Farage Fangirls

You may have noticed, but since the New Year that I've become more politically oriented on my Blog, and of late I've been putting out 2 posts a day. I've been diving into Faragist apologia Facebook sites to present some rational thinking and to counter the absolutely rife misinformation and tinfoil hat thinking. I absolutely love it and it has given me some impetus, honing my research skills and reappraising some of my thoughts.

It’s a funny thing, arguing with Farage supporters. You’d expect them to be mostly beer-bellied, red-faced blokes ranting about “taking back control” while nursing a lukewarm pint of Carling and telling you to; "Fuck off.". And yes, plenty of those exist. But lately, I’ve noticed that my most vocal opponents – the ones who really lose their composure – are women. And not just any women. Middle-aged, self-declared “patriots”, brimming with righteous fury, hammering out their rage on Facebook as if their very identity depends on it.

Now, this is interesting. Farage himself is an old-school pub bore in a suit – hardly the sort to attract a diehard female following. So why are so many women queuing up to defend him like he’s some kind of misunderstood hero? The answer, I suspect, lies in grievance and emotion.

You see, Farage’s brand of politics isn’t just about nationalism, immigration, or a pint in one hand and a grift in the other. It’s about betrayal. The idea that Britain was once a great, stable, orderly place – until it was stolen from under our noses by the usual suspects: immigrants, liberals, the EU, the “woke mob.” And that betrayal narrative really lands with a certain type of woman – often one who grew up in an era where Britain still had a functioning welfare state, stable employment, and a sense of predictability. Now? The NHS is crumbling, the cost of living is a joke, and their pensions aren’t stretching as far as they thought. Someone must be to blame.

And this is where Farage’s true skill comes in. Women, generally speaking, are more attuned to emotions than men – it’s one of the things that makes them more empathetic, more socially aware, and often better at relationships. But it also makes them more susceptible to emotional manipulation, and Farage is a master of it. He doesn’t rely on policy, statistics, or economic arguments – he deals in anger, nostalgia, and fear. He sells them a simple, emotionally charged story: You were betrayed. The country you loved was taken from you. And I am the only one brave enough to say it.

And then I come along – coolly pointing out that 14 years of Tory mismanagement, not asylum seekers, wrecked the economy; that the real “takers” aren’t migrants but tax-dodging billionaires and corrupt politicians; that cutting immigration would tank the very services they claim to care about. And oh, do they hate that. Because Farage has given them a villain – an easy one. And nothing enrages them more than having their scapegoat snatched away.

This is why these debates are rarely about facts – they’re about feelings. When I point out the economic reality, the response is usually “we just can’t keep taking them in!” When I mention the Winter Fuel Payment being slashed, it’s “but we’re looking after illegals instead!” – as if it were migrants, rather than years of economic mismanagement and difficult budgetary choices, that led to pensioners losing out. In reality, Labour simply set the cut-off too low, and while I agree with the decision, it’s hardly the scandal some make it out to be. But that’s the problem with grievance politics – it dresses itself up as principle, when in truth, it’s just an excuse to blame the wrong people.

The real irony? These women aren’t wrong to be angry. The country has been gutted. Their standard of living has declined. Their communities have changed, sometimes in ways they struggle to understand. But instead of demanding accountability from those actually responsible, they’ve been duped into directing their fury at the powerless rather than the powerful.

And so, the Farage fangirls march on – furious, misdirected, and utterly blind to the fact that their pint-wielding saviour is laughing all the way to the bank.