At last it happened. Benn led Labour. Hilary Benn, grandson of a hereditary peer, stood up at PMQs on behalf of the dispossessed. Gravitas was his chosen register. Radicalisation was his chosen theme. His policy: more cash for cops and teacher to discourage Muslims from joining the death-cult. Let’s hope it works.
The SNP’s Angus Robertson asked how Sir John Chilcot is proceeding with his slim volume of research into the Iraq war. Who knows? It’s said that Lord Lloyd Webber has already abandoned his ‘Chilcot the Musical’ project because investors couldn’t agree how many years each performance should last.
His spokesman, pressed this morning for a deadline, confirmed that the report will appear, ‘before the decade is out.’ ‘Any decade in particular?’ he was asked. No comment. ‘Might we see it by the time the Queen receives a telegram from the Queen in 2026?’ Again, no comment. Privately, Sir John’s friends confide that he’s reluctant to ‘rush into print’ for fear of prejudicing the findings of the Inquiry into the Late Arrival of the Chilcot Inquiry. That’s slated for 2039.
The major news today was George Osborne’s debut at PMQs. (Cameron is away.) Goodness he had it easy. The chancellor was virtually overwhelmed by a backbench group-hug. They leaped from their seats to sing his praises and declare fealty to the man they credit with victory. Between them they built up a portrait of Mr Osborne as a superhero equipped with a magical toolbox, a divinity of limitless powers. Is there anything the great-earth mover cannot do?
He lays roads. He decrees bridges. He drives gleaming tunnels through the packed clay-beds of ancient cities. He sends new trains hurtling towards vibrant townships at record speeds. The titan of Tatton has only to raise his little finger and – behold! – brand new factories spring up from brownfield wastelands. State-of the-art hospitals soar into the clouds. Industrial parks begin to throb and heave with energy. The Tories are convinced that the spirit of decay has been expunged forever from these islands.
Except on the Labour benches. There it still clings to its papery shroud with cold, twig-like fingers. To say the opposition is in disarray is an overstatement. To say ‘the opposition is’ is an over-statement. Labour barely exists. The people’s party has dwindled into a poky little citizens advice bureau for unfortnates. Backbenchers today begged for more social housing, more help for battered women, more powers to stop knife-crime, fracking and global warming.
David Lammy, bursting out of a new black suit, asked the chancellor to crack down on sexual assaults. Like his colleagues, he greets all problems with a mono-solution: extra cash for public workers.
His tailoring certainly looked natty. Or would have done a few years ago. Age has not been kind to the former Tottenham choirboy. The slim, athletic figure who replaced Bernie Grant in 2000 has been enveloped by a slow-moving, slow-thinking hulk. Many a lengthy lunch sits creaking on his tautened belt. Put an arm-band on his sleeve and he’d look like a bouncer. His great hope is to convince Londoners to make him mayor next year. His real hope is to convince Ladbrokes to slash his odds to less than 16-1 against.
Cries of ‘brilliant, brilliant!’ rang out as George Osborne left the chamber. But this wasn’t a test. It was a victory stroll. He’s at the peak already. Only one way to go from here.
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