Hunt channels his inner Sir Humphrey to mask the worst of the pain
As he rose to deliver his first Autumn Statement, the Chancellor Jeremy Hunt’s immaculate white shirt and exquisitely brushed hair rivalled even those of his predecessor and now boss, Rishi Sunak. There was the same faintly sanctimonious whiff of virtue and rectitude, the same impression of both chaps being every mother’s ideal son-in-law. The PM nodded energetically in the background as Hunt launched into his spiel in accomplished, if workmanlike, fashion.
He began with an unmistakable hint that managed decline was on its way
– a list of countries faring even worse than Britain. Sir Humphrey-ish euphemisms abounded; inevitable recessions were recast as “shallower downturns”, council tax increases as “flexibilities” and people were merely being “asked” to pay more tax. Part-mandarin, part-mortician, Hunt delivered his statement in the tone of a dad breaking the news to his child that their pet hamster died over the summer holidays. “Tufty felt no pain and he’s in a better place now…”
When it arrived, much of the pain was directed at Hunt’s own tribe, the careful middle-classes with a penchant for saving rather than splurging. He banged home the details of all the spending increases – to the NHS, the care system – bobbing and weaving like an ultra-keen undertaker’s assistant newly promoted to take the village’s most important funeral of the year. He even announced a few measures planned for after the next election. On recent polling, banking on the likelihood of that is like accepting a pre-dated cheque from a character in a Trollope novel, or etching your annual Christmas lunch with the Russian General Staff into the diary in firm biro rather than very, very faint pencil.
At times, things were closer to archaeology than economics. He exhumed the skeletons from the closet of the past quarter-century of efforts to salvage the British economy. Not only was the whole caboodle announced by a man once known as “the last Cameroon”, he also managed to resurrect, like tinpot Lazaruses, two Blairite corpses: Patricia Hewitt and Sir Michael Barber. As Martha remonstrates in the Gospel of John, “nay Lord; for already he stinketh”.
And what of the Tory faithful? Save for a few stirrings of approval and shushing of Labour hecklers, the backbenches felt muted. By far their biggest cheer came for the news that the triple-lock would be protected.
Given how many Labour-inspired policies the Government had adopted, you’d have thought the opposition would have been over the moon. But, like the child who demands a fifth ice cream and then complains of feeling sick, they still managed a tantrum.
After about 20 minutes of hectoring indignation, Hunt hopped up once more, to insist that, for all their complaints, Labour still lacked any semblance of a plan. This was true enough. Still, when your opponents are busy making a mistake, it’s probably wise not to interrupt them.