Theresa hasn’t learnt how to do human
Anewly radiant Theresa May (flattering camera lens? Borrowed Donald Trump’s Touche Éclat?) told Nick Robinson on Panorama that she gets “a little bit irritated” by speculation about when she might stand down. Not half as irritated as I get when I see that Mrs May is still Prime Minister and showing no sign of possessing the leadership qualities required by that position, let alone any common touch that might persuade voters to prefer her to Jeremy Corbyn and his merry Marxists.
When Robinson asked what she thought about Jacob Reesmogg calling her Chequers plan “the Dirty Harry option”, a look of pure panic skittered across her face. Who was this Harry fellow and why did he have such poor personal hygiene? Safer to ignore it and trot out one of her reassuringly dull, pre-prepared phrases.
You could forgive the PM’S ignorance of popular culture. After all, we don’t want her wasting valuable time mugging up on Clint Eastwood films when she could be preparing for a shoot-out with Michel Barnier, do we? It’s the fact that she mistakes obstinacy for strength that grates. When Robinson asked her what happened to “that bloody difficult woman”, she replied: “She’s still there.”
Being bloody difficult meant saying the only Brexit choices were Chequers or “no deal”. Blackmail, effectively, and also untrue. There is no such thing as “no deal” because we would move to WTO rules which, as Sir
James Dyson points out, is how we trade with the rest of the world, and rather well.
The only moment when Mrs May said something decisive and authentic was when she ticked off her husband for a botanical faux pas. “They’re very nice chrysanthemums,” said Philip, in the manner of a man tethered to an electricshock machine and under strict instruction to “act normal” by a BBC producer. “They’re dahlias!” exclaimed his wife.
However hard they try, I’m afraid the Mays cannot do human. The TV room at Chequers looked bleak. A tiny telly sat atop one of those prim tables wearing a skirt, while Theresa and Philip sipped tea from china cups and pretended to be interested in a quiz show. It was like a scene from a Seventies care home for the terminally bewildered.
Funnily enough, in the same week, Ruth Davidson, who is helplessly, engagingly human, ruled herself out of standing for prime minister. In a Sunday Times interview, the Scottish Tory leader revealed that she suffered suicidal thoughts as a teenager, had since suffered with depression and valued her mental health far too highly to ever take on the top role.
As a fellow walker of the Black Dog, I have the utmost sympathy. None the less, that vulnerability connects you to all mankind. And, like a lot of depressives, Ruth has the lovely free gift of cheering people up.
It’s sensible, of course, to admit your limits. I only ask Ruth to remember that Winston Churchill, our greatest, most inspirational prime minister, suffered from depression. Winston managed to turn those dark clouds into sunlit uplands for his people; she could, too.