Labour MP tells Louise Mensch: "a good wife doesn't disagree with her master"

A nasty slice of sexism from Labour MP Austin Mitchell.

Louise Mensch was embarrassed yesterday when her husband, rock manager Peter Mensch, suggested in an interview with the Sunday Times (£) that she resigned as MP for Corby because she feared she would lose her seat at the next election. He told the paper: "She thought - and I wasn’t going to argue with her - that she’d get killed in the next election. So, to her, it seemed much more short-term than my job as a manager, which is going to go on for another 20 years. And listen, they hadn’t promoted her yet, and it’s not like she thought she had a future because perhaps she felt she was too outspoken."

In response, his wife took to Twitter to set the record straight. She tweeted: "Nothing, repeat nothing, influenced decision to resign other than inability to hold family life together away from him. Can honestly say I had no fear whatsoever of defeat at next election since had already decided not to stand again."

Whether or not one accepts her version of events, few will feel sympathy with the response of Labour MP Austin Mitchell. He tweeted this morning:

Shut up Menschkin. A good wife doesn't disagree with her master in public and a good little girl doesn't lie about why she quit politics.

Were a Tory MP to serve up sexism in this manner, Labour would immediately demand an apology. Let’s hope the party is no softer on Mitchell.

Update: With grim inevitability, Mitchell has responded by claiming that he was being ironic. He tweeted:

Calm down dears.Irony may be a low form of wit but it's clearly above my level.And yours.So my wife has banned me from tweeting today.

Given that Mitchell isn't a renowed defender of women's rights, it's hard to identify the "irony" he refers to. And there's no sign of an apology.

Update 2: Labour has now responded to Mitchell's tweet. A party source told The Staggers:

Austin Mitchell has made clear the tweet was a joke not a serious comment. It’s not funny, understandable that people find it offensive, and it is not the view of the Labour Party.

Louise Mensch, who stepped down as the Conservative MP for Corby earlier this year. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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Why do the words “soup, swoop, loop de loop” come to mind every time I lift a spoon to my lips?

It’s all thanks to Barry and Anita.

A while ago I was lending a friend the keys to our house. We keep spare keys in a ceramic pot I was given years ago by someone who made it while on an art-school pottery course. “That’s er . . . quite challenging,” the friend said of the pot.

“Is it?” I replied. “I’d stopped noticing how ugly it is.”

“Then it’s a grunty,” she said.

“A what?” I asked.

“A grunty. It’s something you have in your house that’s hideous and useless but you’ve stopped noticing it completely, so it’s effectively invisible.”

I was much taken with this idea and realised that as well as “grunties” there are also “gruntyisms”: things you say or do, though the reason why you say or do them has long since been forgotten. For example, every time we drink soup my wife and I say the same thing, uttered in a strange monotone: we say, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop.” How we came to say “soup, swoop, loop de loop” came about like this.

For a married couple, the years between your mid-thirties and your late forties might be seen as the decade of the bad dinner party. You’re no longer looking for a partner, so the hormonal urge to visit crowded bars has receded, but you are still full of energy so you don’t want to stay in at night, either. Instead, you go to dinner parties attended by other couples you don’t necessarily like that much.

One such couple were called Barry and Anita. Every time we ate at their house Barry would make soup, and when serving it he would invariably say, “There we are: soup, swoop, loop de loop.” After the dinner party, as soon as we were in the minicab going home, me and Linda would start drunkenly talking about what an arse Barry was, saying to each other, in a high-pitched, mocking imitation of his voice: “Please do have some more of this delicious soup, swoop, loop de loop.” Then we’d collapse against each other laughing, convincing the Algerian or Bengali taxi driver once again of the impenetrability and corruption of Western society.

Pretty soon whenever we had soup at home, Linda and I would say to each other, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop,” at first still ridiculing Barry, but eventually we forgot why we were saying it and it became part of the private language every couple develop, employed long after we’d gratefully ceased having soupy dinners with Barry and Anita.

In the early Nineties we had an exchange student staying with us for a year, a Maori girl from the Cook Islands in the southern Pacific. When she returned home she took the expression “soup, swoop, loop de loop” with her and spread it among her extended family, until finally the phrase appeared in an anthropological dissertation: “ ‘Soup swoop, loop de loop.’ Shamanistic Incantations in Rarotongan Food Preparation Rituals” – University of Topeka, 2001. 

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt