Was I right to turn down I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here? Yes, but I’ll enjoy Nigel Farage

As this year’s I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here starts to fill up the news feeds on my phone, it takes me back to the very first series, in 2002. I was friendly with one of the contestants, the socialite Tara Palmer-Tomkinson, and the producers asked me to film one of those “bon voyage” videos, wishing her well (I’ve still got the thank you card she sent me afterwards, drawn in crayon, rather sweetly). I duly did what I was asked, and quite quickly became intrigued by the show itself.

At the time I actually thought it was quite brilliant, and a remarkably simple way to see bold-face names out of their comfort zones. The first series also included Christine Hamilton, the wife of the disgraced Tory MP Neil Hamilton (during a time back in the Nineties when “disgraced Tory MP” actually seemed to be a job in itself).

That year the couple came to my Christmas party, which had ended with Neil, sitting half naked on a gilt chair, having his chest hair shaved by three girls from the fashion department, and Christine standing on a dinner table manically playing air guitar to Rod Stewart’s Maggie May. You really had to be there.

But I remember it was Tara who was the star of the jungle show. She had various addiction issues, and would die of a perforated ulcer some years later, but at her best she had such great joie de vivre, and the show reflected that.

In its pomp I’m A Celebrity had a great knack of dropping unlikely people in the jungle, and it was never less than fascinating to see the likes of John Lydon or Janet Street-Porter jumping out of helicopters and eating insectivore ring-pieces.

A few years later, the producers even asked me to appear, although the huge fee was offset by the ick-making thought of sleeping rough, swimming in shark-infested lakes (I don’t swim, which sort of trumped any fear of being eaten alive) and sharing a shower with unfunny men’s magazine comedians, so I politely declined.

I loved watching the show, though, and in the run up to Christmas would repeatedly lie to my friends about why I couldn’t join them for dinner. I quickly grew tired of it, principally because I soon realised I had no idea who most of the contestants were.

If you tend not to watch reality TV then you stop noticing famous people. Last year was obviously different, though, as I wasn’t going to miss Matt Hancock eat kangaroo anus, not again. The former health secretary said his decision to appear on the show was driven by a need to “deliver important messages to the masses”.

It had nothing to do with appearing on prime-time TV or trousering a large amount of wedge. He turned out to be the perfect contestant, a narcissist with absolutely no self-awareness. It was predictably fabulous.

This year, of course, the main attraction is Nigel Farage, for whom a litany of indignities has no doubt already been prescribed. He is this season’s pantomime villain, a part he will enjoy no end, although I’m obviously disappointed he won’t be allowed to wear a Coutts T-shirt. I’m sure he’ll cope rather well, and will come armed with a fusillade of tailored bon mots. I’ve never liked his politics, but he’s always been an entertaining dinner companion (even though I don’t remember him ever chewing a kangaroo foreskin), and his fellow contestants will no doubt find that too.

The people who hate him will probably hate him even more, while those who have no opinion about at all him might wonder why a second-hand car dealer has been parachuted into one of ITV’s most popular shows.

As I contemplated this year’s show, I momentarily wondered if I’d made a mistake by not going on the programme back when I had the chance. But then seeing that most of the people who appear on I’m A Celebrity seem to vanish from public life as soon as they come out of the jungle, I was reminded why I said No. It’s pretty much the same reason that stopped me from being a politician.

Dylan Jones is the Evening Standard’s Editor-in-Chief