He might not be a household name, and his party might not dominate conversation, but you’ve almost certainly seen the images: a middle-aged man in a shirt and tie hurling himself down a giant Slip ‘N Slide or dangling from a bungee.
These now infamous stunts helped propel Ed Davey’s Liberal Democrats to their most successful election result ever last year – from near-wipeout to 72 seats.
Yet as their annual conference comes to an end, the political world still doesn’t quite know what to do with him. In a system addicted to anger, Davey’s insistence on absurd joy feels alien.
Our social media feeds and news bulletins seem dominated by division, fear and fury, on both sides of the Atlantic.
Farage’s endless scaremongering and Trump’s grievance-soaked rallies have rebuilt politics on the idea that outrage is the most powerful currency.
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When Davey tried something different throughout last year’s election campaign and over the subsequent 12 months, the default reaction was derision.
Commentators called the stunts silly, unserious, cringe. Some conceded that at least they generated attention.
But both miss the point.
The Lib Dems’ answer has been simple but striking: inject joy. Not to distract from their serious message, but to frame it. To suggest that smiling is not a weakness but a strategy.
I saw that come alive in a moment that wasn’t staged for cameras.
On the final morning of conference, rushing to a meeting, I found myself stuck behind someone walking slowly.
City living instincts kicked in – I edged closer, annoyed and irritable, only to realise it was Ed Davey, walking with his wife, who has multiple sclerosis.
There were no photographers, no media scrum, no huge entourage, just Davey with two staffers quietly helping him manage the day. They shared a joke and commented on the weather. (He’s British, after all).
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It struck me that Davey at his most unguarded – caring, patient, present – was the same as the one who proposes throwing himself off a slide.
The stunts aren’t gimmicks to mask who he is – they are extensions of him.
The Kingston MP has spoken before about caring for his mum as a teenager when she was dying of cancer, and later raising a disabled son. For him, joy isn’t denial, its survival – magnifying moments of happiness even in difficult circumstances.
Translating that into politics is not frivolous. It’s a way of reminding voters that politics should be more about care and less about conflict, about making space for dignity and laughter in lives that are often hard.
When Davey goes from leading a marching band to giving Laura Kuenssberg one of his strongest interviews, there’s a consistency. The stunts open a window, inviting people to see a party trying something different.
They’re not designed to shock or awe. They’re not desperate attempts to bury policy.
They’re an attempt to prove politics can feel lighter, even when the issues are heavy.
Critics say that makes the Lib Dems unserious. But perhaps it makes them more serious about the emotional state of the country – and with 72 MPs, it is clear that is resonating with quite a few people.
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In Britain, we are exhausted by constant doom, and we all know the challenges are huge – we feel it every day – but we are entitled to believe politics can be about more than misery.
Compare this with America, where politics has become a theatre of cruelty. Trump’s rallies thrive on grievance and menace; anger is not a tool but the whole show.
Britain has begun importing that culture – from the framing of debates to mass-deportation policies to the hijacking of our flag.
Davey knows he can’t out-shout Farage, out-rage the Conservatives or upstage a sitting Prime Minister.
Instead, he’s betting on being the antidote. Not with sanctimony or superiority, but with playfulness.
With a reminder that politics can be humane, even kind. And crucially, by anchoring his message in something bigger – reclaiming British values.
Farage’s patriotism is plastic. It’s meaningless flag-waving, grievances and shouting – all designed to exclude, not include.
For Davey, Britishness isn’t about who shouts loudest or waves the biggest flag. It’s about decency, care and community – the small moments of looking after one another.
The frivolous – but joyful and optimistic – stunts tell more of Britain’s story than Farage’s division or Starmer’s uninspiring lack of ambition.
Of course, it might fail. Perhaps the public will roll their eyes, memes of Davey on paddleboards will grate, and joy won’t compete in a system that rewards conflict.
But it’s still a strategy worth trying.
At a time when politics is stuck in a cycle of grim headlines, joy is subversive and disruptive. It opens a window for some fresh air.
Perhaps, now more than ever, that’s exactly what our country needs. After all, what could be more British than finding light in the dark and laughing at yourself before anyone else gets the chance?
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