Sorry, Theresa, you never stood a chance against Maggie
It seems impossible to believe now. But it really is true. In the early days of her premiership, three long years ago, there genuinely were people who saw Theresa May as the new Margaret Thatcher.
“STEEL OF THE NEW IRON LADY.” That was the headline on one front page. And, although Mrs May herself protested that nobody could be “the new Margaret Thatcher”, she clearly loved the comparisons. In fact, she encouraged them. At her very first PMQS, in July 2016, she even did an impression of Mrs Thatcher.
It had plainly been well rehearsed. The way she leant over the dispatch box, glared coldly at Jeremy Corbyn, deepened her voice, and barked: “Remind him of anybody?”
Tory MPS were in raptures. They were moaning with joy. They were wailing, gasping, groaning for more. Their excitement was downright unseemly. They were watching the Labour leader take a spanking. And, by the sound of it, they deeply envied him.
After all this time, their most heartfelt wish had somehow come true. Maggie, their Maggie, was back.
Unfortunately, it didn’t quite turn out like that. During three years of dithering and despair, they learnt that Mrs May was emphatically
not “the new Iron Lady”. And the comparison now looks all the more absurd, in light of the excellent documentary series about Mrs Thatcher, currently showing on Monday nights on BBC Two.
Among many other things, Thatcher: A Very British Revolution reminds us just how remorseless, how crushingly uncompromising, its subject could be. The moment of the series so far has to be the archive clip in which an interviewer from Australia dared to suggest to Mrs Thatcher that some voters found her “pig-headed”.
The prime minister fixed him with a glare that would have felled a charging buffalo.
“Could you tell me,” she said, her voice menacingly soft, “who has said that?”
“Well...” mumbled the poor man, clearly disconcerted. “People in the street… People who we meet, in passing…”
But she wouldn’t let it go. She wanted to know precisely which members of the public had told him that she was “pig-headed”. She just kept on and on asking. “Tell me who has said it to you… You can’t tell me who they were?... Why won’t you tell me their names?”
It was remarkable to watch. It really did sound as if she expected him to hand over these people’s full names and addresses, so that she could march straight round to their houses and give them a piece of her mind. Luckily, the interviewer didn’t cave. Because you can imagine what it would have been like. Scene: an ordinary suburban house, somewhere in England. Dawn has just broken. Yawning, a middle-aged man puts on his dressing gown and stumbles downstairs to answer the door. Margaret Thatcher: “Roy Blenkinsop, of 33 Plimsoll Gardens?” Man: “Er… good morning, Prime Minister.” Thatcher:
“Mr Blenkinsop, why did you tell an Australian television news reporter that I’m ‘pig-headed’?” Man: “Well, er… I…”
Thatcher: “Kindly state your reasons. What precisely, Mr Blenkinsop, have I said or done that you would categorise as ‘pig-headed’?”
Man: “Er… Well, all I was saying, Prime Minister, was that you do occasionally come across as a tiny bit… obstinate.”
Thatcher: “Nonsense! I am not obstinate! I will not accept it! I insist that you take it back! And I shan’t leave this doorstep until you do! I am not obstinate, and I refuse to back down!”
Chernobyl – the HBO drama serial which finished this week on Sky Atlantic – is outstanding. The script, the acting, the directing, the camera work. Everything.
What I really want to talk about, though, is the fashion.
Chernobyl captures not only the dangers and deprivations of Soviet life, but also its mesmerising ugliness. Almost everything under communism was hideous. The architecture. The cars. But especially the clothes.
Just look at the cast. The glum, dingy suits, as brown as oxtail soup. The fat, stubby little ties that barely reach the belly button. The shirts, long faded from white into a faint, sickly yellow. The spectacles square, and as thick as ashtrays. And that’s before we get on to the hairdos, most of which appear to be the work of a goat with a grudge. Everyone looks terrible. It’s the antiMad Men.
But that’s why it works. If, as in so much American-made television, Chernobyl’s cast were beautiful, with dazzling teeth, flawless skin and clothes that actually fitted them, it would be both distracting and implausible. Chernobyl’s wardrobe department, and its hair and make-up team, contribute just as much to the show’s miserable authenticity as its writer. As any parent will know, small children have an insatiable appetite for facts. Even if those facts are completely untrue.
In his class at school, my five-yearold son has a friend who tells him all manner of rubbish. And my son loyally believes every word of it. I do try, gently, to put him straight. But it makes no difference, because, in his eyes, I’m always wrong, and “Jay” (names have been changed to protect the guilty) is always right.
Among many other important lessons, my son has learnt from Jay that “sweets are a type of vitamin”, “baby Jesus lives at Buckingham Palace”, and “the biggest number in the world is called Felicity”. “Felicity? Is he thinking of infinity?” “No! It’s Felicity! Jay says it’s Felicity! And he can count all the way up to Felicity!”
“I see.”
“It is a number! Jay says so, and he’s so clever! And I’m so clever, too! We are EXPERTS!”
This Jay has a glittering future ahead of him. Probably in politics.