Tory MPs prepare to oust Cameron if he loses

Discontented MPs prepare to act if Cameron fails to become prime minister.

Here's a revealing snippet from Ben Brogan's Telegraph column this morning, which suggests that David Cameron's days will be numbered if he loses the election.

Brogan writes:

If the Tory leader is not prime minister on or soon after May 7, the parliamentary party will turn on its leader. Already the 92 Group, a club of Thatcherite MPs, is planning a meeting in the week after the election that could demand Mr Osborne's head. A coalition of the excluded, the irreconcilables, and those nursing grievances over the handling of the expenses inquiry is preparing to break its silence. Up to 20 MPs are said to be ready to speak out.

It is with this possibility in mind that Cameron has previously ordered the party's powerful backbench 1922 Committee to change their rules to make it harder to remove a sitting leader. Under the current rules, a leadership contest is triggered when 15 per cent of the party's MPs submit a request for one. Once lodged, a request cannot be rescinded, so the number can gradually rise over a period of weeks.

But Cameron is expected to change this rule by putting an "expiry date" on letters. Rebel MPs would have to write again after a certain period.

Either way, it is hard to imagine the party's backbenchers tolerating a further period in opposition under Cameron. Many are unreconstructed Thatcherites who only accepted the 'modernisation' of their party in the belief that Dave was a winner.

If this assumption turns out to be wrong, we can expect the Tories, as usual, to act with Darwinian ruthlessness in removing their leader.


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George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood