Cameron jokes about "mental health lobby" after describing Miliband's plans as "nuts"

The PM digs himself a deeper hole on The Andrew Marr Show.

After rather unwisely describing Ed Miliband's plan to raise corporation tax from 20% to 21% as "nuts" in his interview in the Sunday Telegraph, David Cameron dug himself a deeper hole on The Andrew Marr Show this morning.

After again referring to the policy as "nuts" ("Land Rover makes money around the world. Miliband want to put up their taxes. That's nuts."), while carefully omitting to note that Miliband has pledged to use the revenue to cut tax rates for small businesses, Cameron quipped:

I don't want to get into a huge argument with the mental health lobby.

It seems, then, that the PM regards those mental health sufferers who may rightly be offended by his comments as just another "lobby". And, ironically, by stating that he doesn't want to get into "a huge argument" he has almost certainly guaranteed that there will now be one.

Elsewhere today, the Independent on Sunday reports that Eric Pickles told a survivor of alleged child abuse to "adjust your medication" when she accused him of ignoring her. Pickles has defended himself on the basis that "It was never my intention to insult Teresa Cooper. I was giving her a frank piece of advice in private." But as Alastair Campbell commented this morning, "Cameron calls opponents 'nuts', Pickles tells abuse victim to 'adjust your medication.' And they wonder why people think they don't get it."

David Cameron answers a question during a joint news conference with Italy's Prime Minister Enrico Letta in 10 Downing Street on July 17, 2013. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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For the Ukip press officer I slept with, the European Union was Daddy

My Ukip lover just wanted to kick against authority. I do not know how he would have coped with the reality of Brexit.

I was a journalist for a progressive newspaper.

He was the press officer for the UK Independence Party.

He was smoking a cigarette on the pavement outside the Ukip conference in Bristol.

I sat beside him. It was a scene from a terrible film. 

He wore a tweed Sherlock Holmes coat. The general impression was of a seedy-posh bat who had learned to talk like Shere Khan. He was a construct: a press officer so ridiculous that, by comparison, Ukip supporters seemed almost normal. He could have impersonated the Queen Mother, or a morris dancer, or a British bulldog. It was all bravado and I loved him for that.

He slept in my hotel room, and the next day we held hands in the public gallery while people wearing Union Jack badges ranted about the pound. This was before I learned not to choose men with my neurosis alone. If I was literally embedded in Ukip, I was oblivious, and I was no kinder to the party in print than I would have been had I not slept with its bat-like press officer. How could I be? On the last day of the conference, a young, black, female supporter was introduced to the audience with the words – after a white male had rubbed the skin on her hand – “It doesn’t come off.” Another announcement was: “The Ukip Mondeo is about to be towed away.” I didn’t take these people seriously. He laughed at me for that.

After conference, I moved into his seedy-posh 18th-century house in Totnes, which is the counterculture capital of Devon. It was filled with crystal healers and water diviners. I suspect now that his dedication to Ukip was part of his desire to thwart authority, although this may be my denial about lusting after a Brexiteer who dressed like Sherlock Holmes. But I prefer to believe that, for him, the European Union was Daddy, and this compulsion leaked into his work for Ukip – the nearest form of authority and the smaller Daddy.

He used to telephone someone called Roger from in front of a computer with a screen saver of two naked women kissing, lying about what he had done to promote Ukip. He also told me, a journalist, disgusting stories about Nigel Farage that I cannot publish because they are libellous.

When I complained about the pornographic screen saver and said it was damaging to his small son, he apologised with damp eyes and replaced it with a photo of a topless woman with her hand down her pants.

It was sex, not politics, that broke us. I arrived on Christmas Eve to find a photograph of a woman lying on our bed, on sheets I had bought for him. That was my Christmas present. He died last year and I do not know how he would have coped with the reality of Brexit, of Daddy dying, too – for what would be left to desire?

This article first appeared in the 19 January 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Trump era