One reason Nigel Farage is currently making such a successful Jungle Jim is because he doesn’t duck a discussion or swerve a question. Camp-mates – and viewers – may not like what he says, but they appreciate the direct response. It makes a change from most politicians. It doesn’t matter what question you ask them: if they can dodge it, they will. It’s almost a reflex and it drives me potty when I’m co-hosting Good Morning Britain.
Me: ‘What’s the weather doing where you are, minister?’
Minister: ‘I want to pay tribute to the work of the Met Office. Without these skilled men and wom…’
Me: ‘I just want to know what the weather’s like there.’
Minister: ‘Please allow me to finish. As I was saying, the Met Office does excellent work with its…’
And so on, until the clock runs out. Farage will just stick his head out of the window and tell you if it’s raining or not. He’ll happily bare all, be it his buttocks or his thoughts. I think he worked out, long before going into the jungle, that the remorselessly recording cameras and permanently unmuted microphones would rapidly reveal any artifice or pretence. So he doesn’t try. He’s even open with his calculations over how much extra airtime he’ll get if he’s made to do a trial – and hence about his disappointment that he’s not been chosen to do more of them, however disgusting.
I know from my own time on I’m A Celebrity a couple of years ago that hunger is a big factor in affecting behaviour. My son-in-law James Haskell, the rugby player, was doing well during his spell in the jungle until ‘hanger’ got the better of him and he blew up by the campfire. That was him voted out. But here, too, Farage has (so far) displayed impressive self-control. Maybe he’s only in it for the money – a reported £1.5 million – but if so, why bother making a near pitch-perfect presentation? Because Farage’s gaze is focused beyond the smoke of the campfire to the smoking wreckage looming on the horizon: that of the Tory party after the next election. That’s the jungle he wants to be king of.
I’m delighted for the good people of Sunderland that Nissan is investing a hefty £1.2 billion in its plant there, guaranteeing 6,000 jobs. But watching TV news footage of workers carefully fitting dashboards and windscreens, it struck me that this is exactly the sort of work that these days can be done by intelligent machines. So rather than AI, is Nissan introducing AE? Artificial Employment?
I’ve always been against capital punishment but after the week I’ve had I’m making an exception. The return of the death penalty for iPhone thieves, if you please. By garrotting, preferably. Ever had your phone stolen? It’s like having your right arm chopped off. You can’t do anything. You can’t phone anyone. Take anyone’s calls. Email. Pay for parking. Personal banking, without your iPhone? Don’t make me laugh. Diary dates, WhatsApp groups, photos… all out of reach. Mine was swiped from right under my nose, like a malicious magic trick. I was in my local when a weird-looking guy shambling around the bar slammed a dog-eared magazine down on my table and demanded I buy it. When I refused he swept it back again and wandered off. Five minutes later I realised he’d smuggled my phone away underneath the magazine. I’ve since learned this is a bog-standard technique. Be warned, friends. I loathe the man who did this to me. Even so, I accept that garrotting is probably a stretch too far. So I’ll settle for a straightforward hanging. Just as long as I’m the one allowed to pull the trapdoor lever, OK?
Two 60th anniversaries recorded last week – JFK’s assassination and the birth of Doctor Who. You know you’re knocking on a bit if you remember both unfolding on a flickering black-and-white telly. I do. The first chiefly because it was the only time I saw my parents weep. The second because the concept of a space being bigger on the inside than the outside (the Tardis) was so singular that it’s all we talked about at school the following Monday. But today’s kids have an even stranger proposition to get their heads around: a police telephone box. Now that is weird.
THUD. It is Strictly head judge Shirley Ballas’s new novel (well, ghostwritten) landing on the doormat ahead of a live interview with her. I turn to the blurb on the inside jacket. ‘Sex, lies and ballroom dancing… Murder on the Dance Floor: a world where the most ambitious stop at nothing to win.’ I thought this was supposed to be fiction.
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