In a quiet corner of the Strangers’ Bar, the lights are low, the mood lower, and the glasses significantly cleaner than the members’ consciences. George, the bartender, has seen it all – Remainer hysterics after Brexit, tear-sodden Tory rosettes discarded after the last general election, and the quiet front-bench despair that accompanies the latest dire opinion poll. Tonight the place has the uneasy hush of a condemned man nursing his final pint.
The door swings open around nine and in he strolls, mustard cords agleam, tweed jacket a little worn at the elbows, and the trademark flat cap at a rakish angle. ‘Our Nige’ looks suspiciously cheerful for a man who’s spent the last decade being called every name under the sun.
“Big day tomorrow, isn’t it?” asked George, reaching knowingly for the correct glass.
Farage flashed a yellow-stained grin and plonked himself down on his usual stool. “Don’t mind if I smoke, do you, George?”
The barman shrugged. “At this point you could set the curtains alight and I’d still serve you. Place could do with a bit of cheering up.”
Farage lit up with ceremonial pleasure and took a long, luxurious drag, as George slid the pint of Greene King IPA across the bar. He exhaled like a man, confident the smoking ban might actually be repealed tomorrow.
“Starmer’s trying to ban these outright, you know?” he declared, flicking ash with theatrical flair. “Fiddling with fags while Britain burns. The man’s completely obsessed with banning working-class pleasures. Frankly, the truth is he’s lost the plot.”
He leaned in, eyes twinkling. “Mind you, between you and me, George, Starmer likes the odd fag himself. Ukrainian brand, apparently. Very expensive to get hold of over here. Side effects can be a bit harsh though.”
“Arson?” George muttered.
Farage smiled. “You said it George, not me!”
“So anyway, he sends billions their way while the rest of us get lectures about second-hand smoke. Funny how that works, isn’t it?”
George polished a glass in non-committal silence.
“Still,” Farage continued, “he’ll be singing a different tune after we’ve kicked his door down tomorrow.”
“I’ve heard Sir Keir doesn’t mind that,” muttered George, “at least according to Lord Alli.”
“Each to their own, George, each to their own!” Farage chuckled with a passable imitation of Sid James. “You know, ordinary decent people are sick to the back teeth of the hypocrisy.”
He took a contented pull on his pint. “So who do they replace him with, eh? Mad Miliband? The man couldn’t negotiate a bacon sandwich, let alone a trade deal. Angela Rayner? Well, I have to say she’d get my vote, George!” He winked. “Burnham might cause us a few problems, mind you. But the truth is there are no safe Labour seats left anymore.”
Farage leaned in conspiratorially. “No, there’s only one man for the job now. Which means the attacks will only get worse. Have you seen my security costs?!”
“Five million wasn’t it?” George muttered.
“Right! A piddling five mill, but have you seen the BBC? A few quid from a private donor and you’d think I’d nicked the Crown Jewels. Or at least employed Gary Lineker for a month. Meanwhile they look the other way when it’s billions spent on migrant hotels. Priorities, eh? Milkshakes for me, full English breakfast and a primary school view for them, if they’re lucky!”
“Do the honours, George,” he said, draining his glass.
Farage stubbed out the cigarette and immediately reached for another. “Still, I’ve got news for the BBC, the Greens and the Lib Dems. We’re going to house the next batch of illegals in their constituencies. How about a bit of proper diversity in Islington, Hackney and Brighton? Plenty of virtue-signalling spare rooms going there. Let’s see how long the rainbow flags last then.”
George raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a little drastic?”
“Just giving the voters what they want George, isn’t that the name of the game?”Farage laughed darkly.
“Look, I’m not saying I’m the saviour of Britain. I’ve had more than the odd pint, I’ve got plenty of baggage, but I’ve got far more in common with the man in the street than the rest of the multimillionaires in here. The truth is, we want our country back – and I’m the only man who can deliver it.”
He pushed the empty glass forward with a satisfied tap. “Same again, George. And have one yourself. Win or lose, this country’s had quite enough of being told what it can smoke, drink, think or enjoy by a bunch of people who visibly despise it.”
George poured without comment. For the first time in weeks, the faintest smirk crept across his face.
Because in the Strangers’ Bar, when even the chain-smoking outsider starts looking like the future, you don’t interrupt him.
You just keep pouring.
Frank Haviland is the author of Banalysis: The Lie Destroying the West and The Frank Report Substack.
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… but suddenly the room went quiet, many standing in respect, as Mr Rupert Lowe entered.