Here at the worm farm we had a day of wriggling. Westminster’s slippery invertebrates writhed and waved their maggoty forms in the air as they vied for supremacy.
Sir Keir Starmer coiled through a morning press conference where he made various improbable claims. He was borrowing less. He was bringing stability to public affairs. Sir Keir’s philtrum glistened with sweat and his vowels went all tight-bottomed. ‘Challenge’ became ‘chullenge’, ‘massive’ was ‘mussive’ and when he said ‘I’ it sounded more like ‘oi’.
After lunch the Treasury chief secretary, James Murray, came to the Commons to make a statement about some of the Budget leaks. Murray is that one who looks like a mortuary attendant: pale, slender fingers, five o’clock shadow, a faint whiff of formaldehyde.
He squirmed so obviously that Opposition MPs slapped their thighs. While he was at the despatch box, gravely reporting a computer cock-up at the Office for Budget Responsibility (OBR), there came news that the OBR’s boss, Richard Hughes, had thrown himself under the spade. Been chopped in two!
Mr Murray suddenly proclaimed himself inconsolable at this news. ‘May I put on record our thanks for his dedication to public service?’ he murmured, trolleying the remains of Mr Hughes towards the nearest bell jar of embalming fluid.
At the time of writing, the two ends of the unfortunate Hughes are both waggling in the wind, stumpy cylinders of pink meat, ripe for any passing blackbird. He was due to give evidence today to the Treasury select committee. That now won’t happen.
The Monday after a Budget is normally when politics calms and government steams confidently towards the next minefield.
Instead, the RMS Starmer was going in circles, some crew trying to scuttle the ship while the chief purser was locked in her cabin. Rachel Reeves was actually at a ‘Wales investment summit’. Has the principality not suffered enough?
Sir Keir Starmer backed Rachel Reeves’ Budget at a press conference today
Sir Keir’s morning gig was at a community centre just across the Thames. His buzz phrases: ‘moral mission’ and ‘we’re going to beat the forecasts’. Labour used to revere Whitehall forecasters. Now they regard them as an enemy.
Sir Keir, who managed to say ‘hedgeroom’ instead of ‘headroom’, began an exposition of recent turbulence.
‘Let me just step through it,’ he said nasally. Made it sound like dog mess. ‘At this stage of our plan,’ he said, ‘our plan runs to the end of the parliament.’ Translation: please don’t sack me yet.
Mr Murray’s statement was delayed, causing a suspension of the Commons. This is usually evidence of panic behind the scenes. Eventually, it started and Dr Death claimed the Chancellor had been ‘consistent and upfront…’ The rest of his sentence was inaudible for the yelps of mirth from Tories.
A junior Treasury minister, Torsten Bell, was good enough to drop in. He spent the time whispering and giggling with a climate minister, Katie White. After maybe 20 minutes little Torsten felt the Commons had enjoyed his magnificence enough and off he floated, pausing only to lean an elbow on the Speaker’s Chair and bestow some superior-looking bon mots upon Speaker Hoyle.
Kemi Badenoch also held an event. This was at the Chartered Accountants’ Hall, a classical Victorian temple to budgetary precision, whatever that might be. In one of its lofty rooms were murals showing the figures of Justice, Prudence, Truth and Wisdom. The audience members were nearly all accountants, male, suited and just a little boring.
‘We are in probably the most financially numerate room in Britain,’ said the compere. Mrs Badenoch opened her remarks by referring to Sir Keir’s Budget fandangoes and saying: ‘You all know that if a chief executive had done this before an annual meeting, they would be sacked.’
A Financial Times reporter asked Mrs Badenoch: ‘Are you still accusing Rachel Reeves of being a liar?’ She replied with one word: ‘Yes.’ At which the audience roared with delighted laughter. Possibly a first for the Chartered Accountants’ Hall.
