Nigel Farage’s memoir reveals a small-minded man living in a bubble of self-aggrandisement
Being a racist is like being a snob. You are always on patrol; always noticing differences others ignore. Nigel Farage’s enemies accuse him of being obsessed with race. I assumed Farage would use this campaign autobiography to refute them. Instead he obsesses for England.
He tells the standard inspirational story of triumph over adversity, physical as well as political. Farage recalls how cancer left him with a Hitlerian deficiency, when it took away one of his testicles. The NHS misdiagnosed his condition and allowed one testicle – the left, he tells us – to become “as large as a lemon and rock hard”. I am not sure I needed to know that. But three decades after the event Farage still wants the reader to know that the blundering physician was “an Indian doctor”. When he calls on a neurosurgeon, Farage again feels the need to dwell on his physician’s immigration status. This time he tells us he was treated by “an Indian migrant who grew up in Slough”, although Farage does not mind over-much because the doctor turned out to be “incredibly pro-British”.
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