On August 24, 2016, backstage at a Trump rally in Jackson, Mississippi, two worlds collided. Donald Trump, the brash Republican nominee, met Nigel Farage for the first time. Recognising Farage as the architect of Brexit — a seismic event that had rocked the European Union, and sent waves across the pond, just two months prior, — Trump didn’t hesitate. He bumped Rudy Giuliani off the speakers’ list and handed Farage the mic. Farage, ever the canny operator, took the stage but kept his cards close. As an Englishman, he wouldn’t meddle in an American election, he said, though he made damn sure everybody knew he wouldn’t vote for Hillary Clinton. Two months after Brexit’s triumph, this moment set the tone for Trump’s own improbable victory later that year.
The media loves to slap the “Trumpian” label on Farage, as if he’s some transatlantic echo of the President’s bombast. But is that the full story, or is it, in fact, the other way around? To settle this, we need to rewind the tape, dig into Farage’s three-decade crusade, and stack it against Trump’s late entry into the political ring.
Before Trump was a glint in the GOP’s eye, Nigel Farage was out there, pounding the pavements of Britain for Brexit. For nearly 30 years, he waged a one-man war against the Brussels machine, turning public meetings in draughty village halls into rallying cries for sovereignty. His style? Direct, unpolished, and unapologetic. He spoke to the punters in pubs and town squares, cutting through the Westminster bubble with a pint in one hand and a fag in the other. By 2016, the pubs had become rallies, thousands were pouring in to hear him speak.
Farage didn’t just talk, he delivered. His sharp tongue made him a media magnet, whether he was sparring with journalists or skewering Eurocrats. He was an early adopter of YouTube and social media, bypassing the legacy media gatekeepers long before it was trendy. Take 2010: while most politicians were still fumbling with BlackBerrys, Farage went viral with his European Parliament takedown of Herman Van Rompuy: “You have the charisma of a damp rag and the appearance of a low-grade bank clerk.” Millions watched, jaws dropped, and Farage’s legend grew.
He built a loyal following, shrugging off every slur the establishment could muster — racist, xenophobe, misogynist, homophobe, you name it. Each barb only thickened his skin and fired up his base. By the time Brexit landed in 2016, Farage had already mastered the art of populist insurgency.
So, what was Donald Trump up to in 2010? Spoiler: not much politics. He was busy firing contestants on The Apprentice and polishing his brand as a real estate tycoon. Sure, he’d toyed with political runs before — 2000’s Reform Party flirtation comes to mind — but in 2010, there’s no evidence he was plotting a White House bid. His political pulse didn’t quicken until 2011, when he started pushing the “birther” nonsense about Obama. Even then, it was more noise than substance.
Trump didn’t step into the political deep end until 2015, when he rode that golden escalator into the presidential race. By then, Farage had been an MEP for over a decade, leading UKIP through election after election, laying the groundwork for Brexit. Trump was a novice; Farage was a veteran.
Fast forward to that Mississippi rally in 2016. When Trump gave Farage the stage, he wasn’t just being polite, he was tipping his hat to a guy who’d already pulled off the impossible. Brexit was proof that a scrappy, media-savvy outsider could beat the system. Trump, still months from his own win, saw Farage as a trailblazer, a guy whose playbook he could crib from.
Since then, their bromance has blossomed. Farage’s recent gigs with Reform UK have picked up some of Trump’s rally flair, big crowds, bigger energy. But don’t get it twisted: Farage’s core style — witty, combative, grassroots — was set in stone long before Trump traded boardrooms for ballots. If anything, Trump’s the one who’s borrowed a trick or two.
Let’s not kid ourselves, UK and US politics aren’t apples-to-apples. Trump had the Republican Party’s machine and a billionaire’s chequebook. Farage? He was scrapping with UKIP, a plucky upstart that punched above its weight but never had the cash or clout of a major player. Now, there’s talk of Farage pulling a reverse takeover of the Tories, a tantalising “what if”, but even that wouldn’t match the infrastructure Trump inherited.
Still, the parallels are uncanny. Both men thrived as pariahs, turning elite disdain into rocket fuel. Both tapped into a vein of voter rage the chattering classes missed. It’s less about who copied who and more about two blokes riding the same populist tide.
The pundits, obsessed with recency, peg Farage as Trump’s mini-me. But the timeline doesn’t lie. Farage was out there perfecting the populist hustle while Trump was still firing D-listers on TV. When they met in 2016, Trump didn’t see a follower, he saw a pioneer. Brexit was the dry run; Trump’s win was the remix.
So, no, Farage isn’t Trumpian. Trump’s a Faragist
Sure, Farage has picked up some of Trump’s razzmatazz since, but his essence, his wit, his media chops, his everyman vibe, was forged decades earlier. If anyone’s borrowing, it’s Trump who’s the Faragist, scaling up Nigel’s blueprint with American swagger and cash.
So, no, Farage isn’t Trumpian. Trump’s a Faragist, or at least, he owes a hell of a lot to the bloke from Kent who showed him how it’s done. The Jackson handshake wasn’t the start of Farage’s story; it was Trump joining a party Nigel had been hosting for years.
