Got a daff pinned to your lapel? I haven’t. St David’s Day caused a predictable outbreak of Taffy-fondling in the House. Little yellow flowers winked gamely from the suits of several MPs, though many seem to be about as Welsh as Bombay Duck. What good is served by this annual flashing of custard-coloured flora? A 24-hour act of genuflection simply reminds members of a minority that the other 364 days are dedicated to those with enough power and wealth not to need a ‘Day’ with a capital letter.
The passing of Gerald Kaufman drew heart-felt tributes from all sides. His death turns Kenneth Clarke into the Father of the House. It’s rare for a man in his seventies to become a new dad. Perhaps he should get honorary membership of the Rolling Stones as well.
Jeremy Corbyn spent some time discussing Sir Gerald’s funeral yesterday where the deceased was described by his great-nephews as ‘an awesome uncle’. Corbyn offered a personal salute to ‘this iconic and irascible figure in British politics’. Yet he couldn’t think of a single achievement that might stand as his legacy. Which is interesting. For Corbyn there’s no need to follow in the footsteps of the great as long as you can be a stone in their shoe.
Corbyn didn’t quiz Mrs May today he just rehearsed speeches about the ‘nasty party’ and society’s duty to the most vulnerable. ‘This is how we will be judged.’ He said that twice. As with his comments about Sir Gerald, Mr Corbyn is becoming obsessed with the verdict of posterity. He can see that his ascendancy is waning. He feels the breath of the obituarist on his collar. The door to the garden shed is creaking open, the unpruned roses beckon invitingly from the fringes of the lawn, and the cushioned deck-chair promises hours of peace in the lengthening shadows. Everyone wishes him a long and fruitful obsolescence. He’ll barely get a moment to himself as he fields calls from the producers of Strictly and Celebrity Big Brother. The bidding war for ‘Corbyn’s Bumper Book of Drain Covers’ will begin in earnest around September. And he’s already hot favourite for a permanent gig reading, ‘A Book at Bedtime’.
Neither he nor Mrs May shone today. They got mired in a deep spat about who was responsible for ‘parity of esteem’ between mental and physical health. It’s a Tory triumph, crowed Mrs May. No, no, carped Mr Corbyn, it’s all down to Labour saints who bravely purified an evil Tory bill by inking in a glorious socialist amendment on the last page. This was embarrassing. Both party chiefs seemed happy to demonstrate that implementing policy is less important than winning a moral beauty contest.
And ‘parity of esteem’ is obviously a worthless sophistry that will create no end of problems because unless the funds are bisected evenly, down to the last penny, both sides can cry ‘Foul!’. The ululations of woe have already started. Mr Corbyn quoted two fat-cat lobby groups, also known as charities, who are predicting betrayal and are readying themselves for the large bonuses payable once they’ve demonstrated an unequal division of investment.
In fact we’ll never reach parity of esteem until every UK citizen has been recruited into both wings of the healthcare system and has been diagnosed with diabetes, high cholesterol, vertigo and post-traumatic stress disorder. That’s the ultimate goal of medicine. Not to end disease but to eradicate wellbeing.
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