The Daily Telegraph

Rousing Ruth the only Tory who shone on Mrs May’s unhappy birthday

- By Michael Deacon

I’ve started to feel sorry for Theresa May. It’s like watching a dying antelope heave itself across the plain, forlornly dragging its wounded leg behind it.

Yesterday, as the Tories began their conference in Manchester, the Prime Minister went on BBC One to be interviewe­d by Andrew Marr. It did not go well. Marr began by asking if she would apologise to her party for the election result. “I’ll answer that question in a moment, Andrew,” promised Mrs May. She didn’t, so he asked her again. “We’ve got more MPS in Scotland,” she offered, pleadingly.

Even she didn’t seem to find her answer convincing. She stumbled on. “We didn’t get our message across sufficient­ly... What is important is that we’ve listened to what people said... We’ll be looking at the issues people are raising... Yes, I am going to answer your question...”

It almost felt cruel to watch. She tried to tell Marr that under Jeremy Corbyn the value of the pound would plummet. “What’s happened to the pound on your watch?” asked Marr.

There was a brief but excruciati­ng pause. “The pound fluctuates...” replied Mrs May miserably. With unwitting poignancy she referred back to the speech she gave outside 10 Downing Street “when I became Prime Minister”. Ah, that joyous, sunlit day: miles ahead in the polls, with a decade of unchalleng­ed power stretching ahead of her, the possibilit­ies limitless... Yet now, no matter how desperatel­y she leaps and claws the air, that day has floated irretrieva­bly from her grasp, like a child’s balloon.

You could tell the interview was going badly without even listening to it. You only had to glance at the TV. Whenever Mrs May is under pressure, her lips contort into this sudden panicked grimace, her features twisting and squirming. It looks as if her mouth is trying to escape from her face. To cap it all: yesterday was her birthday. She’s probably had happier ones. Still, at least one Tory had a good day. In the conference hall the air was lifeless – until on to the stage flew Ruth Davidson, the leader of the Scottish Conservati­ves. The ministers preceding her – Sajid Javid, Justine Greening, Damian Green – had been wretchedly flat. On and on they mumbled, into the glum silence, their faces like depressed waxworks.

But here, at last, was a speaker with spirit. A speaker with wit. A speaker who didn’t make it sound as if the next election were already lost. A buzzy little scrapper, bobbing and skipping, dukes up. “The Corbyn bubble can be burst!” cried Ms Davidson. “Folks – he hasn’t even won a raffle yet!”

Party members applauded with an almost pathetic gratitude. But, to any dreaming that they’d found their next PM, disappoint­ment soon followed, during a passage about devolving power from the capital.

“Now, I love London,” chirped Ms Davidson. “No plans to move there myself, but...”

Silently the hall puffed out a sigh.

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