Nigel Farage at a pub on May 23, 2014 in Benfleet. Photograph: Getty Images.
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Ukip has won the European elections

Labour narrowly beats Tories.

3:38am update: After an interminable wait for the London result, owing to the farcical peformance of Tower Hamlets council (which ended up postponing its count until Tuesday), the final numbers are finally in:

Ukip 27.5 per cent - 24 seats (up 11)

Labour 25.4 per cent - 20 seats (up 7)

Conservative 24.0 per cent - 19 seats (down 7)

Green Party 7.9 per cent - 3 seats (up 1)

Lib Dems 6.9 per cent - 1 seat (down 10)

SNP 2 seats (N/C)

Plaid Cymru 1 seat (N/C)

Nigel Farage has got his "earthquake". Just two regional results are in from the European elections, but Labour has privately conceded defeat. The swing to the Farageists in the north-east and the east of England is too great for any other outcome to be conceivable.

A Labour source told me that all signs pointed to a Ukip victory, "a result we've been expecting for months", in a contest in which the nationalist right is thriving. In France, the National Front has won the contest and in Denmark the anti-immigrant People's Party topped the poll. While Labour has become the first main opposition party not to win the European elections since 1984, party sources are emphasising that the Tories are on course to finish third in a national contest for the first time in history and that David Cameron will become the first Conservative leader since John Major not to win the European elections.

They also rightly point out that the contest is a historically poor guide to general election results. In 1989, the Greens finished third with 15 per cent of the vote but won just 0.5 per cent at the national contest three years later. In 1999, William Hague's Tories triumphed but went down to a landslide defeat against Labour in 2001. Ukip polled 16 per cent in 2004 and 17 per cent in 2009 but failed to exceed three per cent in the subsequent general elections. In an age of euroscepticism, a pro-European party  like Labour was always bound to struggle to withstand the purple wave.

Ukip's triumph was hardly unexpected (indeed, it would have been seen as a failure for Farage if his party had finished second), but it is worth reflecting how remarkable it is that a party that has no MPs, runs no councils and that won just 3 per cent of the vote at the last general election, topped the poll. Not since 1910 has a party other than Labour and the Tories finished first in a national contest. Farage will rightly enjoy his moment in the sun. The question now is whether he can sustain Ukip's momentum by winning seats at the general election.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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Appearing in a book is strange – being an actual character must be stranger

Much as it jolts me to come across a reference to my music in something I'm reading, at least it's not me.

I was happily immersed in the world of a novel the other day, Rachel Elliott’s Whispers Through a Megaphone, when suddenly I was jolted back into reality by my own appearance in the book. One of the characters hears someone singing and is told, “‘It’s Leonora. She sings with her window open.’ ‘She’s good – sounds like Tracey Thorn.’ ‘She does, doesn’t she.’”

It was as if I’d walked on stage while still being in the audience. It’s happened to me before, and is always startling, a kind of breaking of the fourth wall. From being the reader, addressed equally and anonymously, you become, even momentarily, a minor character or a representative of something. In this instance it was flattering, but the thing is, you have no control over what the writer uses you to mean.

In David Nicholls’s Starter for Ten, set in the mid-Eighties, the lead character, Brian – a hapless student, failing in both love and University Challenge – hopes that he is about to have sex with a girl. “We stay up for an hour or so, drinking whisky, sitting on the bed next to each other and talking and listening to Tapestry and the new Everything But the Girl album.” Ah, I realised, here I represent the kind of singer people listen to when they’re trying, though possibly failing, to get laid.

Fast-forward a few years, to the mid-Nineties of Bret Easton Ellis’s Glamorama, a book constructed from lists of people and things, clothes and music, which apparently indicate the vacuousness of modern life. “I dash into the Paul Smith store on Bond Street, where I purchase a smart-looking navy-gray raincoat. Everything But the Girl’s ‘Missing’ plays over everything” and later, “In the limo heading toward Charing Cross Road Everything But the Girl’s ‘Wrong’ plays while I’m studying the small white envelope . . .” Here I’m being used to represent the way bands become briefly ubiquitous: our songs are a soundtrack to the sleazy glamour of the novel.

These mentions are all fine; it’s only the music that features, not me. Spotting yourself as an actual character in someone’s novel must be more shocking: one of the perils of, for instance, being married to a novelist. I think of Claire Bloom and Philip Roth. First she wrote a memoir about how ghastly it was being married to him, then he wrote a novel about how ghastly it was to be married to someone very like her. Books as revenge: that’s very different indeed.

Few people who had ever met Morrissey emerged from his memoir unscathed (me included), but particularly Geoff Travis of Rough Trade. He was hung, drawn and quartered in the book, yet seems to have maintained a dignified silence. But it’s hard knowing how to deal with real people in memoirs. In mine, I chose not to name one character, a boy who broke my 18-year-old heart. Feverish speculation among old friends, all of whom guessed wrong, proved how much attention they’d been paying to me at the time. I also wrote about my teenage band, the Marine Girls, and then sent the chapter to the other members for approval. Which led to a fresh outbreak of hostilities and not-speaking, 25 years after we’d broken up. Don’t you just love bands?

Worrying about any of this would stop anyone ever writing anything. Luckily it didn’t deter John Niven, whose scabrous music-biz novel, Kill Your Friends, mixes larger-than-life monsters such as the fictional A&R man Steven Stelfox with real people: and not just celebs (Goldie, the Spice Girls), but record company executives (Ferdy Unger-Hamilton, Rob Stringer) known best to those of us in the biz, and presumably thrilled to have made it into a book. John confirmed to me recently: “In the end I got more grief from people I left out of the book than those I put in. Such is the ego of the music industry. I heard of one executive who bought about 30 copies and would sign them for bands, saying, ‘This was based on me.’ You create the Devil and people are lining up to say, ‘Yep. I’m that guy.’”

In other words, as I suspected, there’s only one thing worse than being written about. 

Tracey Thorn is a musician and writer, best known as one half of Everything but the Girl. She writes the fortnightly “Off the Record” column for the New Statesman. Her latest book is Naked at the Albert Hall.

This article first appeared in the 06 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The longest hatred