Without him, it could all so easily have fallen apart. There are vanishingly few politicians of any era of whom that’s true, but John Prescott was one of them. Though doomed to be remembered for that punch thrown on the campaign trail, it’s as an admittedly often belligerent keeper of the peace that history should really remember him: the man all sides trusted because he seemed so uncomplicatedly himself. If that sounds easy, think how many politicians have tried to project authenticity and failed. Among modern politicians only Nigel Farage comes close, and Prescott in his heyday would have eaten Farage for breakfast.
Beneath the gruffness he could be funny and kind – he once obligingly moved an interview so that I wasn’t late for my own hen night, though he was deputy prime minister at the time – but also oddly vulnerable. It took courage for a man who had always been sensitive to ridicule to confess, as he did on leaving office, to a long struggle with bulimia. But the eating disorder was perhaps his way of managing an anxiety familiar to so many working-class kids made good: the nagging fear that any minute now someone will realise you don’t belong and kick you out. He’d never forgotten the love letters once returned to him by a girl he had a crush on, complete with spelling mistakes corrected, nor the Tory MPs who knew he’d been a waiter on cruise ships and would shout “Mine’s a gin and tonic, Giovanni!” across the chamber.
