In simpler times, three months ago, it was a shock when the work and pensions secretary resigned. Iain Duncan Smith was “determined to be a team player,” he explained in his letter to the prime minister, but he was “unable to watch passively” any longer. The latest benefit cuts announced by the chancellor at the time were “a compromise too far”.
It was an odd letter, because it wasn’t a letter. It wasn’t signed, or addressed to anybody. Duncan Smith spoke to David Cameron as “you”, yet he spent most of two long pages summarising his and the government’s achievements, as he saw them, which Cameron surely knew about already. The news that he was actually resigning was a dramatic flourish at the end. Cameron responded with a signed letter of his own that was equally strange. “There are now more people in work than ever before in our country’s history, with 2.4m more jobs created since 2010,” he told his former colleague, for some reason. He was “puzzled” by the decision, he added, before mentioning by the way that, of course, they disagreed on Europe …
When people ask what it was like to live through Brexit, many memories will begin with a blur of resignation letters as the predicted job losses came quicker than expected, most on the Labour front bench. This legal formality – written proof that you have quit your job – has long been a traditional exchange between leaders and ministers, but now increasingly gets used as a political weapon.
It might be that letters hit harder now that they reach people’s pockets before the leader can respond. Geoffrey Howe and Robin Cook are now remembered for the devastating speeches they gave to the Commons, in 1990 and 2003, but both wrote letters first, which made less impact. Duncan Smith said nothing to the house. He spoke to Andrew Marr. A previous work and pensions secretary, James Purnell, made a brief splash with his resignation letter in 2009, which sought to dislodge the then prime minister, Gordon Brown. (His predecessor, Peter Hain, used his resignation letter to justify his conduct over unreported political donations the year before.)
By comparison, the first of this week’s resignation letters were remarkably gentle with Jeremy Corbyn, even complimentary. “I do not believe you have the capacity to shape the answers our country is demanding,” was as blunt as it got from Heidi Alexander, who herself lacked the capacity to get the date right. Lillian Greenwood’s contained not one word directly criticising Corbyn, unless you happen to know that people she “shares concerns” with are his enemies. “Thank you for the opportunity,” everyone kept saying, like failed apprentices sent packing by Lord Sugar.
The mood changed with Chris Bryant’s letter that evening, however, when it was clear that Corbyn wasn’t budging. “Following our conversation,” he began, which is always interesting, because it makes clear that the recipient isn’t being blindsided, and admits that the detail to follow will be strictly for the grandstands. But when that detail came, it was with finger-jabbing rage. “You made speeches that undermined the campaign … You and John McDonnell regularly attacked the Remain campaign … you will go down in history as the man who broke the Labour party.”
Since then there have been so many letters that some have become quite casual. Lisa Nandy and Owen Smith announced their resignation in a statement, rather than a letter, that looked as if it had been bashed out on a phone. “I feel a bit silly writing to resign from my position,” Jess Phillips began her letter, which was full of blunders, but splendidly direct. “Saying stuff won’t cut it,” she wrote. “Take care,” she finished. Pat Glass wrote her letter very properly on Tuesday, not to resign, but to announce that she would stand down at the next election. Then she did resign, on Wednesday, but a fresh letter must have seemed de trop since she had only been shadow education secretary for two days, after Lucy Powell had sent her resignation letter. So Glass just used a tweet, and forgot the full-stop.
Can the political resignation letter survive such a battering? Howe’s famous joke about going into the crease with one’s bats already broken by the team captain may have brought the house down in 1990, but his speech – like speeches generally – feels a bit stagey now. The pseudo-eavesdropping of a letter refreshed the format, like Big Brother refreshed television after Dynasty, but it is not guaranteed to stay that way. Perhaps soon ambitious ministers wanting to make a point will instead get their wives to send pseudo-accidental emails, in the hope that they will wind up “leaked” in the news. Or perhaps not.
