Angela Rayner’s office in Westminster is part walk-in wardrobe, part sixth form common room. An inflatable karaoke mic is attached to a bust of Keir Hardie by the fireplace; glitter shoes line the fleur de lis carpet. There are iced doughnuts, a crystal pint glass, a grinning photo of two freckled schoolboys. I’m reminded of that 2022 craze, “bring your whole self to work”. Labour’s deputy leader – Ange, as she refers to herself – is at the centre, arms raised in greeting like a cheer. She’s in Lincoln green, a military-style dress with epaulettes. “The Tories accused me of being in camouflage because I blended in with the colour of all the stuff in parliament,” she roars.
Nothing about Rayner blends in. Not only is she 5ft 10in, broad Manc, hair the copper of a tarnished coin, but she was raised in abject deprivation on a Stockport council estate, left school with no qualifications, was pregnant at 16, a grandmother by 37. She compliments my bag, thanks her adviser for the tea (“Most of us take oat, but Angela always insists on real milk,” he’d told me in the kitchen) and indicates for us to sit. What’s the kitten’s face cushion on the sofa? “That’s a sensory pillow for MPs who need a bit of love,” she says. “If they’re feeling anxious, they come in here, play with the soft furnishings and have a good rant.”
