They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but I have a better serving suggestion. How about revenge plated up simmering, every single day, again and again, inescapable and eternal? For surely that is the intended outcome of Emily Thornberry’s plan to – maybe, possibly – run for the position of deputy leader of the Labour party. Even that ‘possibly’ caveat has the air of somebody turning the knife. How she must delight in dangling this ‘I might, I might not’ eventuality before Keir Starmer.
Because it was Starmer, after all, who stabbed her in the front after the 2024 election, chucking her unceremoniously out from her shadow position of attorney-general and handing this plum job to his old chum Lord Hermer. After years of loyal service, Thornberry didn’t even get a cabinet consolation prize.
But that means she’s had plenty of time to plot her vengeance. Thornberry must have run through all the scenarios, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall of the Thornberry pile when the news broke of Angela Rayner’s departure, and its full implications dawned!
I’ve always been quite fond of Emily Thornberry, in a way. She creates extra drama, livens things up even when times are already hard. Unlike the blank Bridget Phillipsons, or robotised Peter Kyles, of our lanyard-wearing world, Emily just can’t keep her emotions off her face. You know when she’s cheesed off or when she’s loving life.
She was a positive fillip in the grindingly tedious days of the post-Brexit parliament, whether as the unwitting recipient of Jeremy Corbyn’s accidental breast-fondling, or choosing to appear in a shimmering electric blue gown adorned with gold EU stars to address naff Remainer rallies.
There is also her speaking manner. Thornberry perhaps thinks that she’s talking plainly and matter-of-factly, but her delivery is unfailingly that of a weary teacher addressing a gaggle of backward infants in the afternoon, thinking longingly of home, a glass of wine and Pointless.
She can’t help sounding grand, even when boasting of her working-class credentials.
‘Today I was deeply honoured to receive a damehood from His Majesty The King,’ she tweeted from Buckingham Palace on this red letter day in June. ‘I wore a brooch in my hat belonging to my nan, who was a bright working-class woman who had to stop working once she was married. If only she could see her granddaughter now.’
Do the right thing, Labour voters
The creation she wore on this occasion was feathered and fantastical, the blue top hat set at a slightly too jaunty angle that was strongly reminiscent of Hyacinth Bucket after being woofed into a bush by Onslow’s dog.
There is something about Thornberry of Mrs Susan Wyse MBE of Tilling in E. F. Benson’s Mapp & Lucia novels, always leaving her Empire medal lying around where people might just happen to see it, her Rolls Royce blocking Porpoise Street.
But in an age of parsimony and blobby blandness, this exudation of hedonism is to be welcomed. Her title, ‘Lady Nugee’, with its hint of the Raj, sounds like a handmade Fortnum’s chocolate, truffle and marzipan enrobed in violet fondant cream – a sumptuous treat whether enjoyed alone, shared, or given as an indulgent gift. Something that you really shouldn’t. Or perhaps a lavish pudding that comes with a note on the menu: ‘We beg your patience, as it may take a little extra time for the chef to prepare the Lady Nugee to perfection’.
Add all this to the fun of watching her slowly roast Starmer on a spit, day-in day-out, and Thornberry should be a shoo-in for the Number Two job. Do the right thing, Labour voters. Make the Dame your deputy. It would be too delicious.
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