The Cult of Nige and the Davos Delusion
Yesterday I made a couple of posts suggesting that Nigel Farage had gone to Davos to represent the working class of Britain.
This was, quite obviously, a joke.
In fact, it was such an absurd suggestion that anyone who genuinely believed it would have to be operating beyond the reach of satire, irony, or basic political literacy. And yet, almost immediately, my comments section and DMs filled with warnings: I was being far too subtle. Reform supporters, people said, would take it literally, share it enthusiastically, and use it as proof that their worldview was finally being validated.
As usual, they were absolutely right.
Sure enough, people began celebrating Farage as a fearless champion of the downtrodden, bravely marching into Davos to “take the elites to task” on behalf of ordinary Britons. The satire was swallowed whole, regurgitated uncritically, and reposted with glee. This part, at least, was predictable. Anyone who spends time writing political satire online becomes accustomed to watching irony dissolve on contact with blind loyalty.
What I did not expect, however, was for Farage himself to release a video later that evening essentially repeating the same argument word for word. There he was, earnestly assuring his followers that he hadn’t sold out to the elite, that he wasn’t hobnobbing with billionaires for his own benefit, and that his presence at Davos was purely about standing up for the long-suffering people of Britain.
And they believed him. Completely.
They didn’t question it. They didn’t laugh. They didn’t even hesitate. They lapped up every syllable and rewarded him with a resounding endorsement, as though a man who has spent decades cultivating elite connections had suddenly become a tribune of the working class simply by declaring it so on camera.
That was the moment it became clear that there is no reaching these people.
This is no longer about policies, evidence, or even credibility. It is about devotion. They are all-in on the cult of Nige. The musky shepherd has them utterly transfixed, immune to contradiction, reason, or reality. Nothing we can say will change their minds, and nothing he can do will dislodge their faith.
He could contradict himself outright, betray every promise, or march them straight towards the edge of a cliff—and they would cheer all the way down, convinced that the fall itself was somehow an act of rebellion against the elite.
At that point, satire stops being misunderstood and starts being overtaken by the farce it was meant to expose.
