What, I wonder, is the ‘establishment’?

The traditional definition is to be found in Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase & Fable. There it is said to be ‘a term long used to denote in particular the established Church of England, but now a popular designation for the group or class of people who have authority within a society, particularly Britain…’

Those above you, with influence over you, those higher up the ladder, in other words. Or if you are Nigel Farage, more or less anyone but himself.

This is odd by any reasonable measure, as Farage is an extremely wealthy former public schoolboy and ex-commodities trader, who surrounds himself with other men of similar wealth, some of whom appear to like giving him money.

He is part of what he pretends to disparage.

It is tempting to wonder if this might be traced to his teenage years. Perhaps when he was told off for smoking in his bedroom he ranted that his parents were the establishment. Or perhaps after a teacher at Dulwich College suggested he might drop the racism, he chuntered about the ‘establishment’ having it in for him.

These made-up examples are offered as an exercise in postulation.  For whenever Farage bitches on about the establishment,  his old man’s fag-raddled body seems haunted by the ghost of a petulant boy who will not be criticised.

To him the establishment is a handy proxy for everything a poor soul such as himself has to endure.

Like many right-wing politicians, he cannot exist without an enemy, and the establishment is an amalgam of everything he dislikes moulded into a general foe. A usefully malleable term embracing the BBC, other politicians, the civil service – oh, anything or anyone who has ever been mean about him or his various DIY political parties. The cause of his endless, hissy-fitting grievance.

That Farage is allergic to criticism is suggested by a story that has been doing the rounds for a while. Marina Hyde mentions it in her latest Guardian column. While attending the awards last year for the Spectator, he is said to have reacted ‘to a mild joke by turning white and shouting: ‘Why don’t you go fuck yourself’.”

I wasn’t there, thank heavens, but columnists from the Guardian and the Times were, and they went on the record.

After years of mostly being lionised by the press, indulged as a favourite intolerant old uncle, Farage has recently come under much greater scrutiny, particularly after that astonishingly generous personal gift of £5m from cryptocurrency investor Christopher Harborne.

Once questions started to be asked, as was only proper, Farage snapped at journalists, saying it “was not the public’s business” to know why he was given that money.

And then, with the Parliamentary Standards Committee investigating the matter, Farage resigned his seat at Clacton, saying he would stand again and that the people would be his judge. What he didn’t say is that this would allow him to temporarily dodge what the standards committee has to say.

The other main parties have declined to take part in his cunning stunt, leaving Farage to face the comedian Jonathan David Harvey, who terms himself Count Binface.

This gamble has revealed Farage to have thinner skin than a sausage in an over-heated pan. Gone with a spit and a pop is that friendly man of the people propping up the bar with a pint. A man you might like to have a beer with, some used to say (not me, you’ll be glad to hear, as my swallowing throat would contract in a cold instant).

The mask has fallen away, much as it did for Boris Johnson, another touchy posh man who fabricated a public persona, in his case good old bumbling Boris. That mask hid a snarl, as does the one Farage wears.

But back to Brewer’s. Thinking of who Farage pretends to be brought up the expression ‘hail-fellow-well-met’. Brewer’s defines this as ‘friendly and familiar, often in an unwelcome fashion’. Yup, that sounds about right.

ACCORDING to YouGov, 73% of UK voters dislike Donald Trump. And the same proportion consider Nigel Farage to be sleazy, with even 40% of Reform UK votes seeing him as sleazy. Why, then, does Farage think that being a second-rate Brit Trump tribute act will win him power? And why would anyone vote for him?

I have only questions, no answers.

READY for what passes these days as a run, I scan the new releases on my streaming service. One suggestion is Foreign Tongues, the 25^th album by the Rolling Stones. This follows Hackney Diamonds released three years ago, at the time their first album of original material in 18 years.

First song up as I begin my warm-up walk is Rough And Twisted, a raucous introductory stomp that puts a spring in my leaden step. It’s quite a long album, I’m back before it’s done, but what a surprise. It’s lively, fun, amusing and straightforward – just the usual grizzled old geezers enjoying themselves. Mick Jagger at 82 is in fine voice and sounds genuinely energised.

Keith Richards bashes out those open-G chords that have always powered the Stones, while in a more vulnerable moment lends his gravel tones to Some of Us (“are on our knees”).

All very admirable, but some of us are creaky at the knees and need to sit down and have a cup of tea.