Imagine the voice of a Johnny-No-Mates. A bloke with so little self-worth that he keeps a tarantula on his desk for company. That’s the shrill, nasal mewl of Gavin Williamson. Which might be perfect for the jobsworth bullying demanded of a chief whip, but is grating in a secretary of state for defence. Well before the end of his first defence questions in the Commons, MPs were putting their fingers in their ears to stop the bleeding.
Before Westminster
Born in Scarborough, North Yorkshire, he had a comprehensive education before going on to gain a degree in social science at the University of Bradford. Williamson then worked for a while in the pottery industry and for an architectural design firm before being elected MP for South Staffordshire in 2010 at the age of 33.
The rapid rise
Just a few years after his election, Williamson became David Cameron’s parliamentary aide, acting as his eyes and ears among MPs. But when Cameron stepped down, Williamson quickly threw his lot in with Theresa May as the most effective stop-Boris candidate and was adopted as her campaign manager. Having impressed with his organisational skills, he was elevated to chief whip, despite not having previously served as a minister.
Defence secretary
After becoming pivotal in the deal with the Democratic Unionist party (DUP), Williamson earned May's respect for managing difficult parliamentary votes with the slimmest of DUP-backed majorities. His move into the cabinet after Sir Michael Fallon resigned over allegations of sexual harassment appears to position him as a potential Conservative leader, but the backlash among MPs was significant.
Spider man
He is best known in Westminster for keeping a tarantula called Cronus in a glass box on his desk, seemingly to intimidate MPs who have stepped out of line. The creature is named after the Greek god who came to power by castrating his own father before eating his own children to ensure they would not oust him.
In his own words
“I don’t very much believe in the stick, but it’s amazing what can be achieved with a sharpened carrot.”
Williamson had begun like a schoolboy struggling to remember the homework he had learned by heart. In the three weeks he had been in the job, he had been to Salisbury Plain to meet the army, Cosford to meet the RAF and Devonport to meet the navy and was looking forward to working with the armed services going forward.
So far so good. Williamson took a deep breath. As for assessing future capabilities, he whined, he would be taking a step back to review what was needed and then make a decision on what decision needed to be made going forward. Gavin had clearly made a decision he was a going forward kind of guy.
Not everyone trusted Williamson to come to the right decision. As chief whip, he’d never previously shown the slightest interest in – or knowledge of – defence issues and he soon found himself under friendly fire from his own MPs. Julian Lewis observed that defence spending used to be 5% of GDP during the cold war, was now barely 2% and should be more like 3%, while James Gray promised there would be a huge rebellion if any cuts in provision were made in the forthcoming national security capability review.
It’s hard to sound tough when your government has already broken its 2015 manifesto commitment not to cut the number of armed personnel and shows every sign of being willing to make further cuts. It’s harder still when even your own pet tarantula can’t stand the sound of your reedy voice and finds you untrustworthy.
“I take the 2% as a baseline rather than a ceiling,” Williamson said, trying to endear himself to the armed forces. He looked round needily, desperate for some approval. I love soldiers, me.
You and whose army? the shadow defence secretary, Nia Griffith, wondered. Williamson’s permanent private secretary had said his boss hadn’t even bothered to make any formal representations to the chancellor on behalf of the armed services ahead of last week’s budget. Could he confirm that this was correct?
“It’s all very well to ask, ask, ask,” Williamson snapped. “But we have to make sure we know what is needed going forward.” Griffith quite rightly took this non-denial denial to mean that, given the choice of pressing for more money for his department or not wanting to disturb the chancellor at his busiest time of the year, the defence secretary had taken pity on Philip Hammond.
Life wasn’t made any easier for Williamson by having Tobias Ellwood sitting on the government frontbench beside him. The junior defence minister would have been the armed forces first choice for the top job; not only is he extremely knowledgeable, he actually sounds as if he cares more about the military than he does about his job. Ellwood’s obvious command of his brief only added to Williamson’s unease.
Even when he was trying to sound statesmanlike and non-committal on anything he wasn’t sure about – pretty much everything – he couldn’t help letting his inexperience show. People had never felt safer than they did now, he suggested. Speak for yourself, Gavin.
Realising he had got through most of the session without mentioning his predecessor, Williamson finally got round to a few words of anodyne praise. His one line was heard in near silence. Whatever Michael Fallon’s crimes, everyone knew that Williamson was instrumental in getting him to resign. And it was odds-on he had also been instrumental in recommending himself as his replacement. Even in Westminster, such naked self-promotion is frowned on.
Not that the defence secretary was particularly bothered. His first questions may not have been the success he had hoped for, but neither had it been a total disaster. After all, no one would have been watching anyway, all eyes were on Harry and Meghan.
John Crace’s new book, I, Maybot, is published by Guardian Faber. To order a copy for £6.99, saving £3, go to guardianbookshop.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £10, online orders only. Phone orders min. p&p of £1.99.
