The five weirdest things in the Daily Mail's profile of Michael Gove


Jan Moir's profile of Michael Gove, in today's Daily Mail, is a work of… well, it's Jan Moir's profile of Michael Gove in today's Daily Mail. Here are the five weirdest passages:

1) The I-can't-tell-if-she's-being-cutting-or-if-she-actually-thinks-it sycophancy:

It makes the boyish and bespectacled Gove seem rather more interesting that your average grey politician, even one who today is wearing what he describes as a ‘deliberately dull’ tie to avoid accusations of ‘peacockery’. Hilarious.

2) The random Molesworth quote:

Gove says his lack of leadership ambitions is a liberation, one that sets him free to concentrate on the job in hand, the perilous task that consumes him every day: the overhaul of the failing education system in this country. And it desperately needs it, as any fule kno.

3) The idea that a government minister doing his job deserves as much coverage as a government minister not doing his job:

Today he feels vindicated, but wryly notes that had the judgment gone the other way, it would have dominated the news agenda on the BBC and other Left-wing media outlets all day. ‘Ohhh, it would have been all “GCSE fiasco!”, I think. It is impossible to avoid the word fiasco these days.’ In the end, the triumph was barely mentioned. The focus is always on what Gove gets wrong, not on what he gets right.

4) Gove was that guy you hated in University:

When he first went to Oxford, he amazed everyone by wearing a three-piece tweed suit to lectures.


An old edition of Cherwell, the Oxford student newspaper, contains details of a purported five-in-a-bed romp in London and — more embarrassments — claims that Gove‘s nickname was Donkey because of certain physical attributes. The Education Minister waves this saucy notion away.

Photograph: Getty Images

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

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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