There was one man missing from the group of cabinet ministers who shuffled into the downstairs space at the National Army Museum in Chelsea for Rishi Sunak’s London farewell. Even Jeremy Hunt, Steve Barclay and Lord Big Dave had made the effort to rise from the dead for one last hurrah. To say their goodbyes to the political stage. To hear Boris Johnson trash what passes for their government’s legacy.
It wasn’t pretty. No one has done more than Boris to debase the office of prime minister; the man who slept and partied while others died only had kind words for himself. Rish! did not rate a mention. This was yet another leaving party he was not going to miss. A final chance to put the boot in. To hammer home the final nail in the coffin. Sunak’s nose for self-destruction was once again impeccable. Putting his trust in a narcissistic solipsist was never going to end well.
The man who had gone awol was Mel Stride. He was sorely missed because no one deserved a proper send-off from the 300 or so last believers in south-west London more than the work and pensions secretary. Sunak aside, no one has done more in this election to fight the mediocre fight for the Tories. Time and again, he’s been required to go on the TV or radio and explain away the latest fuck-up. How leaving the veterans on the beaches was a sign of respect. How betting on the election date was perfectly normal. That sort of thing.
But Mel had done enough pretending. He had too much self-respect to attend his own and Sunak’s funeral. Enough was enough. He was angry and he wasn’t going to take it any more. Someone else could clear up the Tory party’s shit from now on.
The smiling though gritted teeth ended right here, right now. The thought of indulging in polite small talk with a whole bunch of colleagues, many of whom wouldn’t even be in Westminster on Friday morning, made him want to throw up. Late in the day it was time to get real.
Sunak must have thought he could go to bed relatively content on Tuesday night, safe in the knowledge that his go-to fall guy would be picking up the pieces on the morning media round. Good old Mel. Dependable Mel. Mel who had never rocked the boat. Or done anything interesting in his entire life.
Certainly there was nothing in the tone of Emma Barnett’s voice that she expected anything out of the ordinary as she started interviewing Stride for the Today programme. It just felt as if we were going through the motions. Barnett tossing out some questions more out of politeness than in any expectation they would be properly answered. And who could blame her? She couldn’t even be bothered to sound combative. It was too late in the campaign for that. Everyone was tired. And besides, it was only Mel.
Except Mel broke the politician’s fourth wall. Instead of dead-batting “The only poll that counts is on 4 July”, he wouldn’t shut up. Yes, the Tories had lost this election, he said. More than that, they were going to take a hammering. He sounded almost pleased about it. As if his party deserved everything it had coming. The end couldn’t come soon enough.
Barnett wasn’t the only one to be wrongfooted by this. Labour were, too. Keir Starmer sensed a plot. It was a cunning ruse to lure voters into thinking it was all over. To get them to stay at home out of a sense of inevitable futility. Only this wasn’t a directive from Tory head office. Just think about it. Has there been anything about this campaign that would lead you to imagine the Conservatives could come up with such sophisticated messaging. This is Isaac Levido and James Forsyth we’re talking about. Both men who make Liz Truss’s operation look slick. They are the halfwit’s halfwits.
The truth is much more prosaic. With less than 24 hours before polling day, Mel – the ultimate beta beaten male – had discovered some self-worth. He’d realised he didn’t have to talk shit just because some Downing Street teenager had told him to. Instead he could tell the truth. He could say what every listener knew to be fact. He could look himself and the country in the eye.
No wonder Sunak looked so stressed when he took to the This Morning sofa later in the morning. If you’ve lost Mel, you’ve lost everything. Rish tried to look casual in his too short, boy-sized chinos but his eyes are now dead. He’s done and seen things that no politician should be forced to endure. Most of them of his own making. Though that’s by the by now. Too late in the day for recriminations.
Even Ben Shephard and Cat Deeley – not the fiercest of interviewers – seemed to take pity on the prime minister. Almost apologetically, Ben brought up the Mel Stride interview. “It’s over, isn’t it?” he said. Think of the lovely things you can do once you’re out of No 10. He could spend more time with Britain’s most tattooed lady who had been on the programme earlier. Or maybe he could have his own cookery show on Channel 5. Sad face from Rish!. He wasn’t much interested in food. His favourite meal was a sandwich.
We then had a tedious intermezzo as Sunak tried to explain why not getting planes to Rwanda counted as a success. Everyone’s eyes glazed over. Rish! is so yesterday’s man. “I have a plan,” he sobbed. Except he hasn’t. He’s never had a plan other than to be prime minister. That’s part of the problem. No real convictions. Just an absurdly inflated idea of his own brilliance and a tick on the CV before heading off to California. Hopefully he will be happier there.
It’s hard to know if what we are left with is delusion or denial. Ben mentioned Boris Johnson’s appearance the night before. “Yes,” said Sunak. “It was great to have the Conservative family back together.” How can a man so misread the room. This wasn’t a reunion.
Rish! and Boris never even made eye contact. Never were within touching distance. Johnson hates Sunak. Blames him for his own mistakes. The only reason he had turned up was to gloat. To perform the last rites. And while we’re talking of family get-togethers, where was Liz Truss? Airbrushed out of history. Airbrushed out of her own life.
Time to go. Sunak left on a pointless journey to nowhere. To some parts of Middle England he will never see again. Off into the nothingness.
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