I wake up early – earlier than Nigel Farage. Not drinking as much as him helps. But look, no shade. As I keep telling interviewers, I admire Nigel’s longevity. He can keep going for ever, can’t he, aged whatever-he-is and with that lifestyle, which makes his biological age only a couple of months more than Joe Biden’s was last summer. I’m a huge fan.
Then it’s a pacy run round the constituency, or one of the nicer bits of London or Herefordshire if I’m at one of my other houses. If I spot a lamp-post that hasn’t been flagged, I make a mental note to go mental at the team. By next week I want to be photographed St Georgeing anything over 10 foot: wind turbines, 5G masts, the giraffes at London zoo. Then we stick it on the socials. Run me up the flagpole and see who salutes me.
Breakfast is typically a full English yoghurt and whichever type of coffee doesn’t constitute taking the wrong side in the culture war. I previously took Ozempic but I didn’t inhale. What people see now is the result of me, personally, taking a stand. I had the discipline to control my northern border – my mouth – rather than letting it be a soft touch for marauding doughnuts or foreign pastries who should quite reasonably have sought refuge somewhere safe but weak, like within France or James Cleverly. As I survey myself in the mirror, I’m incredibly proud of the fact that I went so much further than one-in, one-out. Far more crap now leaves my gob than goes into it. That’s down to the same iron will I would bring to the leadership of the Conservative party.
Not that there’s a vacancy; Kemi’s doing a great job. Certainly a job. A part-time job, some would say. I’m sure she’s exhausted herself quite enough for one week with her Sunday Times interview. Of course, they asked her about everyone saying I was soon to be leader of the Tory party, and she said: “I think even Rob himself finds it distressing.” Bless her. But what she needs to remember is that I’m much, much stronger than that.
Then it’s straight into the Range Rover and off to work, unless I’m doing a video in a tube station. I’m getting incredible feedback for my videos from people who would previously have given me a wedgie. Having said that, last week I saw the most problematic thing I’ve seen on a phone since Richard Desmond showed me his property development idea at a Conservative fundraiser and I personally greenlit it. This time, though, it’s on my phone, and it’s a video posted by Chris Philp where he says he got threatened with a knife at the migrant camp in Calais. I immediately texted Chris: “Who do you think you are – Mr Beast?” Got the cryface emoji back so had to press it. “Seriously mate, who do you think you are???”
Reaching the office, I discover another big shipment of flags has arrived from Temu. I ignored last week’s message from the Department for Business that I am personally increasing the trade deficit with China: patriotism is bigger than all that stuff. I may not buy British but I certainly fly British. One of the team has left out a print-out of the recent ConservativeHome popularity ranking, which I topped. That’s a nice touch – if you want to work with me, you need to be committed to the project. I like to joke that it’s the law, and I know because I used to be justice secretary. Well, secretary to the justice secretary, but yeah. Same difference.
The morning is spent publicly complaining about things we either didn’t fix or made worse when in office, but I don’t see contradictions. Some might say I was one of the public faces of the campaign to lock people up during the pandemic. But they forget I actually twice freestyled the rules – so what did I really believe? Honestly, I’m embarrassed for people who keep bringing up past versions of Robert Jenrick. It’s like talking about Peter Parker before he was bitten by the radioactive spider, or the Hulk before he gets the gamma dose. Seriously, if Marvel did shadow ministers …
Mid-morning, the team will sit with me for my telly time. Unfortunately, today we switched on and Farage was unveiling a plan for mass deportations. According to Nigel, who looked tired, he’s going to deport all immigrants who arrived here illegally. Hundreds of thousands of people, and if they don’t agree immediately then they’ll be imprisoned at military sites before being expelled. I’m stunned. That is genuinely horrible – for me. “Why didn’t any of you lot think of that?” I scream at the team. “How am I supposed to outflank him on immigration if he keeps advancing his army? He’s halfway across the Polish border by now!” There’s a short silence. “You could deport all immigrants,” says one. “Except your wife,” says another. “You could,” says a third, “think of a tougher and more eye-catching name for the internment camps.” “Like what?” I snap. But they all look at their shoes. That’s the trouble with this generation – no concentration.
The afternoon is taken up with the standard work of a modern MP and public servant – running through tweet ideas and workshopping a banterious text to JD Vance. Then, I power the Range Rover home for dinner as a father of daughters. When Nigel’s tucking into the post-prandials, I’m tucking myself in. We all need a hinterland, as I tweet just before falling asleep.
Marina Hyde is a Guardian columnist
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