It was as if she’d made peace with her maker on the way to the guillotine: HENRY DEEDES admires Theresa May’s quiet composure as her end looms
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Theresa May left Room 14 at Portcullis House yesterday with, to borrow one of her predecessors’ well-rehearsed soundbites, the hand of history on her shoulder.
This was not a warm, welcoming hand, the sort of reassuring grip that a national leader might welcome during these moments of profound constitutional significance.
This was a bony, spectral mitt, there to guide her from the unforgiving political stage.
Just under three years since she first stood on the Downing Street steps, confidently promising ‘a new, bold, positive role for Britain in the world’, her premiership is now in its final days, having finally collapsed under the heaving weight of delivering Brexit.
Theresa May left Room 14 at Portcullis House yesterday with, to borrow one of her predecessors’ well-rehearsed soundbites, the hand of history on her shoulder, writes Henry Deedes
It is hard not to feel for Mrs May. Years of work have gone into trying to extract us from the EU.
All those trying trips to Brussels, those rictus-smile photocalls, those late-night phone conversations with bibulous Eurocrats.
These are not things we would wish even on our in-laws. Now it must fall on someone else to finish the job.
Mrs May delivered the news to her backbenchers at precisely eight minutes after five, closely followed by her political adviser Stephen Parkinson and her Parliamentary Private Secretary, Seema Kennedy (Con, South Ribble). The PM looked relaxed, mildly chirpy even, her navy suit neatly pressed, her hair and maquillage immaculately arranged as ever.
Watching her ruby red heels gently click-clack down the corridor, her noble frame exuded the quiet composure of someone who had made her peace with her maker on the way to face the guillotine.
Say what you like about this awkward, unclubbable and often maddening woman – and, of course, there will be plenty who’ll be doing just that over the breakfast table this morning – no matter how grim the predicament, she has always kept it classy.
Theresa May pictured arriving in parliament yesterday. She told Conservative MPs she would step down before the ‘next phase’ of negotiations if her deal gets through
Shortly after saying this, Boris Johnson announced he would support May’s Brexit deal. ‘Nothing like the dangling of the keys to Downing Street in front of the old sheepdog’s snout to focus his mind’, writes Henry Deedes
As she entered the meeting room, latecomers had to shoehorn their way through the door. Prisons Minister Rory Stewart was among those struggling to find a vantage point. Whichever lackey organised this pokey room for such an occasion really needs to be taken out and shot. Moments later, as the cramped cubby-hole shook with the fortissimo banging of desks, Mrs May’s fate became brutally clear. She had accepted her premiership was over.
Those present say the PM spoke in cracked tones over pin-drop silence. Her dicky throat is still in recovery mode but her message could not have been any sharper. Help me get this wretched deal over the line and you’ll be shot of me.
Afterwards, there were claims it was one of the most emotive, well-judged speeches she’s given as a Prime Minister. Oh, but isn’t that so often the way? No sooner had members begun to disperse, phones glued to their ears, Prince o’er the water Boris Johnson performed a dramatic volte face by announcing he would back Mrs May’s Deal.
Ping! Nothing like the dangling of the keys to Downing Street in front of the old sheepdog’s snout to focus his mind.
Then, just before 9pm, came the sucker punch. Democratic Unionist Party leader Arlene Foster announced she still couldn’t support Mrs May’s deal.
All the PM’s efforts for nothing. Game over, surely.
Amid much constitutional chicanery, Remainers in awe to the EU had seized control of the apparatus of government and were laying out their own plans for the country’s future, writes Henry Deedes
If that wasn’t enough drama for one day, across in the Commons, an attempted coup was already under way. Amid much constitutional chicanery, Remainers in awe to the EU had seized control of the apparatus of government and were laying out their own plans for the country’s future.
Not for the first time in recent weeks, it was Speaker Bercow, the power-sozzled Commandant of the Remainer faction, who was barking the orders.
After news spread that the Prime Minister was preparing to gazump their plans by bringing her deal back to the House tomorrow, the Speaker once again warned he would use his authority to block any vote unless it had been ‘substantially changed’.
The Commandant issued this news with low, sharp jabs as though thumping someone in the solar plexus, his gluey eyes glowing with customary menace. Mrs May’s attempts to yank back control of Brexit clearly riled him. Bercow’s defiant message was greeted by the Remain princelings around the House with much flashing of gums and slapping of femurs.
Perhaps, if their putsch is successful, they’ll commission a statue of Bercow and plonk it in Parliament Square.
Earlier, we had witnessed the even more baffling sight of Sir Oliver Letwin (Con, West Dorset) commanding the House as he laid out his plans for the afternoon’s indicative votes.
British politics has witnessed some surreal scenes in recent years, but this was positively barmy.
How on earth had Sir Oliver, a fuschia-cheeked Tory grandee responsible for more cock-ups than Blackadder’s bungling sidekick Baldrick, come to be in charge of Brexit and grandstanding as democracy’s saviour.
For us observers, it was like watching a particularly eerie episode of Twilight Zone. As it was, the afternoon’s debate proved a futile exercise.
All of the indicative votes offered in front of the House were voted down anyway.
The Prime Minister, understandably, was absent.
These past few months, her career has hinged on selling her Brexit deal but she’s been treated by hard-Brexiteers within her own party with as much affection as an unwanted stepchild.
Tragically, and despite all her very best efforts, her best simply hasn’t been good enough.
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