Tommy Birch is a behavioural scientist and Leadership Advisor at House of Birch, a local councillor and CPF Area Leader for Hertfordshire.
Anyone who watched Robert Jenrick’s speech announcing his defection to Reform UK will recognise a curious feature of the reaction that followed. People struggled to articulate precisely what felt wrong yet many agreed that something did.
The words were broadly familiar, the arguments were not new and the applause cues were there. And yet, among supporters and sceptics alike, the same intuition surfaced: he looked uncomfortable. Worse still, some felt he looked untruthful.
That reaction is worth taking seriously, because it tells us something important, not just about Jenrick, but about how political credibility is actually formed.
Human beings do not assess sincerity the way we assess spreadsheets. Long before conscious reasoning kicks in, we make rapid judgements based on posture, timing, facial tension, cadence, and emotional ease. This is not some new-age woo woo; it is biology.
Neuroscientists refer to this process in part through mirror neuron systems, the neural mechanisms that allow us to internally simulate the emotional states of others. When a speaker is settled, congruent, and genuinely aligned with what they are saying, observers tend to feel settled too. When a speaker is managing themselves — bracing, controlling, regulating — that internal tension is mirrored and the audience feels that “something is off”.
This is why so many viewers reached the same conclusion without coordinating notes. They were not “reading between the lines”; they were reading the body.
In Jenrick’s case, the opening of the speech did much of the damage. Beginning with the declaration that “it’s time for the truth” was a high-risk move. Moral claims of that sort require more than mere articulation, they require embodiment. Yet the early delivery showed signs of self-management: narrow gestures, controlled affect, and a quick retreat into statistics and abstractions.
None of this proves dishonesty in the crude sense, but it does signal something more interesting: the claim arrived before the speaker had fully settled into it.
As the speech progressed, Jenrick improved; his gestures widened, his cadence strengthened and his attack lines sharpened. This delivery arc is typical of speakers operating under cognitive load. Early on, attention is divided between self-monitoring, environmental uncertainty, and message control. As the nervous system settles, fluency improves and delivery becomes more expansive. The problem however is, that credibility judgements are usually formed before that regulation occurs, not after.
This helps explain the otherwise puzzling reaction from many Reform supporters. Reform voters tend to place a premium on directness, conviction, and emotional certainty. They are less forgiving of hesitation than they are of disagreement. In this case, the language sounded familiar, but the delivery did not carry the confidence of someone who had long since made up his mind. That gap between what is said and how comfortably it is inhabited, is precisely what mirror-neuron-driven intuition detects. It is also why his claims that “the establishment media being unfair” rang hollow. One does not need a hostile journalist to notice when a speaker looks as though he is still arriving at his own position.
This behavioural signature became even clearer when Jenrick was later challenged by Camilla Tominey over apparent inconsistencies between previous assurances and his sudden defection. Faced with a specific charge, did you mislead, he did not directly resolve the inconsistency. Instead, he moved upwards into procedural defence and general claims about honesty. This is a familiar manoeuvre under pressure: abstraction replaces specificity; character claims replace concrete explanation.
Again, this is not proof of lying. But it is evidence of defensive management. And when the same pattern appears across different settings, speech and interview alike, audiences notice.
Some political commentators have suggested that this episode reflects poorly on Kemi Badenoch’s leadership. That interpretation misunderstands what leadership looks like when it is exercised properly. Removing a senior figure for disloyalty is not an act of instability; it is an act of boundary-setting. Boundaries clarify organisations. They force unresolved tensions into the open and prevent ambiguity from becoming a permanent operating mode.
Kemi did not precipitate the defection; she brought an existing misalignment to a decision point. What followed was not the product of impulsive leadership, but the consequence of clarity being introduced into a situation that had relied on its absence.
The visible strain that accompanied Jenrick’s transition is therefore not evidence of mismanagement. If anything, it suggests that, by not sacking Jenrick sooner, the party had been accommodating a degree of internal incoherence. As Kemi had repeatedly said “Jenrick is not my problem anymore”, and thanks to her he is no longer ours either.
This behavioural lens also helps to explain the more mixed reaction within Reform UK itself. While prominent Reform-supporting commentators were quick to congratulate the defection, there has been visible puzzlement among members and supporters when Jenrick’s recent statements and longer track record are taken into account. Consistency matters in a party that has built much of its appeal on plain speaking and scepticism towards political repositioning. There is also a practical consideration that is rarely discussed openly. Introducing a senior figure with an established Westminster profile inevitably alters internal dynamics. It raises questions about future leadership contests, influence, and direction, questions that grassroots movements are seldom eager to confront prematurely.
None of this implies hostility. But it does suggest a degree of ambivalence. Welcoming a defector is one thing; absorbing them without friction is another. Parties that trade heavily on instinct and authenticity are often less comfortable when strategic calculation becomes too visible. In that sense, the rush to claim the moment felt less like confidence born of control, and more like a spin-hungry attempt to impose narrative ownership on events that had largely moved beyond it.
Political credibility is formed before explanation begins. When delivery lags behind conviction, audiences notice instinctively. That is what many people responded to here. The discomfort was not manufactured; it was a reaction to misalignment between claim and embodiment.
That also explains why, once Kemi Badenoch cut through what she rightly described as “political psychodrama”, so much energy went into reclaiming the narrative. Clarity had been imposed, and control over meaning briefly lost.
But credibility cannot be retrofitted. Behaviour is registered first, everything else is commentary.
Tommy Birch is a behavioural scientist and Leadership Advisor at House of Birch, a local councillor and CPF Area Leader for Hertfordshire.
Anyone who watched Robert Jenrick’s speech announcing his defection to Reform UK will recognise a curious feature of the reaction that followed. People struggled to articulate precisely what felt wrong yet many agreed that something did.
The words were broadly familiar, the arguments were not new and the applause cues were there. And yet, among supporters and sceptics alike, the same intuition surfaced: he looked uncomfortable. Worse still, some felt he looked untruthful.
That reaction is worth taking seriously, because it tells us something important, not just about Jenrick, but about how political credibility is actually formed.
Human beings do not assess sincerity the way we assess spreadsheets. Long before conscious reasoning kicks in, we make rapid judgements based on posture, timing, facial tension, cadence, and emotional ease. This is not some new-age woo woo; it is biology.
Neuroscientists refer to this process in part through mirror neuron systems, the neural mechanisms that allow us to internally simulate the emotional states of others. When a speaker is settled, congruent, and genuinely aligned with what they are saying, observers tend to feel settled too. When a speaker is managing themselves — bracing, controlling, regulating — that internal tension is mirrored and the audience feels that “something is off”.
This is why so many viewers reached the same conclusion without coordinating notes. They were not “reading between the lines”; they were reading the body.
In Jenrick’s case, the opening of the speech did much of the damage. Beginning with the declaration that “it’s time for the truth” was a high-risk move. Moral claims of that sort require more than mere articulation, they require embodiment. Yet the early delivery showed signs of self-management: narrow gestures, controlled affect, and a quick retreat into statistics and abstractions.
None of this proves dishonesty in the crude sense, but it does signal something more interesting: the claim arrived before the speaker had fully settled into it.
As the speech progressed, Jenrick improved; his gestures widened, his cadence strengthened and his attack lines sharpened. This delivery arc is typical of speakers operating under cognitive load. Early on, attention is divided between self-monitoring, environmental uncertainty, and message control. As the nervous system settles, fluency improves and delivery becomes more expansive. The problem however is, that credibility judgements are usually formed before that regulation occurs, not after.
This helps explain the otherwise puzzling reaction from many Reform supporters. Reform voters tend to place a premium on directness, conviction, and emotional certainty. They are less forgiving of hesitation than they are of disagreement. In this case, the language sounded familiar, but the delivery did not carry the confidence of someone who had long since made up his mind. That gap between what is said and how comfortably it is inhabited, is precisely what mirror-neuron-driven intuition detects. It is also why his claims that “the establishment media being unfair” rang hollow. One does not need a hostile journalist to notice when a speaker looks as though he is still arriving at his own position.
This behavioural signature became even clearer when Jenrick was later challenged by Camilla Tominey over apparent inconsistencies between previous assurances and his sudden defection. Faced with a specific charge, did you mislead, he did not directly resolve the inconsistency. Instead, he moved upwards into procedural defence and general claims about honesty. This is a familiar manoeuvre under pressure: abstraction replaces specificity; character claims replace concrete explanation.
Again, this is not proof of lying. But it is evidence of defensive management. And when the same pattern appears across different settings, speech and interview alike, audiences notice.
Some political commentators have suggested that this episode reflects poorly on Kemi Badenoch’s leadership. That interpretation misunderstands what leadership looks like when it is exercised properly. Removing a senior figure for disloyalty is not an act of instability; it is an act of boundary-setting. Boundaries clarify organisations. They force unresolved tensions into the open and prevent ambiguity from becoming a permanent operating mode.
Kemi did not precipitate the defection; she brought an existing misalignment to a decision point. What followed was not the product of impulsive leadership, but the consequence of clarity being introduced into a situation that had relied on its absence.
The visible strain that accompanied Jenrick’s transition is therefore not evidence of mismanagement. If anything, it suggests that, by not sacking Jenrick sooner, the party had been accommodating a degree of internal incoherence. As Kemi had repeatedly said “Jenrick is not my problem anymore”, and thanks to her he is no longer ours either.
This behavioural lens also helps to explain the more mixed reaction within Reform UK itself. While prominent Reform-supporting commentators were quick to congratulate the defection, there has been visible puzzlement among members and supporters when Jenrick’s recent statements and longer track record are taken into account. Consistency matters in a party that has built much of its appeal on plain speaking and scepticism towards political repositioning. There is also a practical consideration that is rarely discussed openly. Introducing a senior figure with an established Westminster profile inevitably alters internal dynamics. It raises questions about future leadership contests, influence, and direction, questions that grassroots movements are seldom eager to confront prematurely.
None of this implies hostility. But it does suggest a degree of ambivalence. Welcoming a defector is one thing; absorbing them without friction is another. Parties that trade heavily on instinct and authenticity are often less comfortable when strategic calculation becomes too visible. In that sense, the rush to claim the moment felt less like confidence born of control, and more like a spin-hungry attempt to impose narrative ownership on events that had largely moved beyond it.
Political credibility is formed before explanation begins. When delivery lags behind conviction, audiences notice instinctively. That is what many people responded to here. The discomfort was not manufactured; it was a reaction to misalignment between claim and embodiment.
That also explains why, once Kemi Badenoch cut through what she rightly described as “political psychodrama”, so much energy went into reclaiming the narrative. Clarity had been imposed, and control over meaning briefly lost.
But credibility cannot be retrofitted. Behaviour is registered first, everything else is commentary.