Picture the scene, if you will. Clacton pier on a drizzly afternoon. The seagulls lazily glide overhead, and below them stands Nigel Farage, fag in one hand and pint in the other, shiny suit and garish tie flapping in the breeze, entertaining a small crowd with tales of those dastardly Brussels eurocrats and scary immigration statistics. He is in his element, the pier entertainer par excellence. The crowd loves it, so the envious glares of his own side wash off him like sea spray. Nigel the showman is in town, and everyone has come for the performance.

The new boy - what was his name? Jenrick? - the slimmed-down political beast now locked in his turquoise cage, watches on with envy. Other defectors are on the way, lumbering up the gangway. And then comes the vision: blond mop catching in the Brexit breeze like a haystack in a hurricane. Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson. The man who gate-crashed Farage's Brexit party, downed half the bar and left poor Nige standing in the wings clutching an empty glass and wondering what on earth had just happened.

It is the one defection a hearty chunk of the country must secretly want to see, but which Farage no doubt dreads. The one name that would simultaneously make Reform go stratospheric and render Farage himself invisible. Because here is the uncomfortable truth rattling about Mr Farage's perfectly coiffured head: there is only room for one ego on this pier, and Boris's is bigger.

Johnson waded into the Brexit game when Farage was nursing another pint and dreaming of a comeback. BJ grabbed a bottle, downed the contents and smashed it on the bar, delivering Brexit whilst Farage was relegated to shouting encouragement from the cheap seats. The man who got it done while Nige was punted off to the sidelines, later shafted in a dodgy deal that saw him stand down his mob in half the seats in England.

The polls tell you everything. Even at the pinnacle of the Partygate scandal - cakes, wine, wallpaper, the lot - Boris was pulling numbers Farage can only dream about whilst staring at his ceiling at 3am. Reform may be riding high now, but they still have not reached the Himalayan heights of Johnson's digits. Put that man on their ticket, and suddenly nobody is looking at Farage anymore. They are all watching the main event.

Two egos of that magnitude cannot coexist. It is a physical impossibility. Like putting two tomcats in a sack or seating Mariah Carey next to Jennifer Lopez at the Oscars. Someone is getting scratched. And it will not be Boris, who has spent his entire career elbowing rivals into the Thames and blaming it on a wonky paving stone.

Farage knows this, he is not daft. Boris does not do second billing. Indeed, he barely does first billing without demanding the entire theatre be renamed after him. Put him in Reform and within a fortnight he would be leader, Farage would be yesterday's news, and the entire party would be rebranded as "Boris's Brexit Bunch" or some such alliterative bilge.

One can almost see the nightmare playing out behind Farage's eyes. Boris at the Despatch Box. Boris on the campaign trail. Boris in the television studios, hair akimbo, spouting Latin and charming the nation whilst Farage sits in some windowless office in Clacton explaining to increasingly bored journalists that actually it was his idea first. That he invented Brexit, that he laid the groundwork and that Boris merely waltzed in at the end and nabbed the trophy.

Farage spent years building Reform as his personal vehicle, after he got bored with the older models, Brexit Party, UKIP, various other jalopies now rusting in the garage. A one-man band. The Incredible Nigel Farage Travelling Roadshow and Political Emporium, coming soon to a town near you. And now the one recruit who could make Reform genuinely threatening is the very person who would instantly make Farage irrelevant.

So rest easy, Nige. Boris probably is not coming. He is far too busy earning millions on the after-dinner circuit, telling stories about how he single-handedly delivered Brexit whilst some chap called Farage shouted helpful suggestions from the sidelines. Why would he downgrade to Clacton when he can dine at the Savoy?

But the fear must linger. Because deep down, Farage knows what we all know. There is only room for one beast on that pier, and Boris got there first.