Once again, Madame Brexit’s unflappable, unvarying dullness sees her through a crisis
Remarkable, isn’t it. She just keeps on going. During a year of almost uninterrupted setbacks, Theresa May has somehow contrived to achieve the following.
Squander a 24-point lead in the opinion polls; surrender her Government’s majority in the Commons; lose her two closest political advisers; deliver the most excruciating speech in party conference history; lose her Defence Secretary in a scandal about sexual misconduct; lose her International Development Secretary in a scandal about undeclared meetings; and then, late on Wednesday night, lose her de facto deputy in a scandal about computer pornography. And yet, after all that, and against all the odds, Mrs May remains, still plodding grimly and expressionlessly onward – as if, to coin a phrase, nothing has changed.
Her powers of resilience are extraordinary. No reversal, no matter how traumatic or humiliating, seems to deflect her. I’m beginning to suspect that, after Donald Trump finally brings about nuclear Armageddon, the only creatures left alive on Earth will be cockroaches and Mrs May: the last human being in the world, sitting alone amid the glowing rubble, and ploughing dutifully on through her piles of paperwork.
Barely hours after being forced to sack Damian Green, the Prime Minister flew yesterday to Poland to meet the country’s new prime minister, Mateusz Morawiecki.
After their talks, the two leaders held a news conference. While converting Mr Morawiecki’s opening statement into English, a local translator referred to Mrs May – presumably in a slip of the tongue – as “Madame Brexit”. Mrs May treated herself to a small smile, and then went back to staring impassively into the middle distance.
“Madame Brexit.” Given the pattern
Her powers of resilience are extraordinary… no reversal, no matter how traumatic or humiliating, deflects her
of her negotiations with the EU, I’m not convinced the title completely suits Mrs May, with its implied air of uncompromising authority and rigid strictness. It would be a good name for a dominatrix, though. (“Call Madame Brexit. She guarantees years of pain. Her punishment budget will have you on your knees. Phone now to experience Project Fear.”)
Inevitably a journalist asked about Mr Green. In characteristic fashion Mrs May gave an answer that was baldly factual, contained no new information, and was delivered with all the emotion and verbal panache of a set of council minutes (“Issues have arisen within the UK Parliament… I share the concerns that have been raised about comments that were made by a former police officer…”).
Asked about Mr Green for a second time, she gave a reply that was almost word for word the same as her first (“I share the concerns that have been expressed about the comments that were made by…”).
Once again, her unflappable, unvarying dullness saw her through. And that, for 2017, is surely that. At long last, the Prime Minister – diminished, beleaguered, and yet seemingly indestructible – can go home, kick off her heels, flop into a comfortable chair, and take some kind of break.
At least until the next disaster.