and Taylor, but not to respectable English boys like us, and yet…

No. It was impossible.

But we were gently but suddenly told that dad would no longer live with us. Considering that he had been absent more often than not, this information was strangely distressing.

I assume on reflection that the decision was a mutual one and equally painful for both of them. Mum, however, quite properly played blithe and careless in front of us, so I concluded that, with gross lèse-majesté and want of concern for her offspring, she had kicked him out and did not care.

At a time, then, when she most needed support, I was as aloof, distant and disapproving as a strutting little five-year-old can be.

I was the man of the house now, and, like my father, my place was not at the hearth but out there delving in ditches, dung-heaps and dust-heaps for treasure. I was busy.

I was not big enough to be much help, perhaps, but my mum had some preposterous idea that I might at least run errands, lay tables and empty bins, for example, or hold the trug as she gathered fruit or flowers.

She clearly did not understand that I had far, far more important things to do.

*

You see what I mean? Normal family, normal problems, normal silliness, normal failures. Nothing much happened. Everything was normal, almost by law. That’s how things were back then before ‘it’ was all allowed to hang out and each upheaval was promoted to a trauma.

God knows whether such a culture of denial was healthier than today’s, in which people post their period pains and hangovers as headline news on Facebook and consider the death of a soap-opera star or a disturbed princess grounds for prolonged mourning and therapy.

In truth, I have much admiration for my parents and their stoicism. I believe that their insistence on seeing only surmountable molehills probably really reduced the mountains in their way, and that their view of themselves and of their emotions as transient and peripheral rather than central to existence was beneficial to them no less than to others.

On the other hand, I bitterly resented the censorship which had kept me in the dark until the sudden announcement of the fait accompli. God knows what I thought I might have done had I known, but at least I would have understood more and not taken sides on a facile ‘doer’ and ‘done to’ basis as I then did.

Whether in consequence of the censorship to which I was then subjected or no, the whole of my life since then has been ruled by the conviction that there is nothing which should not be discussed and, where possible, tempered in the furnace of debate.

This was about to become an unfashionable principle.

In my early childhood, every playground rang to the dictum ‘It’s a free country!’

‘You can’t do that!’

‘It’s a free country.’

‘You’ll get in trouble…’

‘It’s a free country.’

The words ring hollow today.

Even children do not believe them any more.

Back then, we chanted or sullenly mumbled them because they were the distillation in everyday terms of everything our parents and grandparents had fought to preserve. They were our consolation for the costs of war.

In other cultures, we knew, censorship had been imposed by main force and dissent punished so soon as expressed. This was still the case in the Soviet Bloc. We in Britain, however, could say what we would, however contentious or absurd, so the suffering had been worthwhile.

Absurdity, indeed, was the ultimate rebellious celebration of that freedom. The Goons were seditious. Fools had as much right to speak, albeit amidst mockery, as Fellows of All Souls. After all, as we were assured, ‘they all laughed at Christopher Columbus when he said the world was round’ and so on, and ‘the fool who persists in his folly becomes wise’.

It was for no one man, no one class and no one age to decide with certainty who was the fool.

Now, however, the talk was of ‘D’ Notices – edicts prohibiting the publication of news. Soon the earnest anoraks were telling us of opinions, ‘You can’t say that.’

Soon after that, the anoraks, by dint of their earnestness, were in power.

Laws were made prohibiting historical debate, personal opinion – even scientific findings – if they ran counter to the views of the urban minority or risked causing ‘offence’. As ever, the circumscription of liberties was justified in the cause of our own welfare.

Freedom of speech no longer extended – no longer extends – to those deemed fools.

Of course, when the fool can freely speak even his small portion of a mind, he is challenged, derided, corrected. He may even learn.

When he is forbidden to speak, he learns nothing. On the contrary, he harbours and husbands his delusions and rightly resents their suppression. He privily seeks out those who share them. They argue that fear, not reason or justice, motivates the censors. They come to despise the law and all authority. They are marginalised.

Freedom of speech and belief is not subject to approval by a transitory authority. It is absolute or it is nothing.

Such was and remains my conviction.

And oh, it has got me into some delicious trouble.

*

There were times when we were not allowed to see dad. This was further evidence of my mother’s iniquity (well, how the hell was I to know? I only knew the laws of cricket and had a child’s highly developed sense of fairness). Would James Bond be banned from seeing his own children?

In fact, Guy Farage did at last prove a hero worthy of my mum and even of my illusions. In 1971, at the age of just thirty-six, he knocked the booze and started afresh.

He had, I later discovered, lost his position at the Stock Exchange (No. They do not punch a hole in your bowler and break your brolly à la Mary Poppins, but it must have hurt none the less) and attempted to eke out a more meagre and solitary existence by buying and selling antiques.

In 1972, the Queen opened the Stock Exchange Tower on Threadneedle Street. Sponsored by old friends who knew of his ability, a scrubbed and newly sober dad was ushered back onto the trading-floor where he belonged. He is still a stockbroker to this day.

As for mum, she too found her level and attained her deserts. We had all been conned – dad no less than the rest of us – by that glamorous, seductive, rakish, old-fashioned image. After years of having to be the sensible and stoical one at home, never knowing when or if her husband would return and, if he did, in what condition, she found love with a local businessman sober, sensible and sound enough to allow her to be the impulsive, creative, fey partner. She married Richard Tubb in 1971.

In her sixties, she discovered that she had a gift for public speaking and is now much sought after on the halls – town and village, that is – lecturing on local and natural history, Darwin and the like.

The greatest effect of the impending divorce on me (or so I thought at the time; the Freudian Why’s Wallyers may dissent and may even be right) was that it blighted my first years at school.

I was sent at the age of four and a half to Greenhayes School for Boys on Corkscrew Hill in West Wickham. Today it seems incredible, but there was not one other child in my year who came from what was then known as a ‘broken’ home.

Divorced people had been admitted to the Royal Enclosure at Ascot since 1955 (though still debarred from the Queen’s Lawn), but the Farages were not in that fast set. In my world, divorce was shameful and squalid, and the fact that my parents were indulging in it made me the object of unwanted and intrusive sympathy from adults and of the sort of awed and disapproving curiosity from other boys which would have been afforded to a murderer’s or lunatic’s child. It was as if the taint might rub off on them.

And I, of course, being argumentative, filled with a sense of injustice and accustomed to being heeded, shot my mouth off. I was as good as – no, better than – they. Divorce was normal – maybe even obligatory – amongst us er… top, very clever… er… top people.

This was no more the right approach for a bright little squit turning up at a traditional English prep-school than was the casual avian equivalent of ‘Hi, guys. How’s it hanging?’ with which dodos greeted humans.

Neither dodos nor I had encountered unpleasantness before. We were both to encounter plenty.

English prep-school education at the time was a daunting gamut whose effectiveness depended in large measure on the teachers. You learned your social skills by trial and often painful error and the bulk of your academic skills by rote. I attended two. They did much the same things very differently. For some things – the learning of dates from the arrival of St Augustine via Magna Carta, Bosworth Field and so on to the outbreak of World War II, the list of British monarchs from ‘Willy, Willy, Harry, Stee…’ down to ‘Four Georges, William and Victoria’, the inevitable recitations of times-tables, declensions and conjugations, I have had cause always to be grateful. They furnished the matrix in which further knowledge and experience readily lodged.

When it came, however, to recalcitrance or inability – the birthrights of most boys – teaching methods were often less efficient. Board-rubbers flew with an accuracy and slippers were wielded with a vim which testified to the teachers’ proficiency on the playing-field rather than in academe.

There was a deal of bellowing which served only further to confuse the confused. Our wrists grew strong through the writing of lines, which did nothing to inhibit their use in more natural – though no more productive – activities as we reached puberty.

Cromwell plainly encouraged his reputation as an occasional whimsical consumer of Irish children. No doubt my teachers too emulated and parodied their Dickensian and Hughesian archetypes. Unfortunately, some of them forgot that it was parody and found that it answered deeper needs and insecurities.

The experience with the teachers at that first school was alarming, but I was resilient and bright. The experience with the other boys initially gave my confidence a serious blow. ‘Not before time,’ some might say – and yes, I am sure that I must have been a cocky little sod, sorely in need of challenging, but this was an unanswerable challenge born of ignorance and prejudice. It taught me to bob and weave, how to appease (which did not come naturally) and when to attack (which did).

I remained at Greenhayes for just two years. I was then removed because of a rumour about the headmaster’s extra-curricular activities. They said with knowing nods that it was ‘the usual thing’. It seemed strange to me to be spurned for anything so usual.

I moved to Eden Park, an academy run by the fearsome Mrs Mallick, a war widow who, amongst her other impressive skills, killed wasps with her bare hands. The education here, however, which included meticulous attention to elocution, was really very good and the teachers imaginative and encouraging. I started to breeze.

Talents and passions tend to be governed by the law of supply and demand, so a boy or girl who is persuaded of the rarity of a facility in playing the flute, say, or in chess, in consequence nurtures and develops it and eventually allows that ability to ordain the course of his or her life. I have met many people destined, in the world’s terms, to be failures because their parents or teachers have expressed unwarranted awe at a minor talent.

On the other hand, I have known others who never cultivated considerable natural gifts because they were never made aware of their rarity and value.

I found most things easy.

I could see the ball clearly in cricket, knew the classic shots from my television-watching and reading of Sir Don Bradman’s book, rehearsed them, thrilled to the experience of playing a well-timed off-drive or square-cut and seeing the bobbing ball cleaving a green path through the dew on its way to the boundary.

I thought, ‘OK, that was great. What’s next?’

At eight, I took up golf. That, of course, would never be consistently easy. Had I the time, I would still be regularly engaged in that eternal quest for an illusory perfection, but again I could readily strike the ball true and could readily take on board the instructor’s advice and adapt my swing as necessary. My mother’s new husband was my first such instructor. He played off a handicap of seven and gave me a great deal of patient encouragement.

Academically, I proved quick and slick rather than brilliant – a superior jack and sometimes minor master of all trades – save maths which defied, taunted and tormented me.

I flirted with a hundred subjects and pastimes but fell in love with none of them. None became an overwhelming preoccupation, nor was I concerned to excel at them. They were merely amusing features of the curriculum or of daily life, and I rummaged through them and collected information and skills just as, in the holidays, I rummaged through the dust-heaps and collected stray artefacts.

Gradually, my academic facility, my impertinent blitheness and, above all, my sporting prowess sent me bobbing uncomfortably to the surface. After three or four years of being overawed and hesitant, I became a social animal. I was on top again.

I sat Common Entrance a year early. My maths was still weak, but my mother was told that I made up for this with an exceptional essay entitled ‘What I Did Last Weekend’. There was enthralling adventure and action in there – my brother and I had been staying with an aunt and uncle in Hampshire and had waded into mud so deep that we had had to abandon our embedded wellies and leap for the verge in stockinged feet – but the examiners were most impressed by my account of the table which my relatives kept – the fine wines and fabulous food. I may have gone a little overboard with the larks’ tongues and sweetmeats from farthest Araby, but I definitely conveyed the fact that they laid on one hell of a spread.

So I squeaked in by merit of my ability with words and love for food, wished Eden Park farewell and entered Dulwich College at the age of ten. My parents were delighted. There were Dulwich connections on both sides of the family.

My premature arrival was also, I think, characteristic. Others with my acumen might, with a little work, have won brilliant scholarships. I did things very easily and proficiently but was in far too much of a hurry to worry about your actual excellence. Had I stayed on for an extra year at West Wickham, I would simply have grown restless. I doubt that I would have improved my Common Entrance results by a single percentage point.

I just mastered something and wanted to get on at once with the next project.

I was in a hurry not because I had any more idea than a rushing river where I was bound, but just because I had exhausted the possibilities of the previous place.

Eddying was tedious, stagnation death. Moving on, babbling and sometimes sparkling, was just what I did.

2

DULWICH

Dulwich, alma mater of Raymond Chandler, P. G. Wodehouse and, most impressively to me, cricketer and commentator Trevor Bailey, was not terrifying at all, but I was properly terrified.

It was not terrifying because it was well-accustomed to tending and nurturing every sort of boy yet invented, and young Farage was perhaps not quite as exceptional as he believed.

I was terrified because it was enormous and teeming with huge and very active boys and young men. There were countless buildings in which to get lost, countless traditions to absorb, countless terms to be learned.

Most public schools are isolated like Ampleforth or, at the least, like Eton or Marlborough, self-contained villages in their own right, attached to towns which need not be visited by pupils from one year’s end to the next. Dulwich is almost unique in that, for all its extensive grounds, it is very much a part of south London life.

There are many day-boys, like me, who commute from other parts of London and the Home Counties and so must negotiate the Tube and bus systems and the more or less mean streets on their way to and from school.

There is a very high proportion of pupils on bursaries or scholarships, often from deprived or ethnic minority backgrounds. I hazard that, in the early seventies, there were few state schools outside the major cities with so broad a cross-section of cultural and racial backgrounds represented amongst the pupils.

We were linked by excellence – or, in my case, proficiency. Our homogeneity was elective, not inherited or enforced. I learned from my Ghanaian and Indian friends and they, I suppose and hope, from me. There was no childish assertion of cultural autonomy as in so many minorities today.

Dulwich may have been different in these ways from the majority of English public schools at the time, but it was no less exacting – it has always been in the top 2 per cent academically – and it tolerated fools no more gladly than others. ‘Amo, amas, amat, that’s all you lot are good for,’ physics master ‘Sniff’ Hart told us when we were being more than usually obtuse. ‘To be at Dulwich College, you have to be in the most intelligent 2 per cent in this nation. Well, if you’re the cream of England, God help the milk.’

A Brixton boy who had won a scholarship to Dulwich and who on his death left a large sum of money so that others might have the same opportunities, Hart never foresaw that the milk and the cream might be homogenised by edict.

Dulwich also retained the eccentricity of many English public schools. After my first ever assembly, at which I regarded the gowned, moustachioed masters with the trepidation with which the limping faun no doubt regards carrion crows, I set off for my first class. It happened to be PE.

PE was the province of Regimental Sergeant Major T. E. Day, familiarly known to all as ‘Ted’. Ted wore a pencil moustache which looked like two printed ticks upside down and a baggy, polo-necked blue tracksuit in which his puffed-out chest showed to impressive effect. He also carried on a lanyard an impressive bunch of keys with which he threatened to cosh us.

Off-duty, however, he was transformed.

He lived in Dorking. Every morning, he dressed in a dark suit, a spotless white shirt, a regimental tie and highly polished brogues. A bowler hat covered thin hair which gleamed like wet dolphin skin. He marched to the station, flourishing his umbrella like a swagger-stick, boarded a train to Victoria, hailed a taxi out to Dulwich and, once arrived, hung his Dorking personality on two hangers and donned the track suit.

Every evening, he went through the same process in reverse. We conjectured, of course, as to his other correct uniforms – the striped Victorian bathing-suit for the bath, the mess tunic and black tie for bangers and mash in the kitchen, colour-coded French letters for Mrs Ted…

On that first day, Ted took us for a run around playing-fields, along bright pavements and back around the muddy fields again. I had never been a runner and was one of the youngest in today’s field. Although I started amongst the leaders, I soon dropped back and was forced to study the asterisks of other boys’ arses as they drew further and further away. I finished in the last five, with only fat boys for company in humiliation.

We were not only humiliated. We were also scared. Of non-existent frogs.

We had heard what Ted did to slackers. He led them, it was asserted, to a deep, steep, mud-streaked trench close at hand. ‘Right!’ he would bawl. ‘Seeing as you gentlemen ’ave not seen fit to exert yourselves to the uttermost, you will now crawl up and down this ’ere ditch until you ’ave found a frog, whereupon you will be permitted to return to the school and an ’ot and soothing shah. Trouble is, unless I am much mistaken, there ain’t no frog!’

At a later PE lesson, when asked to project myself at the vaulting-horse, I grew windy and kept nipping back in the line. In my defence, I was tiny and the horse seemed a veritable Clydesdale. Ted spotted my backsliding and asked me what my problem was. ‘I can’t do it, sir!’ I gulped.

‘Do you know who the last person was who said to me, “I can’t do it, sir?”’ demanded Ted.

‘N-no, sir.’

‘It was ’Edley Verity,’ he said (Hedley Verity was a famously unflappable Yorkshire and England left-arm spinner who had been killed during the Allied invasion of Sicily). ‘“I can’t do it, sir! I can’t do it, sir!”’e said. And I said, “You will do it, Verity.” And ’e did. And ’e broke ’is leg. Now, off you go!’

This was just the start. Almost all the teachers at Dulwich when I arrived were veterans of World War II, tough, opinionated, cavalier, articulate, outspoken and very good at their jobs. That is, they amused and inspired. They made their lessons memorable.

They knew the value of red herrings and, so far from resisting our attempts to distract them, encouraged ventures into byways because they provided context for highways. Their terms of reference were not restricted to their own subjects. English lessons were enriched by references to French and history, say, and maths enlivened by reference to horseracing odds. They expressed personal opinions, which meant that we came right back at them with our own. Debate was encouraged.

Of course, I subsequently learned that such broadcast teaching is efficient only for us fertile sods, if you see what I mean, and not for stonier soils, but Dulwich, as I say, did not tolerate fools gladly or slow its pace to match that of the sluggard. Like ‘Ted’ Day, it simply encouraged you to catch up with the leaders and gave you the means to do so.

Occasionally we had supply teachers, fresh from university, who relied upon endless Xeroxed notes. We scorned them, yawned through their classes and did badly in the exams for which they were meant to be preparing us. It was noticeable, however, that those habitually at the bottom of the class fared far better when imagination was curbed.

Today, the pendulum has swung entirely towards the college-trained spoon-feeders to the detriment of those who prefer to hunt and to forage for themselves. Personality and personal experience are no longer considered assets in the teaching profession nor originality in exam candidates. Target-led, production-line education is the norm.

Again, diversity is reduced and the world, for all the levelness of its playing-fields, thereby diminished.

Anyhow, the system suited me down to the ground. I was recently invited back to Dulwich as a guest-speaker and was delighted to encounter a new breed of teacher who corresponded to neither of these models yet possessed the best attributes of both. It is still a very fortunate school.

A week after I arrived there, the Master, David Lloyd, addressed the school. ‘There are those,’ he warned, ‘who do not realise how fortunate they are nor how seldom if ever they will again have such an opportunity to feast on knowledge and experience as during these few short years. They drift through their years at Dulwich and only afterwards realise that they have wasted a great gift. Do not drift through your days at the whim of the breezes…’

I remember thinking, ‘Dear God! He’s right! I’ve been here ages and have achieved nothing. I’ve been drifting. Never again…’

Only later did I realise that my overwhelming guilt was a little premature, being occasioned by just five days during which I had learned, amongst other things, the geography of the school, the whereabouts of my classrooms, the names of my contemporaries, prefects and teachers and much more.

Nonetheless, I resolved to make up for lost time. I had been busy since I was a toddler. Now I had cause to be busy day in and day out. I was up before daybreak, spent twenty minutes on the train reading Ian Wooldridge and catching up on homework, then walked to school from West Dulwich Station. Aside from lessons, snatched meals, daily games and Corps, I doubt that there was a single school club which I did not visit and from which I did not derive something.

Theatre, art, music, debating, model-railways, numismatics, philately, film and oh so many others briefly commanded my attention. Characteristically, I joined nothing. Only the Combined Cadet Force (CCF), in which I was an ardent member of the army section, cricket and golf, in both of which I grew ever more proficient and soon represented the school, occupied me throughout my school career.

I attended every lecture on politics, philosophy and current affairs given by visiting speakers and was prominent when questions were invited from the floor. Red Ken Livingstone addressed us and was assailed by a fervent Farage. Enoch Powell visited in 1982, a day before his seventieth birthday, and dazzled me for once into awestruck silence. I helped to found the Investment Society where we pooled modest sums and traded, through my father’s agency, on the stock market.

I was convinced that all this feverish activity constituted the sort of progress which Mr Lloyd had exhorted. It was to be many years before I realised that I had merely been drifting after all, albeit with random trips in the jolly-boat to a thousand atolls.

Others found islands to their liking and built and farmed on them. I just visited them. I enjoyed the scenery and the natives then set off again. I was still rummaging, sightseeing, acquiring acquaintances, knowledge and mementos.

Others had vocations. I had vacations.

And all the while I was reading with a similar want of discrimination or direction. Some called reading work. I just did it whenever I wasn’t in company, and didn’t much care what it was, just so long as I was visiting someone else’s world or acquiring his or her understanding or skill.

One day, all this would prove phenomenally valuable. I love people. Canvassing and campaigning are not just means to an end but ends in themselves. And I derive no satisfaction from just pressing the flesh and passing on. However briefly, I like to engage with those whom I meet in my wanderings and to learn from each of them. The quickest way to achieve this is through their passions.

Dog-racing? Pheasant-breeding? Led Zeppelin? Christian Science? The Marx Brothers? Flat Earth Societies? Bring ’em on. I have been there. I have shared your enthusiasm.

There was another benefit from this amateurish Grand Tour. The gauche, argumentative infant soon became thoroughly clubbable. I got on well with my seniors and was cultivated by them as a no doubt amusing and provocative clown or precocious performing and yapping terrier.

The yapping – and occasional growling – occurred when anyone tried to deny me knowledge or to put one over on me or others.

Whenever I encountered interventionist authority, I was at the forefront of the dissidents. Whenever I encountered unthinking acceptance of doctrine, whether about the news or history, I challenged it fiercely. Whatever my own views. I would champion any neglected damsel in distress amongst ideas against the dragons of prejudice. I fought fiercely for anarchy, CND doves and warmongering hawks, Christianity, atheists, the pro-and anti-abortion (NOT pro-choice and pro-life) factions, feminism, chauvinism…

This was not mere puppy play-fighting. I had discovered in myself a passionate loathing for received opinion. The era of doctrinaire liberalism was dawning, and I despised views acquired free with chart records or designer jeans and sloppily dribbled or spewed forth without fear of challenge. I required terms defined and postures defended against dialectic and invective as ferocious as I could muster.

Above all, perhaps, I despised the conflation of trite aesthetics and ethics. The fact that something was distasteful or offensive did not make it unacceptable. Sex, birth and death – anything other than the status quo – are distasteful and offensive to the burgeoning, alienated middle classes. The easiest way to their approval was to fulminate against these without thought. I could not manage it. I must temper every view in the furnace of argument.

Aesthetics, after all, are the slaves of mere fashion. Sentimental squeamishness has in its time justified racism, the condemnation of homosexuality, the censorship of all good journalism, the sequestration of the old and the disabled, the routine cruelty of the battery farm because no one wants to acknowledge that meat comes from living creatures, the hanging of the innocent brunette and the sparing of the wide-eyed blonde though guilty as sin, the assumption that the Comanche was a savage and the man in the white hat a hero…

Yes, Farage was ‘off on one’ again, to the glee of my schoolfellows and the embarrassment of my teachers.

Today, such childish amoral ‘morality’ has primacy. Wring the neck of a free-range bird for the pot or use a four-pound hammer and a razor-sharp knife on your pig and you are a wicked brute. Buy a plastic-wrapped pink thing which lived its entire life eating shit in darkness and your conscience can remain untroubled. The supermarkets demand and receive huge benefits from the EU and a government which presumes to ban the ritualistic bio-control of hunting. Senility and death are nasty, so confining our old people in homes is nice. Go figure.

Of course, the facile assumed that such passion indicated that I was in favour of everything for which I argued. I was pro-hunting, smoking, abortion, the needless splattering of the brains of helmetless motorcyclists and no doubt suicide in my time. In fact, I was at the time agnostic about pretty much everything. I only knew that no one was going to cheat me by daubing a vexed and important subject with sticky pink frosting and declining to discuss the alternative because it was not considered ‘nice’.

Where had this zeal sprung from? I don’t know. Maybe it did have its origins in my experience of unjustifiably assumed authority at prep school or in the ‘none of your concern’ attitude with which my parents had attempted to defend me from knowledge for my own good but which had in fact left me flailing in the dark. Maybe it was the combination of my limitless inquisitiveness and the ‘Because we say so’ which then greeted all childish enquiries.