The after party looked to have been a lavish affair. Either that, or the multiple petites morts the Conservatives had collectively experienced at the end of the chancellor’s budget had been rather plus grandes than expected. Come the resumption of Commons business the next day, the government benches had the feel of a stag do that had gone on rather too long with just the last 50 or so left standing.
Among them the groom, who looked rather the better for wear than most. Though rather more bemused. George Osborne is used to people making their excuses and leaving as quickly as possible whenever he is around and he was visibly disconcerted suddenly to find himself everybody’s best friend. He smiled as nicely as possible and accepted the hearty backslaps with the barest hint of metrosexual discomfort.
The ringleader was Iain Duncan Smith; his viagra overdose from the previous day had yet to wear off and he was still pumped. Eyes bulging with desire. No one quite knew at what point or why the work and pensions secretary had appointed himself best man, but no one had the heart – or the steroids – to do anything about it this late in the party. He wandered in with a swagger, failing to appreciate the irony with which some of his own colleagues, including the chancellor, double fist-pumped him. IDS returned the greeting with a single fist pump of his own that was reminiscent of the fearsome Tiger Tim Henman on his way to losing at Wimbledon. Bring it on, Quiet Man.
It was tough on him, but IDS was obliged to keep his mouth shut for the first half hour as the shadow chancellor, Chris Leslie, opened the debate. The Labour benches looked as if its occupants had enjoyed an after-budget barbiturate party of their own: almost all were empty and those MPs who were in situ appeared semi-comatose. Including Leslie, who didn’t really know what to say. He knew most of the numbers in the chancellor’s budget were almost certainly wrong: he just had no idea which ones they were. A couple of his aides propped their eyes open with matchsticks and desultorily leafed through a few red and blue books before giving up. The answers must have been in a yellow book.
His normally ice-cold blood racing with adrenaline and God knows what else, IDS wasn’t to be denied. Twice he stood up to eyeball Leslie at the despatch box, only to be reminded by the deputy speaker that he had to wait his turn. Grrr, grrr. The Tory hardcore loved it, egging him on to greater excesses in between jeering at Labour’s Catherine West for her Australian accent. Call it Ashes fever. Or just a lack of class.
The extended celebrations looked to be taking their toll on the stag party, but the best man had one last trick up his sleeve. “National living wage,” he bellowed. It had worked on Wednesday and it worked again: IDS’s and the Tories’ priapism was resurgent. “They [the Labour party] don’t like listening to this,” he roared, as he launched an extended rant about his own brilliance and how much he would really love poor people if they weren’t so feckless and lazy.
Labour’s Helen Goodman tried to interrupt him to let him know that no one on the Labour benches was listening to him as they had all gone off to have their stomachs pumped, but IDS just batted her away with a dismissive wave. “I’m not that kind,” he added. Goodman looked amazed; she had never imagined he was.
Even the best parties have to come to an end and the Tory stags gradually sloped away to lunch or bed. Whichever was nearer. But IDS was still rushing on his run. An after party to the after party. A mirrored room where he could sit alone and pleasure himself to his heart’s content.
