In the shadow of Port Talbot’s decommissioned blast furnace, Nigel Farage courts a speculation of Westminster journalists in a pub car park. The Senedd election campaign is coming to a close, and the British media is fleetingly interested in Wales.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Farage tells the latest gaggle of giddy Reform supporters he has drawn into his orbit. They include a couple from Dudley with an Airbnb on the Gower; a farmer calling himself Lord Maesteg; a man flying a George Cross from the back of his mobility scooter; and a pair of men in Everlast tracksuits holding a carrier bag of lager apiece.
There’s a reverential hush as the landlord of the Owain Glyndŵr Sport Bar hands the multi-millionaire an unusually brown pint of John Smiths.
“You wouldn’t catch Keir Starmer drinking a pint like a normal person” observes Carol, a fifty-something from Margam who runs Mary Puppins, a dog walking business.
Campaign ace Lee Anderson alights from a Ford Ranger he has parked across two disabled bays. Less inclined to be associated with the faithful, Sarah Pochin remains in the car, applying lipstick in the rearview mirror.
“I did forty all the way here” he declares unprompted, delighting a crowd who are still seething that Wales’s recent 20mph speed limits have resulted in a 28 per cent drop in deaths and serious injuries on roads they’ve been applied to.
A man from ITN points out that he’s left the engine idling.
“Net zero equals net stupid,” replies Anderson. The general consensus is that he is “box office”, or as Welsh Reform leader Dan Thomas puts it to me, “This is high-visibility retail politics, Henry.”
“Come on then, where’s Nigel? The boats aren’t going to stop themselves!” says Anderson, gleefully playing all the hits to the receptive crowd.
The Reform supporters cheer and begin a lively chant of “stop the boats.” Like tourists prioritising as many must-sees as possible, London’s journalists point their camera-people at the crowd as if they’re on a working-class safari.
One of the men, Carl, tells me he is sergeant-at-arms of the Port Talbot volunteer border force.
“We patrol Aberavon beach like. Hundred per cent success rate so far. Zero landings.”
“Thank you for your service,” says one of the Airbnb owners, Cheryl, with great sincerity.
“It’s only a matter of time before they break through, though,” says the man on the mobility scooter. From a patch on his battle jacket I identify him as “The Colonel”.
“Do you really think they’d land here?,” Cheryl asks.
“One hundred percent,” replies Carl’s mate, Brad, who has just thrown a 75p can of Boost into a hedge and is now opening a Stella. “Their aim is to wipe out the white indigenous Christian population. It’s in the Koran on X.”
“He’s right,” says Lord Maesteg authoritatively. “When men of fighting age leave their families behind to claim £15 a week and an Alcatel mobile in the kind of numbers these are doing, it’s no longer a matter of if they’ll commit jihad via the Bristol Channel. It’s when.”
Cheryl’s husband puts his arm around his visibly anxious wife. “Don’t worry Bab. That’s exactly why we’re here today.”
Farage is addressing the media. “For too long we’ve been prioritising the woke globalist agenda over the needs of white working-class Englishmen.” Dan Thomas whispers in his ear. “And of course Welshmen too.”
“So, here’s to reopening the blast furnace” he announces, pint aloft, to a press pack that forgets he’s already rowed back on this commitment because they’re distracted by Anderson gnawing a bacon bap. “The liberals will lose their minds when they see this,” proclaims the member for Ashfield.
A woman in hijab walking down the pavement with a pushchair and two children attracts the crowd’s attention. Their interest gives way to disquiet when they realise that the family aren’t speaking English to each other.
“Stop the boats!” shouts Brad reflexively. The Colonel reverses his scooter into their path. Nobody is smiling now.
“Now, now. We mustn’t be nasty” says Farage, past master of staying just the right side of the MSMs offside flag. After a pause, he adds “But of course, if you want to live in this country, you must be able to speak the language.”
Emboldened, and in the same slow and deliberate way you might imagine her talking to an obstructive rep in Magaluf, Carol asks “Do you speak English?”
“Yes,” replies the mother.
“Then where are you from?”
“Port Talbot.”
Carol rolls her eyes knowingly.
“No. I mean, where are you really from?”
“Oh. Well, Cwmafan then.”
It’s a disappointing answer. Carol perseveres.
“Then why weren’t you speaking English to your children?”
“We were speaking Welsh.”
