Monday
You would have thought someone would have made an intervention by now. To save Liz Truss from the worst excesses and delusions of herself. Most former prime ministers – and there are enough of them by now – make the transition into civilian life with little fuss. More or less. John Major found himself elevated from national joke to statesman after 20 years; Tony Blair took the grandiose step of establishing his very own institute; Boris Johnson took his grumblings to the Daily Mail where he is now more or less ignored; Theresa May opted for obscurity; we have yet to find out Keir Starmer’s next move. Yet Liz Truss seems permanently scarred by her 49 days in office and its abrupt ending. Constantly feeling the need to pick away at the wound that will never heal.
She has been abandoned by a Tory party for whom she is nothing but an embarrassment and now finds herself posting conversations on YouTube with people as deranged as herself for just a handful of viewers. And now she has written a 95-page book that is essentially a distillation of her previous book. Just even worse and a bit more desperate. Having read the book for a Digested Read, I would suggest you give it a miss. It reads as one extended cry for help. Still insisting that her budget was derailed by the Bank selling gilts the day before – something she had personally signed off – and that the establishment had been out to get her. She is like a broken record. Time for her family and friends to step in.
Tuesday
There are some footballers who will be for ever Tottenham. At least for me. There was Jimmy Greaves. He may have played for Chelsea, AC Milan and West Ham too but it is White Hart Lane for which he is most remembered. Likewise Gareth Bale. He won all sorts with Real Madrid but for Spurs fans he will always be one of us. Even if, in retirement, he seems at his happiest when he is playing golf. Then there is Harry Kane. Arguably the greatest of the three. The footballer who seemed to have less raw talent than Greaves and Bale but forged himself into the world’s best striker by sheer will and hard work.
I was lucky to see almost all of the home games – and many of the away ones – during Kane’s 11-year stay at the club. It would be nice to be able to say I spotted his ability from the off. But I didn’t. I assumed that, like many academy players who were being sent out on loan, he would eventually be shipped out to a lower league club. But when he did get his first-team chance, he scored goals. And kept on scoring them for a decade. A proper team player. As happy making goals for the team as he was knocking them in. Well, almost. A striker measures their seasons in goals. And he acknowledged the fans. When the team had played badly and lost, most of the rest of the players couldn’t wait to leave the pitch. Harry always made sure to thank the fans for their support.
Nor was I that sad when he joined Bayern Munich. I thought he had earned the move. He had given us more than enough and deserved the chance to play for a club that regularly won something. This week he won the Ballon d’Or and I couldn’t have been happier. Some may have thought it a reward for all the goals he scored for Bayern and England in the last year. I liked to think of it as the culmination of a journey. Come on you Spurs.
Wednesday
Budget day comes with its own set of rituals. First the photos of the chancellor holding up the red box outside No 11. In the Commons, the budget speech is always preceded by prime minister’s questions. Normally, PMQs are the high spot of the Commons week, but on budget day both the prime minister and the leader of the opposition know that no one is really listening and so they rather just go through the motions. No point in wasting your best lines if no one is going to write them up.
If the budget statement is a tough gig for reporters trying to make an instant assessment of its economic impact, it’s a nightmare for the leader of the opposition. She has to make an instant reply with only what’s already been leaked to back it up. So what you normally get is 20 minutes of “it’s all terrible” and “we wouldn’t have done any of it”. It’s only a day later, when economists and politicians have had a chance to go through the numbers line by line, that a proper assessment can be made.
John Healey isn’t everyone’s go-to guy as the standard bearer for Andy Burnham’s new brand of optimism. His is the voice of despair, a harbinger of the apocalypse. So it was hard going listening to him rattle off 98 not very big measures designed to help with the cost of living through what is forecast to be the toughest decade for the country on record. Healey said he was trying to give everyone some “breathing space”. Very Gen Z. Everyone wants some breathing space these days. But it sounded most that it was the government that needed the breathing space, with the tricky decisions on defence and the welfare bill parked until the next budget. Or the election. Whichever comes sooner.
One person who wasn’t in the Commons to hear the budget was Nigel Farage. He claimed someone had moved his prayer card. This sounded about as plausible as Burnham claiming he couldn’t make it to PMQs because Lucy Powell had taken his seat. If a party leader needs a seat, one can always be found. At the very least, a junior MP is told to make way. If Nige wasn’t in the Commons, it was because he couldn’t be bothered to turn up.
Thursday
It’s amazing how quickly the unbearable becomes bearable. When we first started to go to the Marsden in Sutton for Jill’s chemo, it all seemed overwhelming and terrifying. Today, as we went back for the latest round, it feels if not comfortable then reassuringly familiar. Jill sometimes sleeps, sometimes reads a book on her Kindle, during the infusions. I sit beside her and watch the proceedings in parliament and write the sketch and diary. Like now. The wifi is better than at home. The Oak Centre, where the treatment takes place, is modern and state-of-the-art. More like what I imagine the BA business class lounge at Heathrow to be. A friend whose husband has Alzheimer’s couldn’t believe just how welcoming the centre was. There’s so much more money being invested in cancer than there is in dementia. The best time for a chemo slot is first thing in the morning. That way you can be sure to get a parking slot – free if you are having treatment – and you can also get a window bay in the centre.
For the staff, nothing is ever too much trouble: you never feel as if you are being rushed and they are happy to talk through your fears. Every patient facing their worst nightmare and being held and understood. Made safe. You can always tell where the other patients are in their cycle. There was the Indian woman with the most beautiful hair, hoping the cold cap would do its job. It probably wouldn’t. Then there was the middle-aged bloke who arrived, said hello to the nurses and was asleep in minutes. You could hear the snores from the other end of the room. Best of all is the trolley offering free drinks and sandwiches. It’s staffed by volunteers. My favourite is Sandra who joined the team having been a patient first. Another friend, whose wife died of cancer a few years ago, still volunteers at the hospice where she had palliative care. He makes cocktails for everyone once a week. I call that style.
Friday
My bad. Having previously raved about Celebrity Traitors, I feel somewhat embarrassed to say I have changed my mind. Halfway through last Friday’s episode, I realised not just that I was no longer enjoying myself but also that the celebs were actively irritating me. The whole format suddenly felt tired. As if the show had come to the end of its shelf life mid-run. I no longer cared what happened during the missions, murders and banishments. I just wanted someone – anyone – to go as soon as possible. I didn’t want to hear one more celeb saying “I really love you. We’re going to be best friends for life” when the only time they are likely to meet in the future is on a panel show.
James Acaster’s round table admission of guilt was an epic failure of self-awareness. The claim that he had been playing the game as “faithful” traitor was comically absurd. He had lasted that long precisely because he had played a traitor’s game so well. Mind you, I am planning to watch to the end, out of sheer “I’ve started so I will finish” bloody-mindedness. But the producers do need to think of ways of refreshing the look for next year’s version or it won’t be just me who is bored. I still think there is potential for a politicians version. If you’re near Worcester on 26 November, come to my show at Huntingdon Hall. We can try to make it happen.
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