It is at times like this – with Rachel Reeves visibly crying in the Commons – that we must be thankful that Jacinda Ardern, former New Zealand PM, who dedicated her recent memoir to “the criers, worriers and huggers” is absent from our politics. Had Jacinda been on the scene yesterday, she would undoubtedly have hugged the Chancellor in the actual Commons chamber because the politics of empathy is her thing. And it’s that notion – the more emotion in politics the better – which I think we should see off right now.
It is forgivable for the Chancellor to cry. It’s a human trait. Whether she was tearful because of a spat with the Speaker, or because of a standoff with Angela Rayner about welfare or because the PM didn’t seem terribly confident about her future is anyone’s guess. Certainly she told the Speaker that she had been “under a lot of pressure”, which is something of an understatement. Lots of her colleagues hate her, or rather, her perceived fiscal rectitude – a difference in approach which surfaced dramatically during the debate about welfare reform. Few business leaders feel warmly about her after her imposition of national insurance increases. Most political commentators think she’s toast – the PM’s assurances that she’ll be Chancellor for years to come shouldn’t deceive anyone. Her tough stance on budgetary discipline has been undermined; her fiscal headroom is gone after the collapse of the welfare reforms. Given all the above, it’s small wonder she cried.
And yes, of course, politicians cry. Men as well as women. As the historian Andrew Roberts observed, Winston Churchill was often given to tears without anyone thinking the worse of him. In the ancient world, big tough men were forever crying. In the Iliad, the entire Greek army broke down more than once. In Roman politics and in public trials, crying, or evoking sympathy or tears from your listeners – miseratio – was one of the arts of rhetoric, a way of moving your audience. If you read any medieval chronicle or poem, you’re likely to encounter any number of public displays of emotion from men as well as women. But it all depends on the context: a strong man crying is moving; a woman politician crying looks like the job is getting to her. Now that may be sexist but such are the perceived notions of the day.
A strong man crying is moving; a woman politician crying looks like the job is getting to her
Lots of us cry when things get too much; I weep myself. But the difference between me and Rachel Reeves is that the bond markets are cruelly indifferent to my shows of emotion but react immediately to hers. I’d say then that it’s fine for her to cry once but she shouldn’t make a habit of it; still less should we make a virtue of it. She should think – what would Jacinda do? – and then do the opposite. Of all the offices of state, that of the Chancellor is the one you want to go to someone who looks as if she will stop at nothing to keep the national debt down. No one looked at her yesterday and thought, ah, how very Churchillian of her. Her vulnerability seemed more like an expression of the government’s weakness, as it does one handbrake turn after another, on welfare, on winter fuel, on immigration.
So, the Chancellor might not want to make a habit of giving way to emotion. It’s human and forgivable but it doesn’t inspire confidence in a role where projecting confidence is part of the deal. She has got a formidable task ahead, to maintain the confidence of the markets when the underpinning for her policies is looking more and more shaky. The problem for Rachel R after the scuppering of the welfare reforms which were meant to provide substantial savings is that she has so little room for manoeuvre left. In fact, come the autumn statement, she may find that she’s announcing increases in taxation, including income tax. If so, there’ll be lots of us crying. Myself included.
Melanie McDonagh is a columnist at The London Standard
