With its usual blend of confected drama and inflated egos, the latest season of I’m a Celebrity…Get Me Out Of Here! premiered last weekend. Allow me to explain the programme for those who are not familiar with it. The format is straightforward: the audience judges a group of semi-famous individuals as they consume blended testicle cocktails and kangaroo penises. The hosts, Ant and Dec, apply a touch of whimsy to give the impression that everything is light-hearted. It is, in actuality, nothing more than a modern form of the stocks. Of the throngs of wannabes and retired pop stars encamped in the Queensland ‘jungle’ this year, many readers of The Spectator Australia will recognise a familiar face.

After being approached a number of times, Nigel Farage has chosen to take part this year. ITV executives have seemingly come to terms with the uncomfortable truth of reality TV: they need a pantomime villain that the audience will all love to hate. The £1.5 million appearance fee the broadcaster allegedly agreed to pay him reflects this. The iron law of show business states that hate always triumphs over love. Last year, it was Matt Hancock, a man so interminably boring that his own shadow ran away from him.

To many in Britain, the former Ukip leader is seen as a divisive figure, making him an easy target for the endless stream of dull, carbon-copy comedians to reference during their ten-thousandth insane tirade about Brexit. Case in point, before he had even touched down in Brisbane, ITV had received over 1,000 complaints. Meanwhile, the group, which is ironically named Best for Britain, spearheaded a campaign to get him removed from the show. The CEO of the organisation, Naomi Smith, declared that ‘his toxic views must be opposed’.

However, Nigel is as hated as he is adored in other parts of Britain, mainly outside the M25 and away from the wealthy suburbs of Kensington and Chelsea. At the Conservative party conference last month, the architect of Brexit stole the show and was feted by journalists, photographers and fans wherever he went. Nigel exudes personality, a right-wing rock star, while the likes of Jeremy Hunt and Oliver Dowden have about as much charisma as a cardboard box. Simply put, no Tory MP can compete with one of the most influential British politicians of the last twenty years.

Farage is not like your average contestant, who, let’s be fair, is usually a washed-up actor or YouTuber. Whether munching on various bugs, emptying the dunny or getting covered in gunge, he’s embraced the show with alacrity. All without the typical celebrity hissy fits, or in the case of creepy-crawlies, the incessant screams and shrieks. Farage is joined in the jungle by Britney Spears’ sister along with a bunch of other people I’ve never heard of. Yet he blends right in. Apart from a confrontation about Brexit with Fred Sirieix, the well-known celebrity chef referred to his old Ukip poster concerning mass immigration as ‘shameful’.

If you pick a fight with Nigel, you will probably lose, as Coutts bank found out when they officially ‘debanked’ him. An internal dossier that accused Farage of being xenophobic and pandering to racists was made public, bringing the entire sordid affair to light. Its association with him posed ‘significant reputational risks’, according to the 40-page document. No one’s political beliefs should prevent them from accessing their finances.

Those who hate him will not change their minds; instead, they will likely say his appearance on the show is ‘reputation washing’. I pose this question to his detractors: are we not all given the opportunity for redemption in the secular confessional world of 21st-century celebrity life, even in the (shock horror) unlikely event that they disagree with you politically?

All of this does not change my opinion about reality TV as a whole. The desire for validation and recognition is a very modern characteristic in the evolution of human behaviour. Aspiring celebrities make a Faustian pact when they enter the world of fame, in this case the jungle – demeaning themselves and forfeiting their integrity in the hopes of discovering a new glamorous world. In reality, the dream has actually died long before the plane lands at Heathrow. The paradox is that while technology has advanced and made interpersonal connections simpler, our attention spans have not kept up. For the permanently online, as soon as they become aware of someone, they lose interest in them. As the casting director of the equally odious Love Island stated, ‘There’s a one year shelf life… next year is the new batch of people and no one’s really going to want to know about you next year.’

Why did Nigel do it? All I can do is speculate. It might be to appeal to a new demographic. Who knows, maybe seeing him in real life, shorn of the propaganda and smears he has endured throughout his political career will help win over some new people. He won’t convert everyone, his critics will never go away. Nigel presents a prime-time show on GB News, so if these people want to hate-watch him, they can. They will no doubt relish it, furiously tweeting their disapproval of seeing him on their screen in the evening. As they say, there’s no such thing as bad publicity, and while he’s in the jungle, Farage will be featured on the front page of every tabloid.

Political nerds are similar to reality TV-addicts in that they both follow people’s daily lives in great detail, debate their virtues and vote with enthusiasm. At this point, reality TV is as hereditary as politics: Bobby Brazier, the son of the late Jade Goody, one of Big Brother’s most controversial stars, is wowing the judges on this season of Strictly Come Dancing, just as the former Labour MP, Ed Balls, did for a brief period in 2016.

The recent revelation that Nigel’s arse was visible to everyone while he was in the camp’s shower will undoubtedly go viral. It’s funny. His critics should learn to turn the other cheek.