Revealed: The shocking racism of Reform

As seen in the New European What is journalism? Is it a craft? A trade? Is it all about ‘Who, what, when, where, why’? To me, journalism is about intelligence-agency-style infiltrations of opposition parties. And so I find myself outside Bow Underground on a rainy Saturday morning, apologetically handing out Reform UK leaflets to hung-over, universally hostile Queen Mary students. It was odd to be canvassing somewhere I’d once researched on Rightmove. Truth be told, when I’d registered my ‘interest’ in volunteering for the party, I’d expected to have been flung to some left-behind hellhole like Clacton, which would give me the chance to doubleup on a semi-ironic at-the-coalface restaurant review for Vittles . Alas. Most popular Gavin Mortimer The dark horse who stands to benefit from France’s riots The Spectator Sally Rooney and the comfortable violence of the left Madeline Grant The humiliation of Miatta Fahnbulleh There were, thankfully, more than a few familiar faces among my fellow canvassers. There was the Guardian ’s Henry Dyer, fiddling with his hidden camera. In the toilets of a nearby café, Gabriel Pogrund of the Times was straining to get a wig to fit on his head properly. The Mail ’s Dan Hodges kept wandering off-script and telling people how Kemi’s personal ratings would soon reach 200 per cent. Missing, irritatingly, was my old Tab chum Anna Isaac, who with characteristic luck, had already been invited to Reform HQ in Millbank tower for a meet and greet with party high command. It was about 40 minutes into our session that we figured out that every single canvasser was a journalist, and there’d be no Muggles to catch out on camera. So, enjoying the free tea, we had a SW1 goss sesh, while taking turns to goad the organiser, Neil from Romford, into admitting he doesn’t believe immigrants built the NHS. Neil was obstinate, refusing to take the bait about the King’s mosque-going and instead asking us to focus on speaking with potential voters. So the long game: hunkering down for months until someone says something offensive. And then the scoop is mine – £300 in the bank. As I’m pondering my future riches (new pair of Crocs, weekend holibobs in Albania), a familiar face comes into view. Oh God… It’s Naomi . Lovely, stylish Naomi – anthropology at UCL, now running a gallery in Hackney. ‘Clair?’ Naomi exclaims, taking off her sunglasses and AirPods, her eyes trailing down to the leaflet in my hand. I begin babbling. ‘Naomi! Hi! Look, it’s not what it looks like, I’m…’ I lurch forward, attempting to draw her into an embrace. Naomi backs away. ‘No, you don’t have to explain. It’s OK. You were always into your politics.’ A gale of nervous laughter follows. ‘I’m here on assignment, really! It’s all part of –’ ‘Look, I’m sure you have your reasons. Anyway, I’ve got to run. Nice to see you.’ And with a swish of her Lemaire leather blouson, she fast-walks away. Neil was obstinate, refusing to take the bait about the King’s mosque-going ‘Naomi! Wait!’ I drop my leaflets, which fly in all directions. ‘I’d never! You remember, remember at uni when we went to Brighton for Free the Nipple?’ Still walking, Naomi replaces her AirPods and so I start to shout: ‘I’m not one of those horrible fascists! Remember Cho from second year? Cho from Nanjing? We were best mates!’ She quickens her pace. ‘Remember, Naomi? Cho! She had eyes like THIS!’ I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around. It’s Neil, the probable wife-beating bigot. He gives me a very hard stare. ‘That was a very offensive gesture you just made.’ ‘W-w-w-well–’ ‘I’m afraid we don’t tolerate that sort of thing. I think you’d better go home.’ ‘Bu–’ ‘No. That’s enough.’ And so the District Line once again sees me at my worst. Humiliated. Eyes red. Puffy.