It’s mid-morning at Hadrian’s Wall and the Romans have already lost again.
Not to the Picts this time, or to the weather, or even to the slow grind of history. But to Lee Anderson. “Now this is what a proper border looks like,” he says, gesturing to waist-high masonry that has been successfully penetrated by sheep since the middle of the 5th century.
Anderson is with a minibus full of people who at some point in the last six months have all said “after long consideration” into a microphone. Danny Kruger, Robert Jenrick, Nadhim Zahawi, Nadine Dorries, Jake Berry, Suella Braverman and Jonathan Gullis stand around him in a loose semi-circle, dressed for cameras rather than Northumberland in February. Andrea Jenkyns and Ann Widdecombe flank the would-be centurion like a pair of time-expired legionaries. (Nigel Farage is sadly unable to attend due to a busy cameo schedule.)
“Right,” announces the shadow minister for patriotism. “Today is an opportunity for us to get to know our new colleagues, and to learn how to trust each other.” Glances are exchanged. “First, we’re all going to introduce ourselves and then we will symbolically cross the wall. This side is where you were. And on the other side, is where you are now.”
“England?” asks Jenkyns.
“It’s Scotland on that side,” corrects Braverman.
“No, it’s not,” says Kruger.
“Shut up. I’ll go first,” says Anderson. “I’m Lee Anderson, I say what people think. And I’m not apologising for it.”
He scales the 1,900-year-old stonework with all the agility of a 53-year-old Madrí drinker in an ill-fitting Asda suit, drops down onto the other side and shouts: “And I want my country back.”
There’s a ripple of applause.
“Nadhim, you go next,” calls Anderson, lanyard whipping across his face in the stiff Hexham breeze.
“Stop!” shouts Braverman, concerned. “Isn’t this an irregular border crossing?”
“It’s not a border,” reiterates Kruger.
Zahawi steps forward, pleased to take centre stage. He talks suavely about outcomes, how politics should work for people. He uses the word “reset”.
“You didn’t let Boris reset,” snarls Dorries, “when you resigned the day after he made you chancellor.”
“That was a matter of conscience,” replies Zahawi.
“You betrayed him.”
“Nadine, you put Carrie’s cat in a microwave,” Jenkyns interjects.
“Dog,” replies Dorries. “And it was an air fryer.”
Matt Goodwin is writing everything down.
Jenrick has been recording a short video with a man from a startup PR agency that really wants to make a name for itself. “I’m here today learning about borders, heritage and patriotism.”
“Robert, there’ll be plenty of time for shameless self-promotion later,” shouts Anderson as Zahawi’s phone rings. “Right, if your phone’s ringing, you’re not going to be getting the most out of it.”
“Sorry, Lee, it’s my accountant,” says Zahawi. “Hector, talk to me… Well, that depends how you define residency?”
Anderson takes a breath. “Who’s next?”
Nobody volunteers, but through a combination of elaborate eye contact avoidance and a poor sense of his own personal dimensions, Gullis ends up in the middle.
“Gullis. Go.”
Gullis shouts “I’M JONATHAN GULLIS.” He runs, loses footing in the ditch designed precisely for that purpose and collides, temple first, with the wall. It is a fitting tribute to Hadrian’s vision.
Lunchtime. The head of HR, Widdecombe, has placed a buffet of sandwiches, sausage rolls and crisps on the flatbed of Anderson’s Ford Ranger. The delegates loiter.
“This is where the bonding happens,” says Anderson, clapping his hands together.
Berry pokes at a foil tray of sausage rolls. “Are these halal?” he asks.
Zahawi is pacing past. “No, I understand… of course not that entity…” He covers his phone with his hand, “No, they’re pork.”
Reassured by something he hasn’t understood, Berry nods. Dorries is holding court in a folding chair.
“The problem is loyalty. People don’t understand loyalty anymore.” She bites a sausage roll. “This is cold.”
“Interesting,” notes Goodwin, scribbling furiously.
Soon it is already mid-afternoon. Following a collaboration-fostering knot exercise that culminates in Kruger losing a shoe, it is time for the trust fall.
“Right,” barks Anderson. “This is about knowing that your Reform colleagues have got your back. Climb on to the wall, Nadine. You’re going to stand still, cross your arms and fall backwards. On three.”
"I only trust myself,” she announces, leaning back dramatically on two.
“No! Nadine, you’ve….” begins the facilitator, whose nearest relevant experience is moderating the Ashfield Patriots Against Pronouns Facebook group.
Jenrick keeps his arms folded. Zahawi stays on his phone. Jenkyns is spitting at a provocative hogget. Braverman, still at the back, is ready to explain why she always knew the whole thing was a bad idea. Unlike the hydrocarbons drilled by Reform’s donors, Dorries’s body obeys the laws of physics perfectly, misses everyone and lands mostly on Widdecombe.
During the ensuing melee, a Honda Jazz drives into the car park and proceeds to brake suddenly across two disabled bays. “Stop here, mam.” Darren Grimes’s eager pink head protrudes from the passenger window. “Guys, when were you going to tell me that this was happening? You know I only live around the corner.”
Goodwin underlines something three times.
