Remember me
There are, one might think, less humiliating things which Nigel Farage could have done with himself this summer. Perhaps he could have nipped out the front to quickly check on something without taking his keys, so that when the door slammed behind him he’d be trapped outside, possibly in his pants. Perhaps he could have used a bathroom where the door lock can’t be reached from the loo, leaving him, mid business, with the opposite problem. Or perhaps he could have gone to a party, finally worked out where he knew that person from, and enthusiastically reintroduced himself, only to realise that she’d known all along and had been ignoring him on purpose. That can also be embarrassing. So I’m told.
But these are too small for a man sometimes described as the most influential British politician of the 21st century. Not for our Nigel these petty, private embarrassments. For a man who remade British politics, in roughly the same way an enormous flaming space rock remade the dinosaurs, only face-planting and then wetting himself in front of the entire planet will do.
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