Nigel’s making plans – but there are only two people who should be worried about them...

The first surprise at the Reform conference was the queue snaking from the doors of Birmingham’s NEC centre, all the way down the access road. People don’t usually queue in the UK for political speeches, except maybe at the last minute. This was an hour before the start.

Two notices hinted that this was going to be different to the usual autumn political gathering. One said, “Pyrotechnics are in use during this show.” The other stated: “Only four alcoholic drinks per person may be purchased at a time.”

Naturally, the fireworks were held back for the star turn, leader Nigel Farage – a man who, a procession of mahogany-tanned speakers assured us, somehow without cracking into laughter, is “our next prime minister”.

If the injunction against over-purchasing alcohol had any effect, it didn’t show on the well-refreshed crowd that by mid-afternoon was chanting “here we go, here we go” like a sports bar during the Euros.

Welcome to the future of British right-wing politics: Brash, boozy and big. And, above all, all about Nigel.

Proceedings were opened by former deputy leader David Bull, in shiny suit with lilac tie and silk hanky whooping up the crowd like a game show host. Think of Leslie Crowther hosting The Price is Right.

“Imagine a country where we put 23,000 illegal immigrants ahead of our own citizens,” he cried. “Boooooo,” replied the crowd in the hall. They did a lot of booing, pantomime-style, at villains ranging from Keir Starmer to asylum seekers and net-zero commitments. Margaret Thatcher’s name got a respectful clap. Sadiq Khan’s name was met with pitchforks and flaming torches. They cheered and whooped whenever Farage’s name was glowingly referenced, which happened constantly.

If Kemi Badenoch or Robert Jenrick were watching, they will have been uncomfortably aware that a lot of this huge crowd were people that used to vote Conservative. If last year’s Tory conference was the saddest, smallest in its history – just a few hundred people in a hangar-like building where curtains had been artfully erected to disguise the shrinkage – this was the complete opposite: The set was so big that they managed to park a double decker bus by the stage without blocking the view. Reform claimed 4,000 ticketholders.

Moreover, the hall was having a good time, cheering along with the dog-whistle racism, laughing at Starmer’s free suits, and blithely unbothered by the fact that the party’s most senior figures were entertaining them with half-truths and utter nonsense.

Rupert Lowe, the new MP for Yarmouth, simply strung together 10 minutes of mad claims, including that the Tories “forced an experimental vaccine on millions of people”.

Former Strictly contestant Ann Widdecombe, once a prisons minister who slayed Michael Howard with the epithet “something of the night about him”, now Reform’s immigration spokesperson, told them “we will turn the boats around” with something she described mysteriously as “activity in the channel”. They clapped, of course, however implausible the idea that British forces would physically repel migrant boats at sea.

Ant Middleton, a tattooed former commando bulging with muscles and menace, told the hall, “Don’t worry I’m not here to thrash the daylights out of you.” He looked as if he might enjoy thrashing people.

Like Widdecombe, Middleton is a former reality TV personality, addicted to the limelight. Unlike her, he reportedly has a conviction for assaulting two police officers and once called Black Lives Matter protesters “absolute scum”on social media. Naturally, his speech to the hall was about restoring national unity. I’m not making that up.

The big draw of the after-lunch session was Lee Anderson, who ripped up his TV licence reminder on stage. Anderson didn’t bother with a dog whistle: “We are a great country – if you do not like our history, our heritage, our culture, clear off.” A pause for applause, then a smug, “Was that plain speaking enough for you?”

He had more: “Just because a little boy picks up a doll doesn’t make him a girl. I want my country back.” He won a standing ovation for name-dropping Jim Davidson – another fallen TV personality craving attention.

There were no policy debates, no motions and no discussion. Instead policies were made up on the spot for claps. It was a show, not a conference. Indeed, the £50 tickets were sold through an agency that handles concerts. And unlike every other party conference, you didn’t even have to be a member to buy one, which may explain how they filled the hall. That and the promise that an extra £25 would buy “a spectacular evening party filled with music, dancing, and drinks!”

After four hours of build-up, the fireworks were lit and Farage finally took the stage. He walked slowly through the crowd, milking the applause, winding his way up towards the stage at glacial pace. It was an entrance straight out of the Donald Trump “how to run a giant rally” playbook.

He began by clowning with some Starmer-like spectacles: “Guess what? I bought them myself.” He was entertaingly rude about ex-leader Richard Tice’s tenure. “This is absolutely not knocking Richard … that amateurism let us down.”

But the rest of Farage’s speech was a bit of an anti-climax. Five dull minutes were spent describing his struggle to decide whether to come out of a comfy retirement or not. The rest was about how he really does wants Reform to start campaigning like the Liberal Democrats on local issues, run proper candidates, raise funds and win the 2029 general election.

Tipsily, the hall cheered anyway and went away wondering exactly what they had signed up to. Next year’s local elections will reveal whether Farage’s dream is a silly fantasy or whether, like Brexit, it might actually happen.

But if I was Badenoch or Jenrick, I would be worried.