Oliver Dowden’s reputation precedes him. You’d have thought there would be at least a niche appeal in watching the deputy prime minister die on his feet. The inadequate’s inadequate at work. If you can call it that. But we’ve actually gone well past that point. There were even fewer Tory backbenchers in the Commons for Oliver’s latest outing for prime minister’s questions than there had been last week. And the sprinkling of cabinet ministers all looked as if they were there under duress. Their faces locked in a rictus of pain. The chronicle of their own deaths foretold.
This PMQs must surely be about as bad as it can get for Olly. Even if his material was better, he just can’t do it. The 1980s holiday camp entertainer being mercilessly ripped apart by an audience that’s bored out of its mind. Bloodsports are less cruel than leaving Dowden to fend for himself for half an hour. Long before the end, even his own MPs were going for him. They just couldn’t help themselves. This was group therapy turning into Lord of the Flies.
