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4 hours ago
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Polling day. A day when power reverts temporarily to the people. A day when newspapers send photographers to snap the cutest dogs outside church halls and schools. A day when not much stirs in Westminster.
Polling day. A day when even those not voting catch a lucky break. The rules of purdah apply. So switch on the TV or radio and you’ll be spared the sound of politicians talking. Either trying to tell you that everything is working as it should or that it isn’t. A day off from the binary reductiveness of political discourse. A chance to reflect on what really matters. Or just to forget.
But not everywhere was totally silent. Press your ear against the front door of No 10 and you could hear some muffled shouts. Walk inside and you would find the cellar door padlocked. Twice, for good measure. Keir Starmer was determined this particular occupant was not going to be allowed out for a good few days. The prime minister had always been keen on the importance of lessons learned.
Behind the cellar door, sobbing in the dark, sat Tony Blair. Unable to quite believe it had come to this. The lèse-majesté. Tony was used to being heard. When he talked, the world was meant to listen. Only, for the last 24 hours, he had been taken prisoner. Locked in the dark. Heavily medicated.
“It’s for your own good,” said Pat McFadden. Tony had known he was in deep trouble the moment he had heard the voice of Starmer’s enforcer-in-chief. Even the terrifying Morgan McSweeney would have been preferable to The Pat in the Hat. McFadden had only once been known to smile in the years he had been in parliament. And that was when he had been sent out to kneecap a Labour MP for speaking out of turn. Pat had thought he had been doing the man a favour by not waterboarding him. Something Tony would have appreciated. Euphoric recall from his Iraq glory days.
Tony was near breaking point. Pleading to be let out. Only yesterday he had been a man of substance. A former prime minister revered by many in the Labour party. Now he had been kidnapped. Spirited away by the heavies in No 10. Regarded by many as just a useful idiot for Reform and the Conservatives.
How would the world still spin on its axis without yet another very important intervention from him? More importantly, the Gulf states could stop funding his institute if he were suddenly to go quiet on fossil fuels. He had learned long ago never to pay for anything himself. Only mugs did that.
“It’s for your own good,” yelled enforcer-in-chief Pat McFadden. “What you’ve got to learn, old man, is that you’re past it. Not just yesterday’s man, but the day before yesterday’s man. No one is interested in what you have to say any more. You’re completely out of your depth. You no longer understand the modern world. You’re an embarrassment to the Labour party. Worse, you’re an embarrassment to yourself. So we’re going to have to put you through a re-education programme.”
Anything, Tony had mumbled. Anything. Just let him out into the light. Put him back in front of the people.
Pat the Hat shook his head. Tony just wasn’t getting it. There would be no more media appearances. He would have to take a virtual vow of silence. And anything he did say would have to be personally cleared by him. To make sure he wasn’t about to stray off message yet again. Time for another dose of fentanyl. Tony’s eyes half closed, his pupils no more than pin-pricks. His voice sedated to a slur. When I said that the government’s net zero strategy was doomed to failure without fossil fuels my brain had been captured by Kemi Badenoch and Nigel Farage, Tony stumbled. What I really meant was the complete opposite.
“Of course you did,” said Pat the Hat. “But that’s better. A good start. Two more weeks of solitary and we might just be able to let you out under close supervision.” Tears welled up in Tony’s eyes. He wasn’t sure he was going to last that long.
There were also partial signs of life in parliament, where the Commons was going through the motions with business and trade departmental questions. Though there was an odd sense of calm about it all. No one got angry. No one really challenged any of the ministers on anything. It was all a bit like politics used to be before the psychodramas of the last 10 years. When the half-witted became the new normal and we skipped through several news cycles in a single day.
To listen to the business secretary, Jonathan Reynolds, and his ministerial sidekicks, all was entirely well with the world. Britain had never had it so good. Of course we were going to export more to everyone. The fun times were only minutes away. The desolation of the 14 years of Tory government would soon be just a distant memory. A US trade deal was imminent. And why wouldn’t it be, because Agent Orange was clearly a totally rational man. We would get the bigliest, bestest deal ever. Everything was going our way. So much so, there was no need to give parliament a vote on any new treaty because everyone would love it anyway.
All was also well with the EU. There would be no need for us to align with Europe because Europe would be aligning with us. We would never lower our standards for anyone apart from the countries with whom we needed to lower standards. And so on. The weird thing was that the opposition parties by and large went along with this. There was no fight. No pushback. Just a sense of nothingness. As if nothing really mattered. Perhaps the Tories were just too busy contemplating their probable annihilation in the local elections. No point tempting hubris.
Still, it was all somehow reassuring. The world as we would like it to be. When we can let the politicians do politics without our need to keep a close eye on them. Just a shame it was only for one day. Tomorrow we’ll almost certainly find out the world is every bit as perilous as we thought it was.
