Yesterday, the world dimmed a little. Patrick O’Flynn, a man who was both a titan of the Brexit cause and a cherished friend, died. The news hit like a sledgehammer, and as I sit here, with a cup of tea, trying to make sense of it, memories flood.
Paddy wasn’t just a figure in the political and journalistic firmament, though of course he was that; he was a force, a believer, a strategist, and, above all, a decent human being. His death leaves a void that no amount of words can fill, but I’ll try to do a little justice to the man whose efforts in no small way changed the course of history.
It was 2005, the dark days before Brexit was even a whisper in the mainstream. Back then, the idea of Britain regaining her sovereignty was a pipe dream, the kind of niche obsession discussed in hushed tones by consenting adults far from the prying eyes of the establishment. I was a youngish press officer for UKIP, working under Nigel Farage, and we were a ragtag bunch, dismissed as cranks by the chattering classes. Then, out of the blue, my phone rang. It was Patrick O’Flynn, the political editor of the Daily Express, a national newspaper no less. He wanted to talk, not just to Nigel, but to me. He wanted my opinion, our perspective, our dream. I was floored. Here was a proper journalist, not some hack looking for a quick quote to mock, but someone who got it. He understood that our five per cent could, with grit and guile, become 50 per cent. And, as history would prove, he was bang on.
Paddy wasn’t just interested in Brexit. He believed in it, heart and soul. But what set him apart was his strategic brain, honed by years in the journalistic trenches. He saw what others missed. While UKIP was still leaning on the ‘Tonbridge half-Colonels’, the retired, tweedy types who formed our early base, Paddy was already looking north. He was the first to argue that we should pivot to what we now call the Red Wall, those working-class heartlands abandoned by Labour’s metropolitan elites. He was Blue Labour before the term existed, a man who understood that the soul of Britain lay not in SW1’s wine bars but in the pubs and factories of the North and Midlands. He saw the coalition that would eventually deliver Brexit, and he wasn’t afraid to say so.
I remember him taking Farage to task over UKIP’s NHS policy. Nigel, famously is not a man to brook opposition, but Paddy didn’t just argue politics, he argued principle. He laid out, with forensic clarity, why UKIP needed to champion the NHS, not just for electoral gain but because it was right for the people we claimed to represent. Nigel listened, and Nigel changed his mind. That was Paddy’s gift: he didn’t just win arguments; he won hearts and minds. His influence didn’t stop there. In 2010, he convinced Richard Desmond, the Express’s owner, to throw the paper’s weight behind the Better Off Out campaign. The ‘wiser’ heads called it brave, code for reckless. Paddy called it necessary. And, as usual, he was right.
His reward for such audacity? A job offer from Nigel as UKIP’s Director of Communications, my direct boss. Later, he took on Strategy and Campaigns, and in 2014, he stood for the European Parliament and won. He excelled in every role, not because he was some slick operator, but because he believed. Nigel called him a ‘titan of the cause’ yesterday, and truer words were never spoken.
Paddy wasn’t just interested in Brexit. He believed in it, heart and soul
But Paddy was more than a political colossus. He was my friend. His decency was the north star of his character. Time and again, when his interests clashed with those of his mates, he chose his mates, as Farage learned to his cost. That being said, it didn’t take long for his counsel to be sought again.
Regular as clockwork. He was the heart of our monthly gatherings at the Marquis of Granby, where the UKIP, Brexit party, and now Reform tribes would meet to gossip, plot, and reminisce over pints and the inevitable discussion over which song – this month – was Paul Weller’s best. Paddy was our chairman, our glue, the working-class lad from the ‘maintained sector’ who made it to Cambridge and outshone his peers in everything, except arrogance. He had none.
The tributes pouring in since his passing tell the story of a man who touched lives far beyond our bubble. ‘We rarely agreed, but he was always courteous,’ one message read. ‘He didn’t know me from Adam, but he’d answer almost any question,’ said another. That was Paddy: generous, open, human. He embodied a certain Englishness – gruffly kind, quietly principled, fiercely loyal. The outpouring of shock and sadness on X, from allies and adversaries alike, speaks to the breadth of his impact. One user wrote, ‘Patrick O’Flynn was a rare breed: a journalist who believed in something bigger than headlines.’ Another: ‘He made Brexit possible, and he did it with honour.’
As I write this, I’m staring at my phone, reading the messages, each one a dagger. Paddy’s death feels like the end of an era, juxtapositioned as it was with the day that Starmer’s ‘betrayal reset’ was debated in the Commons. He was the voice on the phone in 2005, the strategist who saw the path, the friend who’d always have your back. We’re poorer without him, but richer for having known him. Rest in peace, Paddy.
But of course it is not the end of an era. He was a fighter and a believer. As he wrote in 2014, and as I know he believed now in every cell, ‘Never stop believing in Britain. If I know you half as well as I think I do then I know that you never will’.
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