I’m famed for my mustard cords. Back in 2013, the press mockingly dubbed my campaign trips around the country in a purple London taxi the ‘Mustard Trouser Express’. Photographers everywhere still cry, ‘Nigel, when do we go to the pub?’ They want that ‘pint shot’ of course, and they always know they are on to something when they get to see a little flash of yellow-clad corrugated calf.
I’ve helped organise a March to Leave, which will arrive in Parliament Square this Friday, the day Britain was meant to leave the EU. The march — which travelled from Sunderland — has been the perfect opportunity to wear the trusty corduroys once again. Unfortunately, the snappers were in for a let-down when they arrived in the north-east. Along the heritage coast, it rained every step of the way, and I was swathed in the longest of South Shields’s finest ankle-length, waxed cotton jackets. It keeps off the worst British weather, as it does the worst protests from Remain supporters, who bleat about ‘sticking Brexit up your Farage’. Their yelps were drowned out by the good cheer of our marchers.
I did find time for a pint, away from Fleet Street’s finest, who had dissolved into Durham drizzle. I snuck off for a sharpener as the march wound through Easington Colliery. The 20-mile trek was beginning to take it out of my shins. Thanks to a car accident in my twenties, they look as if they were moulded by Henry Moore and can smart a bit. I slotted back into the walk after my pint and continued on to Hartlepool. I’d given my word and there could be no slacking.
It isn’t just Theresa May who goes hill-walking.
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