On Saturday night, footage emerged of staff at Conservative HQ partying at the height of the pandemic in December 2020. At a time when much of the UK was barred from socialising indoors, staff are seen drinking wine and mocking Covid-19 rules. At one point, a couple wearing Christmas jumpers laugh and dance past a sign that says: “Please keep your distance.” Two of the people present are on Boris Johnson’s resignation honours list.
On Monday, 48 hours later, MPs – those who bothered to turn up – gathered to consider Johnson’s fate.The Commons voted to accept the privileges committee report; 225 MPs abstained. The prime minister was reportedly busy elsewhere.
As Rishi Sunak’s allies put it, they are just keen “to move on”.
Quite. Time to get over it. Though I imagine that is easier if you’re a Tory cabinet member seeking re-election rather than say, a child who said goodbye to their dying mum over an iPad during lockdown.
Since Partygate stories first emerged, the government has worked to convince the public that nothing really happened – and if it did, that it didn’t really matter. It was just a cake. They were work meetings. The broken swing and suitcase of booze were simply hardworking staff blowing off steam. (That no picture emerged of nurses partying in an intensive care unit presumably means they weren’t really working at all.) Any criticism – even by a parliamentary committee – is said to be politically motivated. A “kangaroo court”.
As the Covid inquiry continues this week, the attitude of many Conservatives could best be described as “bury the bodies and get on”. Sunak – who has reportedly not found the time to read the full privileges committee report – has the air of a fan bored of his favourite TV show’s long-running storyline. By the time the leaked video of a party emerged, it was already old news to some. Much of the rightwing media are more than happy to peddle this narrative. As Nick Ferrari said on LBC on Monday, “I don’t know whether we need to chase 22 people for dancing.”
It is not as if these tactics have been wholly unsuccessful. If there is one thing the spectacle of the past few days has confirmed, it is just how few consequences there really are for a certain class of people with power. Johnson may be wounded but he has slipped out of parliament with his characteristic non-stick coating, failing upwards to a lucrative newspaper column and the praise of loyalist MPs and press already salivating for his return. His biggest loss will be a parliamentary pass. The Met police suggest action will be taken over the party footage, but they did not do so earlier, and it’s not likely any fine issued now would dent anyone’s career. Shaun Bailey – whose London mayoral campaign team were in the leaked video, and who was previously photographed smiling at the party – will now sit in the House of Lords after Johnson gave him a peerage. Ben Mallett – a Tory aide seen in the film wearing festive braces – has been awarded an OBE. Mallett, it’s worth noting, is said to be a close friend of Carrie Johnson.
Contrast that with the ordinary members of the public who stuck to the rules during the lockdowns, many of whom now have to live with the life-changing sacrifices they made in order to do so. There are countless stories I could mention, not least the thousands shared on social media in recent days from people forced to relive the loss of loved ones to whom they will never get a chance to say goodbye.
My mind keeps coming back to 13-year-old Ismail Mohamed Abdulwahab. Described by his family as a “gentle and kind” boy with a “heartwarming” smile, Ismail died in hospital at the height of the pandemic without his family by his side. Neither his parents nor his brothers or sisters could go to his funeral. Two of his siblings had Covid-19 symptoms and the family self-isolated. They followed the rules. They followed the rules and they watched their little boy’s burial on a live-stream from home.
In the days after his death, Ismail’s family urged the public “to listen to government guidance” and “ensure that we adhere to social distancing”. What they didn’t know, of course, was that those at the very top of government would soon be breaking the rules themselves – and laughing as they did so.
Fast-forward three years: Johnson exits largely unshaken, his chums are honoured, and we’re told to move on. It’s hard to shake the feeling that they are still laughing, and squarely at us.
Frances Ryan is a Guardian columnist
