PMQs review: Cameron leaves the Tories wanting more

The PM demolished Miliband as he declared that the Labour leader had "impersonated more politicians than Rory Bremner".

After a series of unnoteworthy exchanges between David Cameron and Ed Miliband on Gaza and the NHS, today's PMQs came to life right at the end. After Miliband declared that "the people of Corby spoke for the country", Cameron replied that "the people of Humberside spoke for the entire nation", a reference to John Prescott's defeat in last week's police and crime commissioner elections, which Prescott unfortunately described as "a referendum on everything the coalition has done".

This artful riposte prompted cheers from Tory MPs, with Cameron responding, "happily, there is more". And there was. After noting that Miliband had invoked Disraeli, compared himself to Thatcher, described himself as more eurosceptic than Bill Cash, and more pro-European than Tony Blair, he quipped: "he's impersonated more politicians than Rory Bremner, but this time the joke's on him". It was Cameron's best line for months and as the PM sat down, Tory MPs cried, "more! more!

Until that point, Miliband had had the better of the exchanges, with Cameron unable to answer the charge that he had broken his promise to prevent rationing on cost in the NHS. As the PM leaned over to Andrew Lansley, Miliband quipped, "don't ask him for advice, you sacked him!" But the Labour leader then unwisely segued into last week's elections, allowing Cameron to deliver his knockout blow.

David Cameron leaves Stormont Castle in Belfast, Northern Ireland on 20 November 2012. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

Getty
Show Hide image

As the strangers approach the bed, I wonder if this could be a moment of great gentleness

I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do.

It’s 1.13am on an autumn morning some time towards the end of the 20th century and I’m awake in a vast hotel bed in a small town in the east of England. The mysterious east, with its horizons that seem to stretch further than they should be allowed to stretch by law. I can’t sleep. My asthma is bad and I’m wheezing. The clock I bought for £3 many years earlier ticks my life away with its long, slow music. The street light outside makes the room glow and shimmer.

I can hear footsteps coming down the corridor – some returning drunks, I guess, wrecked on the reef of a night on the town. I gaze at the ceiling, waiting for the footsteps to pass.

They don’t pass. They stop outside my door. I can hear whispering and suppressed laughter. My clock ticks. I hear a key card being presented, then withdrawn. The door opens slowly, creaking like a door on a Radio 4 play might. The whispering susurrates like leaves on a tree.

It’s an odd intrusion, this, as though somebody is clambering into your shirt, taking their time. A hotel room is your space, your personal kingdom. I’ve thrown my socks on the floor and my toothbrush is almost bald in the bathroom even though there’s a new one in my bag because I thought I would be alone in my intimacy.

Two figures enter. A man and a woman make their way towards the bed. In the half-dark, I can recognise the man as the one who checked me in earlier. He says, “It’s all right, there’s nobody in here,” and the woman laughs like he has just told her a joke.

This is a moment. I feel like I’m in a film. It’s not like being burgled because this isn’t my house and I’m sure they don’t mean me any harm. In fact, they mean each other the opposite.

Surely they can hear my clock dripping seconds? Surely they can hear me wheezing?

They approach, closer and closer, towards the bed. The room isn’t huge but it seems to be taking them ages to cross it. I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do. I should speak. I should say with authority, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” But I don’t.

I could just lie here, as still as a book, and let them get in. It could be a moment of great gentleness, a moment between strangers. I would be like a chubby, wheezing Yorkshire pillow between them. I could be a metaphor for something timeless and unspoken.

They get closer. The woman reaches her hand across the bed and she touches the man’s hand in a gesture of tenderness so fragile that it almost makes me sob.

I sit up and shout, “Bugger off!” and they turn and run, almost knocking my clock from the bedside table. The door crashes shut shakily and the room seems to reverberate.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge