Get ready for the new, improved version of Ed Miliband
Finally, it’s happened. The political moment that I, and approximately seven other people, have been waiting for since 2015: the frontbench comeback of Ed Miliband. The MP for Doncaster North is rumoured to be in the running to become shadow chancellor should Sir Keir Starmer win the Labour leadership race – a move that could be the greatest thing to happen to the party in recent memory. Yes, that is a low bar.
In any case, a Miliband redemption story would surely work wonders for both him and Labour; a revision of Bacon Sandwich-gate and the Edstone, which somehow cost a principled politician the premiership. Five years ago, being considered “weird” was political suicide; now, it’s requirement for entry in Westminster.
Even for a sympathiser like me, the news of Miliband’s possible return is shocking, having found myself firmly in the minority in lamenting his absence from frontline politics over the past five years. But that it’s even a possibility – and that Tory politicians are reportedly calling it a “masterstroke” (without sarcasm) – is proof of MPS’ bouncebackability. It’s hard to imagine a frontman ever switching roles with the bassist, but given the electorate could never envision Miliband centre stage, trading places may be a shrewd move.
Since his general election defeat, Miliband has become, whisper it, quite funny. Amassed a bit of clout. Developed charisma, even. All of which you might be right in thinking he should have shown in the first place, but that’s the curious thing about being in a position of power – being the “real” you is considered bad marketing. Presenting his Reasons to Be Cheerful podcast and operating his social-media accounts in a voice devoid of the roboticism required of political leaders (Trump excepted) has done wonders for remaking Miliband’s image as a regular person. A cohort politics is desperately short of.
The landscape is markedly different to the one he previously attempted to navigate; a good thing, as comebacks to date have proved – if times can change beyond recognition, perhaps MPS can, too. When William Hague resigned as Tory leader in 2001 after leading his party to a second consecutive landslide defeat, the likelihood of his going on to become foreign secretary – and pals with Angelina Jolie – inside of a decade could not have seemed more remote. Vince Cable losing his seat in 2015 before taking the Liberal Democrats to their best result for years in 2019’s European elections was hardly a given; Iain Duncan Smith shape-shifting from Work and Pensions doom-monger to Tory grass-roots wise man was another unexpected return to the political spotlight.
But the winds of change have blown hard, and perhaps distance, hindsight and desperation to rewrite their parts in the history books are a reasonable combination for 2020 returnees. Though Rebecca Long-bailey’s promise of a shadow Cabinet role for Jeremy Corbyn might be the place to draw the line.
I am always fascinated by the faux-exoticism induced by taking a basic English word and translating it into a foreign language for no discernible reason; a mechanism that somehow makes Pret A Manger a chi-chi lunch experience, and not a sad sandwich. This same mentality is responsible for gobbledegook tattoos the world over, one’s body apparently being the ideal canvas for hackneyed translations to be imprinted on your flesh for life.
Orlando Bloom has upped the stakes here by not only getting Morse code
– a means of communication in which the written element is the least evocative part – tattooed on his arm but also by it being incorrect. Unfortunate in any case; more so when it’s the name of his only child. Since his fans (an unusual crossover of celebrity-followers and Morse coders) pointed out the mistake on his Instagram post, “Frynn” has now duly become “Flynn”. Bloom’s other new inking, of his dead dog, has been spared the dot treatment. For now.
Failure to speak the same language has also been a common problem during the Brexit tango. The good news – or maybe just news – is that not only are we remaining in the Eurovision Song Contest, but also causing problems with fellow countries before it has even begun.
Franck Riester, France’s culture minister, told the French parliament of his surprise that the country’s entry will employ English lyrics at the competition in May – a decision he described as an unpatriotic failure to “ensure that France is promoted with pride everywhere.” While the verses are in French, “the chorus in English bored my ears off ”, Riester complained of the song, which was written by three Swedes. Bit of a sideways gripe, if I’m honest. Although it’s nice to vary the reasons why we will be securing nul points.
The National Trust has announced an end to its chocolate trail partnership with Cadbury. First, they came for the advent calendars – now they are here for our Easter eggs, ending a 13-year deal worth £7million. I know what you’re thinking: the price of novelty chocolate has really gone up these days. Should a charity be throwing a wedge of its budget at burying a Mini Egg in a bush? And why have religious festivals been co-opted by confectionery companies?
Valid questions, all. But the truth is that, in a secular society, children barely come close to religion – Easter, even if it just involves an egg hunt, being the only reminder. I’m not saying a Creme Egg appropriately evokes the sacrifice of Christ, but ceasing the partnership, which health campaigners have applauded, feels a bit po-faced. You could replace the sweet treats with apples, I suppose. Though if Hallowe’en is anything to go by, that strategy rarely fares well.