It’s Gatwick airport, mid-afternoon, and on the runway there is turmoil. Public policy playing out in full view of the public. Voters, citizens, seeing what they don’t normally see.

“Murdaar, murdaaaaar,” screams the bucking, brawling, brawny man as a clutch of male security officials, with solid intent and hi-vis yellow jackets, collectively fight to pin him into a seat at the back of the airliner. “Me caaan go back a Jamaica,” he hollers, the visceral sound reverberating around the 777. “Dem kill me bredda. Dem a go kill me.”

There are five or six security guards – and they are hardly slight – but bundling a large, hysterical man into an economy-sized seat was always going to be a challenge, and he has the strength – for a while at least – to confound them. One man leaning forwards grabs him in a form of headlock, prompting gasps and shrieks from the other passengers. A few pull out their phones and start filming, ignoring a flight attendant’s pleas that they remain in their seats. Others, eager to fly but drawn to the melee, drift rearwards for a look at this theatre of the macabre.

There is a fraught stalemate as the irresistible force that is the deportation team meets the immovable object that is the would-be deportee, and it is during that brutal, noisy standoff that the mini mutiny begins. “We........

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