I remember the day that British politics lost the plot
Want to know when all this chaos started? The exact moment when British politics officially, and perhaps permanently, lost its marbles? I’ll tell you. It was September 6 2014. The day a single opinion poll gave the Yes campaign an unexpected two-point lead in the Scottish referendum. As a direct result, the last days of that campaign were total bedlam. And that was the starter’s pistol. That was when politics in this country lost the plot. It’s been perpetual blazing mayhem ever since.
Let’s just pause, if the news will let us, and look at what happened afterwards – and all of it in terrifyingly quick succession. Ukip’s first ever by-election win; Ukip’s second ever by-election win; general election; Labour leadership contest; EU referendum; prime minister resigns; Tory leadership contest; shadow cabinet resigns; Labour leadership contest; Ukip leadership contest; Ukip leadership contest; general election; Ukip leadership contest; Cabinet minister resigns; Cabinet minister resigns; Cabinet minister resigns; Cabinet minister resigns; Cabinet minister resigns; Cabinet minister resigns; Cabinet minister resigns...
And now, here we are, less than four years later, with the Government about to publish warnings about the consequences of a “no deal” Brexit. Minor stuff, such as food rationing and medicine shortages.
I’ve been writing about politics for the Telegraph since autumn 2011. These days, I look back on my first three years in the job with disbelief. I remember when the biggest story in town was the Chancellor proposing a tax on pasties. That dominated the front pages for a week. Today, Philip Hammond could blow up the Moon and it would barely make a paragraph on page 19.
It’s mad. And it’ll only get madder. Mind you, I suppose it could have been madder still. Imagine what would have happened in UK politics if, in 2014, the Yes campaign had actually won.
When I was growing up, I thought I knew roughly what was meant by the term “the establishment”. It meant people who were rich, powerful and influential. They’d been to the best schools and the oldest universities. They did important jobs. And, just as crucially, they were conservative. Big C and little c. That was “the establishment”.
The definition must have changed, though, because I keep seeing “the establishment” denounced by the kind of people I used to imagine were “the establishment”. Take John Redwood. Mr Redwood is a tireless scourge of “the establishment”. This week he demanded to know why “large parts of the UK establishment so despise us”. In recent months, he has railed against “the enthusiasm of the UK establishment to carry on implementing everything the EU sends us”, “the dominance of the establishment in driving the media agenda” and “the UK establishment contradicting themselves on trade”.
All of which just goes to show how much the term “the establishment” must have changed – given that Mr Redwood went to an independent school, is a Distinguished Fellow of All Souls, Oxford, has been a Conservative MP for the past 31 years, is a former Cabinet minister, serves as a member of Her Majesty’s Privy Council and has a job on the side as chief global strategist at the investment management firm Charles Stanley.
Yet now, it seems, the world has altered so radically that Mr Redwood is to be seen as a plucky outsider, a fearless insurgent hellbent on overthrowing the citadels of power on behalf of the common man. Fascinating how language evolves.
Then again, perhaps the definition changed years ago, without my noticing. In 2000, Jeffrey Archer gave an interview in which he proudly declared: “I’ve never wanted to be part of the establishment.”
But, said the interviewer, you were deputy chairman of the Conservative Party.
“Well,” came the impatient snort of reply, “if you call that ‘establishment’… But I’d always rather be with the people than the powers-that-be. I’m the man, remember, who wanted the title of ‘Lord’ to be abolished.”
Baron Archer of Weston-supermare accepted a peerage in 1992. Beyond feeding, clothing and providing shelter, a parent has two fundamental duties. The first is sternly barking the phrase “Right, five more minutes!” roughly every 10 minutes. The second is answering questions. Endless questions.
I don’t mind the questions about animals and motorbikes and planets and flags and trains and trees and numbers. Those are fine. The questions about biology, though. Those are the awkward ones.
For example: my four-year-old son, just before bedtime on Thursday.
Him [looking at an old photo]: “Dada, who’s this baby?”
Me: “That’s Mama.”
Him: “Was Mama a baby?”
Me: “Yes. Bit of a while ago. But yes.” Him: “Was she a boy or a girl?”
Me: “She was a girl. Now she’s a lady. Which means she was a girl baby.” Him: “Did she have a willy?”
Me: “No. No, she wouldn’t have had one of those.”
Him: “Why didn’t she?”
Me: “Girls tend not to have them.” Him: “Where was I?”
Me: “You weren’t born yet. This was quite a long time before that.”
Him: “Whose tummy was I in?”
Me: “Nobody’s tummy. Mama was only a baby. Babies don’t have babies.” Him: “Was I in Dada’s tummy?”
Me: “No, not Dada’s tummy. It doesn’t quite work like that.”
Him: “Where were you?”
Me: “I wasn’t born yet either. Not for a few more months, anyway.”
Him: “Were you in Mama’s tummy?”
I don’t know how much biology teachers get paid. But, whatever it is, it isn’t enough.