Farage v Binface: A Man and a Bin

I wasn't planning a midweek episode. But a man has resigned from Parliament on purpose, so there can be a by-election, so he can stand in it — and the only candidate who's stepped up to face him wears a bin on his head. Ten minutes on Boaty McBoatface, Mr Blobby, five Christmas number ones about sausage rolls, a gritter called David Plowie, and what all of it should have taught the men who call themselves the voice of the people. Kettle's on. Sit yourself down.

Read the piece at Views from the Shed on Substack.

Transcript

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There's a shed at the end of the garden where the kettle's always on. Hello. Welcome to the shed. I wasn't planning on a midweek podcast. I'm off on a bit of a road trip tomorrow, doing some research for the weekend piece. But something happened in British politics, and I couldn't just let it pass. Kettle's on. Sit yourself down. Put your feet up for ten minutes. Nigel Farage has resigned as a member of Parliament. Not retired. Resigned. On purpose. So that there can be a by election, so he can stand in it. Now I had to read that twice. He may want to do that as well. There's an investigation going on into his affairs. He says he's done that wrong. But that's for the proper people to sort out, and I'm going to leave it with him. What interests me is what happens next. He announced the contest as the people vs the establishment. Then the establishment declined to attend. Labour said no, the Conservatives said no. Liberal Democrats, the Greens, even the fellow who fell out with him and set up his own party, all of them stood aside. But one candidate, a Cape Crusader with a bin on his head, stepped forward. Count Binface. Now that got me thinking, you may remember in twenty sixteen, a government science body asked the public to name a new polar research ship. The public thought about it, and then answered Bourty MacBoatface. The officials panicked. They named the ship after David Attenborough instead, and gave Bourty to a small yellow submarine as a bit of a consolation. Now I've always considered that vote one of the finest things this country has done in my lifetime. The public were invited to be serious and politely declined. There are men in public life who need that doing to them regularly, and we've been slacking a bit lately. Thing is, it wasn't a one off. In nineteen ninety three the Christmas number one was Mr Blobby. In two thousand nine, half the country went out and bought a furious American rock record from years before for the sole purpose of stopping a talent show winning it again. A man from Nottingham then had five Christmas number ones in a row about sausage rolls, and the money went to food banks. Councils asked the public to name their gritters, and were handed David Ploughy, Usain Saltz, Gritney Spears, and Gritzy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Anti Slip Machiny. That was Doncaster the last one. twenty five thousand votes. And last but not least, at the twenty seventeen election, the Prime Minister stood on her own at the count next to a man called Lord Buckethead, because we've been putting joke candidates on ballot papers since screaming Lord Such, and nobody wearing a rosette has been allowed to forget it ever since. Now there's a message in all of that, and it's the same one every time. You don't tell us what to take seriously. Any man who calls himself the voice of the people ought to sit with that thought for a minute, particularly the ones who look across the pond for their inspiration. Rallies and Razmataz might work over there. Over here, the public watches a man on stage pointing at himself and starts thinking I wonder what the name of that gritter should be. The people of Great Britain have a voice. It's daft. It's frequently kinder than it looks. The sausage rolls fed the food banks. And it isn't the man in the suit's voice to borrow. You'd know that if you'd spent any time amongst people. It's hard to hear that voice if you spend most of your time on a stage telling a room full of people who already agree with you what they already think. We're asked to regard these men as giants, titans, forces of history. And one of the Titans is now going to spend his summer campaigning against a bin. If he wins, he's beaten a bin. If the bin poles well, a bin pulled well against him. There's no version of that night where the returning officer reads the numbers out and the man beside the bin looks ten feet tall. I've stood outside enough pubs at closing time to know a performance can quite often end in tears and laughter. There's always a big dog in a group, giving it lives to his audience of acolytes. He usually ends up with him dropping his kebab to the laughter of the crowd. Brings him down a peg or two. Nobody ever comes back from juggling a kebab and dropping it while you're waving the taxi down. As it happens, Count Binface has a bit of form. He stood in Makerfield last month against Andy Burnham and took ninety five votes. Ninety five people in Greater Manchester look down the paper ballot and choose the bin. I'd like to meet them. I spec I'd enjoyed their conversation, and it would not surprise me if some of them could write a pretty good substack post. The Count's manifesto, for the record, is at least one affordable house. Quassants capped at a pound. Cyclists who run their lights made to ride unicycles. Now I've heard worse. In fact I've voted for worse. So I hope Clacton enjoys itself. It's their by election, whatever anybody else says, and if a decent number of them put their cross next to a bin, and I'm personally hoping they do, just to see if the returning officer can keep a straight face. Then it's not a wasted vote. That's a message delivered the way this country delivers them the best. We can see you for what you are, mate. Now give over you big Nelly. That noise in the background, if you can hear it, is Mrs. C reminding me that the bing was out tonight. She's obviously here wigging at door, but I don't think she's quite understood what I'm talking about. Any road up hope to see you at weekend. Terano Letters from Church Words like morning rain. Pull up a chair and stay awhile. I'm very glad you came.