Those we didn’t know we would miss. Those we didn’t know we had loved, even.
Westminster can be a brutal place. Somewhere ambition collides with reality. Where egos come to die. But just occasionally there is a crack in its tough facade. A crack that lets the light in. To a world where politicians show their softer side. Respect may be pushing it a bit far. So let’s call it a common humanity. A recognition that they are all in it together.
With Keir Starmer en route to Samoa for the Commonwealth heads of government meeting, prime minister’s questions were handed over to the two deputies. Angela Rayner and Oliver Dowden. An occasion for everyone to be demob happy. When no one need try too hard. Where nothing really matters too much. Where power goes hand in hand with irresponsibility. A time for everyone to let their hair down.
Rayner is a known quantity at deputy PMQs. A force of nature. She can dish it out with the best of them, while retaining a smile on her face. Somehow she pulls off the impossible, by appearing not to take herself too seriously while actually taking herself very seriously indeed. No one gets away with taking any liberties with her. Cut away the laughter and you quickly get to steel. The Tory benches are littered with the bodies of MPs who have underestimated her. Make that the Labour benches as well.
It was Dowden who was the revelation at this PMQs. Three months in opposition has done Olive, as almost everyone calls him, nothing but good. In government he had to try just that bit too hard merely to stand still. Imagine being that guy on such a ship of fools. The one who couldn’t even keep up with Liz Truss or James Cleverly. Let alone Honest Bob Jenrick. The shame.
So Olive always used to struggle in the chamber. Terrified of being found out, his face used to look permanently pinched. It was uncomfortable watching him trying to live up to the person he clearly was never going to be. Every outing was just another dance with failure.
But now he is a liberated soul. There is no longer any artifice involved. Instead, he has embraced his own failure. Has owned the essential futility of his existence. The Dialectics of Being Oliver Dowden. By hurtling towards the very worst of himself – the bits from which he used to run – he somehow now manages to present the best of himself. This is Olive Unplugged. A man at one with his limitations. Who no longer cares if he’s a fraud. Deep down he knows he should never have been a politician. He should have been a maitre D at a Pizza Express. Not many politicians have that level of self-acceptance.
Dowden began by acknowledging this was the last time he would be speaking from the opposition frontbench. In less than a fortnight the Tories will have a new leader and neither Team KemiKaze nor Team Honest Bob will want him on voyage. He should take that as a badge of honour. It’s not his incompetence that’s in question but his sanity. He’s not quite mad enough for the Brave New World. So he’s off to languish on the backbenches for a while, before gently drifting into total obscurity.
Tell me, he asked Rayner. What is the definition of a working person? Angela smiled broadly. She was going to enjoy this long goodbye. First a reminder. The last time they had crossed swords in the Commons had been before he had masterminded the July election for Rishi Sunak. So a big thank you for that. In fact, if the Tories hadn’t already offered him a peerage, then she would be happy to do so herself. Olive couldn’t stop himself beaming. This was how politics ought to be. One promotion after the other till you reached peak uselessness. The Lords was his natural home.
Three times Olive tried to ask the same question. What was a working person? Was it a small business owner? The IFS and the chancellor had seemed to think so. Predictably Rayner never bothered to answer. Choosing instead to remind him of what the Tories had done to working people in the past 14 years. Crashing the economy. Countless tax rises. The Fuck Business attitude. Basically a selection of her own greatest hits. It’s going to be a while before she tires of them. The Labour benches loved it.
“Do you actually agree with yourself?” Dowden demanded. The idiot’s question. Because of course no politician ever agrees with themselves when it’s inconvenient. The truth is always mutable. It turned out that Angela had no more of an idea of what a working person was than Keir Starmer. More will be revealed in next week’s budget. Whoever escapes a tax increase will definitely be working people. But it may also turn out that some working people might suffer from false consciousness.
Then it all got surprisingly tender. As if the previous exchanges had all been just a game. Olive wanted to send one last billet-doux to his favourite sparring partner. He looked Angela in the eye. She was his Belle Dame Sans Merci. “I love you,” he mouthed. She would always be the One Who Got Away for him. The one who was out of his league. But that didn’t stop a man hoping.
Rayner relented. She gave him a heart sign. He would always treasure that. She had enjoyed the battle of the gingers, she said. She too would miss their exchanges. Though not quite as much as Dowden. There were other, more important, fish in the sea. But just for now she would indulge him. They could share their love of the monarchy together. She would give him that. Dowden beamed and settled down to laugh about carers with Jeremy Hunt.
The rest of the session was mere froth. Time and again, Labour MPs would lob her friendly questions only for Angela to talk about “14 years of failure”, “14 years of chaos”, “14 years of anything”. The closest we got to real politics was Stephen Flynn asking about Labour staffers campaigning in the US. Though everyone knew this was the very definition of a non-story.
It was all meaningless. Pure theatre. Deputy PMQs always is. But it had been rather nice while it lasted.