Flying Free

by Nigel Farage

  We stayed at neighbouring houses on Mother Ivy’s Bay in Cornwall in 2008 – I to catch porbeagle shark, he to be photographed having a British holiday. I issued an open invitation to him to join me at the local pub for a sherbet or two – unsurprisingly not accepted – and then in 2009 we were both guests at my dad’s regimental dinner.

  Sandy Cameron, David’s great-uncle, was one of the great heroes of the Kent and County of London Yeomanry (‘The Sharpshooters’) and dad, as President, invited the Leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition along.

  Again, he was charming, but I noticed something which I have seen in some other very successful politicians – a single-mindedness which converts every detail, no matter how small, into grist for the political mill.

  He had, of course, been well-briefed. His greeting to me was, ‘Ah, Nigel. Father and son, so where’s the next generation?’ There was a triumphant look on his face. I knew where he was going. It was a gentle enough tease.

  I told him, ‘Yes, yes. I know, David. He’s down as a member of Conservative Future. So would I be at his university. It gets him half-price membership of night clubs and an introduction to lots of girls.’

  He made a speech that night in which he paid tribute to his great-uncle and declared that the Tories, if elected, would stand up for the interests of the military. To which I can only say with my usual eloquence, ‘Hmph.’

  There have been many Tories who pay lip-service to Euroscepticism for the sake of votes. Although Cameron is ideologically far more a Social Democrat than a Conservative (expansion of foreign aid budgets, slashing of defence spending and the like), I believe his natural inclinations to be libertarian, democratic and conservative. In the days when he was guided by deep-seated convictions, he voted against smoking and hunting bans, identity cards and other interventionist policies.

  In common with most people of his background, he has, I think, an innate understanding of ecology – the necessity for local will and local requirements to shape specific evolution rather than imposing from without a uniform ideology or, still worse, an ideal, on communities, families and nations.

  He expresses these sometimes, in amongst the cast-iron guarantees, the pledges to slash immigration figures, to get rid of EU Human Rights legislation and to rescind the staggeringly illiberal hunting ban – none of them kept. Of course, he can blame coalition for his failure, but I suspect that it comes as quite a relief not to have to fulfil them.

  Because all such inclinations are at war with his Social Democracy, which is gurdledum-based, and his instincts as a full-time career politician, which are highly developed.

  He dearly loves being a European leader, believes the old lie that we can have ‘influence’ only within the Soviet and dreads the battle between Eurotoadies and Eurosceptics – irreconcilable until there is a strong leader – which once sundered his party. He, like all his kind, depends upon the maintenance of the cosy status quo.

  So just as past Conservative leaders have posed as Eurosceptics, so he is posing as a Europhile. The result is the same. Submission.

  Maybe with confidence and maturity, Cameron will allow himself to sail forth flying his true colours, but I very much doubt it. With every year that purported national leaders play the ‘better in than out’ card, the powers of individual nation-states are further eroded and the people in power grow plumper and forget who entrusted them with that power and to what purpose.

  Shall we presume to remind them? Their job is to represent their constituents and to protect the freedoms and advance the interests of the British people. If they see to serve any other cause, they should do so in another job.

  Hard times call for radical action. We are in hard times.

  The people are increasingly radical. The professional politicians increasingly appease and maintain the very system which has destroyed productivity, profitability and liberty. Cameron would have made a good 1950s Conservative leader. Sixty years on, he is out of touch, out of touch with the electorate – out of touch, maybe, with himself – and consequently dangerous.

  17

  RELAUNCH

  There is a sad epilogue to the story of that crash.

  There was much wild and fatuous talk of sabotage, of course. The notion of an act of God is almost unthinkable today. Someone must always be held to blame.

  I knew that the engine had done its job, that Jason had followed normal procedure in hooking up the banner, that we had been unlucky and that he had performed prodigies to get us down to earth alive.

  The Civil Aviation Authority (CAA), however, had to double-check all this and ensure that all proper procedures had been followed.

  Aware that he must be going through much the same experience as I, I spoke to him a week after the accident. We swapped stories and confirmed to one another that we were both on the mend.

  He told me that the press were nagging him for details. I advised him to tell them nothing. I knew from experience how selectively certain journalists can report unguarded evidence, and any statement from a pilot – even if only reported – might be prejudicial to the results of the enquiry.

  I was unaware, as no doubt was he, that the CAA enquiry would drag on for six months, during which not only was he prevented from flying but the insurers would not sanction the refund of the cost of his plane.

  The CAA intimated to me that there were ‘issues’ relating to a previous accident, to alcohol and to insurance. I took advice. I was told that it would be unwise to maintain communication until the verdict was in. We might be accused of cooking up evidence.

  I kept an indirect link open through my constituency office just in case anything should go badly wrong, but had no further communication with him.

  The result of the enquiry was not to come through for six months. On 11 November, Jason was totally exonerated of any blame. It was an accident.

  I was delighted. On the evening of 12 November, whilst in Alton, Hampshire and about to go on stage for Any Questions, I called him to congratulate him.

  He was incoherent, rambling and filled with anger – against the investigating officer for denying him his livelihood for so long and against me for failing to make contact. I told him that I had done the best that I could by leaving lines of communication open through the office and that, now that the whole business had been resolved, I would love to meet up with him again.

  Suddenly the office reported frequent, agitated calls. It seemed that, during his enforced idleness, he had become depressed and resorted to the bottle (with both of which responses I sympathised. There but for the grace of God…). He had lost his wife, his child and his home. His life had fallen apart.

  On 25 November I was in Maidstone, waiting to appear on Question Time, when Jason called. He had wanted, he said, to tell his story to the press. I had been paid for my version (I hadn’t, of course), whilst he had been distraught and penniless. He was going to tell the papers how I had profited from his accident and how neither I nor UKIP had done anything for him.

  I have since learned that two very sad, malicious opponents (not politicians – who at least step into the ring – but cowardly bloggers with no pleasures remaining save self-congratulation and manipulation of others) had thought to damage me by winding up with lies a sick man already under unbearable pressure.

  They came damn close to killing him in the process.

  I was acutely distressed by Jason’s ramblings. I had an important lunch appointment the following day, but I told Jason that I would meet up with him immediately and try to help however I could.

  I cancelled the lunch and arrived at his mother’s house in West Oxfordshire the following morning.

  We spoke for half an hour, during which he explained his fury at me and at the CAA. I assured him that none of the things that he had been told were true. I had earned nothing from the story. I had told the media nothing but what it felt like to be in an air accident, without referring to anything which might influence the CAA’s findings. Even that I had done rel
uctantly and because I had no choice. I had envied him the privilege of a ‘no comment’.

  We walked to his local pub for lunch. As we arrived, a car drew up in the car park. A little man with a goatee beard stepped out and introduced himself as a representative of West Oxfordshire Mental Health Services, attending in order to observe.

  Jason had no objection, so neither did I. We ordered pints and pies and continued as if the interloper were not there.

  ‘I’m ex-military, and no one is safe,’ Jason told me. ‘Do you understand? I’ve got friends, weapons, gadgets… I was going to kill you today. I’ve decided not to, but I can’t preclude it in the future…’

  The mental health man just listened earnestly and nodded his head.

  I was mildly stunned, distinctly intimidated by this threat and deeply concerned for a man with whom I had shared a ‘bonding’ experience and who was now plainly in great pain. I shared with him the spiritual upheaval caused by the crash. He, like me, had had the stabilisers removed, but whilst I had had calmish waters in which to refit, he had sailed on into a typhoon.

  The mental health man cheerfully offered us a lift back to the house. We refused. It was only 600 yards away and I felt as safe on the street with Jason as in the confines of a car.

  It was nonetheless mildly nerve-wracking, walking back alone down a country lane with a man who had just declared his intention to kill me. I did not re-enter the house.

  I returned home. At six o’clock that evening, I received a call from my office. ‘Mr Smith has just called,’ I was told. ‘He says that he is going to get a gun on Monday. He intends to kill Martin James (the accident investigator), then you, then himself. He says you’ve got till Friday.’

  Only four months earlier, Raoul Moat had shot three people and then himself in Northumbria having also had a mental illness exacerbated beyond bearing and having warned of his intentions.

  West Oxfordshire Mental Health might deem threats of murder to be beyond their competence. I felt obliged to do something about them. I racked my brains as to whom I could approach who would deal with Jason firmly yet with sensitivity. On Saturday morning, I called former shadow Home Secretary David Davis. We have had some right-royal battles on Any Questions and Question Time, but we are both libertarians and both considered mavericks. We have always got on well.

  David was sympathetic towards Jason but agreed that, in the circumstances, for his sake no less than for ours, he must be reported. He assured me that the police would not be unkind or gung-ho. On his recommendation, I called a number at Scotland Yard – only to find that department closed on a Saturday.

  I therefore went to Bromley police station and made a statement. They asked me if I wanted protection. I knew Jason to be an organised type and, I believed, a man of his word, so I told them, ‘No need. I’ve got till Friday.’

  On Sunday night, Jason was arrested by West Oxfordshire Police. He had quite blatantly repeated to them his threats to kill me and the accident investigator. He claimed that he had a 9mm pistol. ‘I know where they live,’ he said. ‘They have destroyed my life. I will first take them out, then myself.’

  The police at least did not ignore on the grounds that it was not their department what was evidently a cry – no, a howl through a dirty great megaphone – for help.

  It was not until April 2011 that the case came to Court. In the interim, Jason was held on remand – far from ideal for a sick man, but at least he was safe from his demons. He told the Court as much. After the crash, he said, his mental health had been ‘rapidly spiralling downhill’ as his business and personal relationships had deteriorated.

  He needed help and knew it, but could not obtain it from the authorities. He had made the threats ‘in the belief and hope I would get put inside’.

  ‘I could see no other way,’ he said. ‘I made a decision to make these threats purely to get assistance.’

  So the huge, intricate mechanism of law and law-enforcement had to grind into action and two men had to be threatened with death before a man in desperate trouble, already under observation by the mental health authority, could obtain help.

  In that year alone, 120 people were murdered by mental health patients and people in Care in the Community. I will lay odds that a majority of them had no desire to be murderers nor – which is slightly different – to cause death.

  A friend of mine was regularly downing a litre and a half of Scotch a night when he sought help for his addiction. He was strong. He still had pride. He entered Addaction smiling, cleanly dressed and with hair and fingernails tended. He said, ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but my career and personal life are a pig’s breakfast and I rather think that I am going to die fairly soon.’

  The girl who happened to be on duty told him, ‘God, you’re lucky. I come from the same background as you and believe you, but the only way to get any attention nowadays is to come in on your knees, drooling and gibbering.’

  Drooling and gibbering do not come easy for the likes of Jason. Even murder threats delivered in front of ‘mental health’ specialists become case-notes referred to another department with recommendations that may be noted with regret after lives have been destroyed.

  Some people other than the patient urgently need their heads examined.

  Mr Justice Saunders of Oxford Crown Court declared, ‘He is a man who does need help. If I can find a way of giving him help I will.’

  He did. Jason received a two years’ community order which will, with luck, enable him to receive professional attention and make a full recovery. He deserves it.

  I have changed his name here because I see no reason why a single mischance followed by mental collapse – which could happen to any of us – should blight a man’s life worse than it already has.

  *

  Many people seem to share Kilroy’s notion of a political party as a thing owned and manipulated by a privileged few who can simply give it away or share it amongst their chums.

  Nothing could be further from the truth. A political party, and particularly a rebellious one like UKIP, is an intractable, bloody-minded, eccentric bunch of very opinionated, thoroughly contentious people with very distinct preferences and prejudices.

  When I resigned the leadership it was with relief. I never thought to return to that horrendously demanding role. After the crash, any thoughts of such a thing seemed more ridiculous than ever.

  In August 2010, however, Malcolm Pearson, with characteristic honesty and charm explaining that he was ‘not much good at party politics’, resigned.

  I agonised over what I could or should do. Yes, I know that the leader’s hesitancy to take power has become a cliché as laughable as the farewell tour, but in this case it was real. I was never a power-hungry professional politician, and the crash had made me want a life of my own. The job had been tough enough when I was fit. It would surely now be impossible. I waited for the gods to come up with a solution.

  They failed me.

  The candidates who came forward were economist Professor Tim Congdon, flamboyant former boxer Winston McKenzie and David Bannerman, aka Campbell-Bannerman.

  I had high hopes for Tim, one of the Conservative government’s monetarist ‘wise men’, but sadly concluded that, like many an academic, he was perhaps, although bright and dedicated, not the man to connect with ordinary voters all over the country. Winston was magnificent, but wanted, perhaps, the high seriousness and gravitas required by the media…

  The nominations closed just a few days after Conference, held this year in Torquay. If I were to stand, I must announce my candidature to the massed members in my Conference speech.

  I solemnly swear that, right up to the morning of that speech, I did not know what to do. I wanted to serve the party but I very much did not want to sacrifice still more of my remaining years to the relentless demands of administration.

  The gods did not step in with a candidate, but they stepped in all right.

  At the cocktail party in the Grand Hotel
on the night before I must decide, John Whittaker as so often before provided the analysis that I needed. ‘If one of the others gets it and doesn’t do the job properly,’ he warned, ‘you’ll never forgive yourself.’

  I had a very fitful night’s sleep. As I dressed, I received calls from two former Media Officers in succession. I have singled them out specially in the ‘Acknowledgements’ section because they are gifted, imaginative and discreet, and dedicated libertarians and friends.

  It was only over a very good kipper at breakfast that I resolved that they were right. I would stand – but subject to one condition.

  I had examined the organisation for the Conference, which was superb. The key organiser was Devonian Steve Crowther, a former journalist and Press Officer who had run his own successful PR company. He is thoughtful, authoritative and organised. His coolness in crisis and mastery of detail had impressed me deeply.

  I thought – I hoped – that he would be the ace up my sleeve.

  I stepped up onto the stage that morning. I was explicit about my intentions. I would stand to lead the party, not to manage it.

  I made a pantomime-style speech. ‘What would you like me to do? Would you like me to run…?’ I was rewarded with good-natured pantomime-style cheers.

  Into battle once more.

  I took this one very seriously. If I was to lead, I wanted to do so with a clear, decisive mandate. But first I must ensure that I had that ace.

  That afternoon I approached Steve Crowther. I said, ‘Steve, I want to ruin your life…’

  I then did.

  I proposed that, if I were elected, he should become full-time party chairman, responsible for all the day-to-day management and planning and so leaving me free to do what I do best.

  Unsurprisingly, Steve had to think very seriously about accepting this poison chalice. He thought.