The Campaign Diary of Robert Kenyon Aged 41 and Three-Quarters (as imagined by John Crace) | John Crace

A.It’s a sweltering summer day in late spring, south of the Sahara. If this is global warming, I say, “Bring it on.” I go outside to the van, start the engine and leave it running. This is the kind of day where you want to burn as much fossil fuel as possible. When I get back inside, I turn on the radio where Tony Blair is speaking. There is a politician who speaks logically.

From bollocks to net zero. That’s what I’m saying. It seems logical. I mean, think about the ice age. Let’s face it, when Neanderthals were alive there weren’t as many international flights a day (five or six at most), and the world was still much warmer. So it was all nothing but nonsense. Make a note in my diary to ask if Tony is available to come to Makerfield and knock on the door.

WhatsApp from Nigel. He’ll be 10 minutes late and says he’ll meet me at a local coffee shop with a few photographers and a docile reporter. Decide to check my emails while you wait. There’s one by Carol Vorderman. Turns out she was whining about me online, saying how fit she was. And the rest! Some women can’t handle compliments. The world is going crazy. I think she must have gone through menopause or something. What does he want me to say? That I don’t like him? Make up your mind, my love.

Then there’s an email from Danny Kruger. Of course there is. He texts me every day. Always the same. He tells me how much he admires my northern, working-class originality and that he longs to come service a boiler with me one day. He had never been on council property before and was wondering how the little people lived and whether he should spray himself with disinfectant first. Then “but”. There’s always a but with Danny. “I love your often forthright banter,” he says. “He’s very cute. But he might be useful if you try to rein him in a little for the next three weeks. Not everyone finds him that attractive.”

Finally, there is Daily Hate by Zia Yusuf. This man lives with a persistent feeling of anger. Today he is angry at Robert Jenrick for not understanding that Reformation’s policy was to deport every foreigner living in social housing. How thick must that Jenrick guy be? Thank God he won’t be in charge of any department when we win the next general election. Now is not the time to soften. Of course we should deport foreigners. That’s why we call them foreigners. Because they are foreigners. Who wants to live in a country with foreigners? That Rupert Lowe guy knows what he’s talking about. He might suggest to Lee Anderson that we hire him.

Proceed towards the cafe 50 meters away. Go in and shout: “Give us the usual, please darling, and try to keep your hands off my tap.” Sandra laughs. Nigel is already there, surrounded by his security and various members of the media. It’s nice to see him so natural and relaxed. “What do you want, Nige?” I say. “And I’m not talking about Sandra. Boom, boom!”

Nige asks for the menu. “I’ll make the most northern breakfast you can afford,” he replies. “Make it a full English with extra black pudding. And none of your fancy cappuccinos. It’s good in an instant. I’m not like that bland Andy Burnham. I’m sure he starts the morning with a croissant and oat milk.”

“Because he’s a middle-class metrosexual from Liverpool,” I snapped. “He’s not exactly northern like us.” Nige smiles and puts a large forkful of fatty bacon into his mouth as the catchers take photos. He then pushes the media away and begins to gag. “That was so disgusting,” he says. “I’m not taking that shit again. But you can finish it if you want.” Two breakfasts. Conclusion! It’s going to be a stunning day.

Half an hour later, after Nige smokes a few cigarettes and drinks his first beer of the day, we both get in the minibus and head out to do the survey. Our first stop is one of my clients. “How are you, Jim?” I ask. “It’s not that bad,” he says. “The pipe is still leaking though.” I go back to grab my tools and ask who he plans to vote for on June 18 while I fix the leak.

“I used to vote for Boris,” he says. “So am I,” I reply. Boris was a great man.

“Don’t talk to me about Brexit,” I say. “It was a complete disaster. Politicians like Boris and Nigel all spoke badly throughout the campaign.” I feel a kick in my legs. Nige. “I did not speak badly during the referendum,” he whispers. “Brexit has been a complete success, except for the parts that failed. Reform is all about Brexit.” I’m doing a double take. I didn’t realize I was now supporting Brexit. However, I’m glad to know that I’m now thinking of something completely different. “I love Brexit,” I say. “The EU can go and build one. With foreigners.”

It doesn’t take me long to fix the leak. “How much do I owe you?” Jim asks; Nige intervenes. “That’ll be £5 million, please. That’s my standard rate calling fee. To keep me safe. So, it’s a donation. Call it a gift, actually. Just for the pleasure of meeting me. The chance to see Nigel as Nigel in the wild. And if it’s the same, I’d rather you pay me in crypto. It’d be easier.”

“Actually,” I say. “You can pay me in rubles. The cash will come in handy for my next holiday in St. Petersburg. I love Russia. I was heartbroken when Ukraine tried to invade it. It’s a tragedy that Putin hasn’t invaded Kiev yet.” Rib bone excavation from Nige. “We don’t support Russia anymore, you half-wit,” he hisses. “We are all Ukrainians now. Watch your laptop. The Kremlin may be hacking it as we speak.”

“Promise,” I laugh. That’s what I love about being a reform candidate. You learn something new every day.