Ask Nigel Farage anything, and you can guarantee there will be outrage

It’s our smug rush to silence him that voters find deafening

Nigel Farage: 'I don't know anybody in politics as poor as we are' (Channel 4)

Currently, we, the metropolitan media elite, are sniggering wildly at Nigel Farage over his notions about Britain’s overloaded roads. Farage believes this is caused partly by immigration. More people equals more cars and more traffic jams, ergo more late appointments etc. Our wild sniggering yesterday over Farage’s road faux pas supplanted our weekend-long wild sniggering over his crazy (translation: not that crazy) thoughts on breastfeeding.

When put on the spot by LBC for his views on the Claridge’s breastfeeding stand-off, Farage – like many men of his age and demographic – revealed he thought breastfeeding was an intimate thing. He had no problems with it being done discreetly and thinks businesses like Claridge’s have the right to make their own rules. When I put it like that, Farage sounds perfectly, boringly reasonable… so I won’t put it like that. I’ll say: Farage – the massive misogynist weirdo – inferred all post-natal women should sit in a corner, as they shame society. Farage, in this line of argument, is clearly an oaf, a dinosaur and a patriarchal bully, and those Lactivists in bobble hats lying on a freezing pavement with their tits out and a toddler clamped on are, indeed, some of the greatest sages of our time.

I’d open a funny fake Twitter account, but there’s no point because Farage will definitely say something else outrageous in a moment. I’m pretty sure one could ask him a direct question on almost any modern dilemma – office-party etiquette, urban chicken-keeping, the scourge of charity chuggers, the gluten-intolerant – and get a quote we can be outraged at for up to 48 hours. Maybe 72 hours in a quiet news week.

Farage, it seems, will keep us columnists, liberal quackers and professional public chunterers laughing all the way to the ballot box. Meanwhile, I suspect it’s his “refreshing honesty” on the minutiae – babies, boobs, traffic jams – and not whopping issues such as his hard-line stance on the EU’s £1.7bn budget surcharge that wet the whistle of Thurrock, Rochester and Clacton.

Being reasonable, if one works in any job – cab driver, van driver and so on – which requires one’s daily confinement behind the steering wheel, it isn’t a fascist supposition to wonder how the roads will cope with the booming migrant population. It simply isn’t.

So, when Farage moans publicly: “It took me six hours and 15 minutes in the car to get here. It should have taken three-and-half to four. That is nothing to do with professionalism. What it does have to do with is a population that is going through the roof, chiefly because of open-door immigration and the fact the M4 is not as navigable as it used to be”, we can laugh at a silly, car-obsessed Little Englander as much as we like, but it’s our smug rush to silence him that voters find deafening. This is unfair, of course.

Please, allow me to lecture you on why immigration and road overusage should never be called to question from my vantage point as a London-based columnist, who can’t drive, rarely uses the M4 or the M6 (or any other Ms) and is writing this piece in a café while her Bulgarian cleaner hoovers. My view needs to be heard.

It is no surprise whatsoever to millions of people who heard this tale that Claridge’s “embraces breastfeeding” but asks women to “be discreet”. Weirdly, Nigel Farage ended up as the bogeyman in this tedious tale for 48 media hours.

Farage’s inability to call for the closure of the hotel, or at least for a fresh government policy making breastfeeding compulsory for all children up to the age of six, left him scuppered. Instead, Farage made clumsy everyman-style noises about being discreet like many of his target voters would have done. We can laugh all we want. They don’t think he’s a tit.

Flat-chested Jordan like Morrissey owning foie gras bar

While Britain bickers over breastfeeding, one of our most famous sets of knockers has been under major renovation. Katie Price – model, author, notable equestrian, mother of five – has undergone a seventh “boob job”, reducing her bra size from 34FF to 32B.

In showbiz gossip terms, Price having tiny boobs is like the ravens leaving the Tower of London. A flat-chested “Jordan” is like Morrissey opening a foie gras bar, Ed Sheeran going blond, or Taylor Swift giving up penning pop songs about bad ex-boyfriends. It goes against everything that pop culture junkies know.

Price has said, reportedly, to friends that her enormous breast implants stopped her being taken seriously. She wanted to enter a room for once and feel people were looking at her face. Joking aside, there is something rather poignant about Price, a woman who has spent her entire youth undergoing one painful surgery after another, finally tiring of the hollow attention it brings.

Perhaps this is the end of the road for OTT implants. Goodbye to those painful, gargantuan chest-to-waist proportions that started off as porn film or freak show fodder, before becoming a normal everyday way women “made themselves more confident”.

I won’t get too philosophical until Price has given the flat-chested experience at least six months. She may want more wholesome attention, but I can’t help thinking a big boob habit like Katie Price has may be difficult to break.