Jacob Rees-Mogg, the man at the centre of Britain’s most unlikely political cult, has arrived early. The vintage Bentley is parked outside, and the owlish 48-year-old is sitting in a country pub in a double-breasted blue suit, his side parting unchanged from the days when his nanny patted his hair and sent him off to prep school. This is a pub lunch, Rees-Mogg style. He beckons me to a table by a picture window, offering sun-drenched views of his ancestral homeland: the rolling Somerset hills near Bristol in the south-west of England. "It’s an honour," he says, by way of introduction, in his familiar establishment drawl. These have been busy times for the fogey-ish arch-conservative MP. This summer he celebrated the birth of his sixth child, imaginatively named Sixtus (Rees-Mogg says he has been ribbed that his next might be called "Septimus and Octopus") — he also improbably emerged as a possible future prime minister. Rees-Mogg recently mischievously posted on his Instagram page a...

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