Bit early for a lap of honour. At PMQs Mrs May congratulated her government (i.e. herself) on fifty marvellous days in government. And she drew comparisons between her polished style and the Corbyn car-wreck. One view is that the chimpanzees’ tea-party currently posing as Her Majesty’s opposition should remain beneath the attention of Number 10. Mrs May disagrees and she used Labour’s woes as the starting point for some carefully scripted comedy. With mixed results. Delivering gags is tough. Delivering someone else’s gags is tougher. Delivering someone else’s out-of-date gags is so tough that it borders on crazy. But the PM is, understandably perhaps, tempted by the illusion of omnipotence at the moment. After setting up her jokes with a muddled preamble comparing Labour to a failing railway company, she came through with the money-shot. ‘The train’s left the station, the leader’s on the floor, even on rolling-stock, they’re a laughing-stock.’ Not a bad line. But only on paper. Say it out loud and you realise that this sort of artful word-play needs a special effervescence to make it work. Theresa May isn’t a comedian. She never was. Steel is her most attractive quality. And voters don’t care she’s hilarious or humourless as long as she remains strong and smart. To try to be amusing and to fail is to reveal a weakness in an area where competence isn’t an asset. It is, in a way, a form of folly.
She was then confronted by crinkly-haired bouncer himself, Angus Robertson, whose mirthless pomposity is a joy to behold. He began by sending the Paralympians off to Rio with a regal wave of his hand. ‘An inspiration to us all,’ he called them. He then turned to the Brexit talks. He claimed that Scotland had voted to remain in ‘the biggest market in the world’ and he expressed concern over the coming settlement. All summer, he noted loftily, he’d heard nothing but ‘waffle’ from the government. His patience had now run out. His orders were straightforward. Mrs May must submit her negotiating tactics for his approval. She answered him with a wafer-thin paragraph of politico-economic pledges: seizing opportunities, getting the right deal, forging a new role, respecting the people’s views. More waffle, in other words. Her best joke of the session.
The glory of Mr Robertson is that he clings to his self-image as the feared and indomitable leader of a government-in-exile. Without the myth of Scottish independence he’d be a municipal councillor voting on zebra crossings and drainage schemes. Thanks to parliament he’s the best panto dame we’ve got. He believes, deep down, that the electors of Moray have sent to Westminster not just a pudgy chair-filler but a Garibaldi for the 21st century. He stands ready to answer destiny’s call. Already his name is uttered like a magical incantation at revolutionary meetings in highland beer-cellars. His image is toasted in secret when darkness falls across the lochs and glens. Kilted militiamen, crouching over their rifles on Hebridean beach-heads, await each night his coded signal to rise up against their wicked overlords. One day his dauntless profile will grace the stamps and bank-notes of a nation forged from the embers of a crushed tyranny. What a pity he was born in Wimbledon.
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