Boris crossing Emily Thornberry is like an excerpt from Just William…
In Richmal Crompton’s Just William stories, the enemies of William Brown are many and varied. But a certain type recurs. She is a lady of middle years, boomingly august, erect of posture and intimidating of bosom, sporting a pair of pince-nez and a glare of withering disdain. Catching our hero in the act of stealing from her apple trees or playing pirates in her pond, she will grip him by the ear, demand to know his name, and announce she will without delay be writing a letter of complaint.
I think of those scenes every time I’m in the Commons to watch Emily Thornberry collar Boris Johnson.
Playing William is Mr Johnson, the chaotically dishevelled schoolboy, his hair wild, jacket flapping, and tie draped over one shoulder. And marching him to the garden gate, nose aloft and voice ringing imperiously, is Ms Thornberry. She was born to the role. All she lacks is the pince-nez.
Yesterday, she confronted Mr Johnson over Brexit.
“May I begin,” she inquired sardonically, “by thanking the Foreign Secretary for leading our cross-party efforts to destroy the Prime Minister’s customs proposal?”
William is not a boy easily cowed by adult authority. Neither is Mr Johnson.
“I’m grateful to the right honourable lady for raising this matter,” he blurted defiantly, “because it provides her with the opportunity to elucidate to the nation the customs policy of the Labour Party. Their policy is absolutely clouded in obscurity and if the right honourable lady wishes now to part those clouds, this is her moment.”
Ms Thornberry peered in distaste at the vision before her: knees caked in mud, socks around his ankles, and cheeks smeared with chocolate.
“We’re quite willing, Mr Speaker, to exchange places with the other side,” she sniffed. “All we would ask is that they call a general election. I don’t think there was even an attempt to answer the question I asked…. Let me try another…. He does need to listen, otherwise he won’t understand what the question is….”
It was a performance of characteristic hauteur. Whenever Tories refer to Ms Thornberry as “Lady Nugee” – the married name she prefers not to use – they’re accused of being sexist, but I don’t think they mean to be. The reason they call her “Lady Nugee” is, quite simply, that it suits her. Because, my dears, she’s so terribly, terribly, grand.
“We on this side have been absolutely clear,” insisted Mr Johnson stoutly.
“The Prime Minister in her Mansion House speech gave plenty of indications of how we will deal with the problems the right honourable lady describes!”
Those of us who recall no such “indications” might have appreciated a reminder, but none was forthcoming. Ms Thornberry looked distinctly unimpressed. That impertinent little boy. I suspect she has a good mind to write to his father.