Have I told you about the very long lunch I once had with Theresa May? I was reminded of it as I watched a clip of her playing pool with the Italian prime minister at an EU summit at the weekend. The lunch went on for several hours – or so it seemed. All space and time came to a halt as I sat there, staring at my cutlery in a state of existential despair, failing, somehow, to communicate with her. I gave up the will to live between the starter and the main course and just kept glancing over at her security detail on another table, wishing I could be with them. Ordinary people talking.
This was when I worked at a rightwing newspaper and would often be taken along as a token woman to meet Tory grandees. Some of them were quite a laugh. Some sort of fun and gossip could be had. Some were incredibly dull and thick. Some sent me into a trance, they were so boring. And some were just obnoxious. Ann Widdecombe, for instance, was, I felt, nasty to the waitress. To me that breaks the 11th commandment. I remember asking her what star sign she was, just to annoy her.
With May, it was different. She didn’t answer questions or make small talk, or big talk. She is present only in that she makes you feel her pain. Social interaction appears torturous for her, and so it is for all around her. Dancing, snooker, her endlessly repeating what we know are lies, walking into meetings where everyone despises her. I used to feel a bit sorry for her. But that lunch, when I stared into the abyss and saw someone who has no need to make anyone else feel at ease, made me understand she is a dangerous, power-crazed maniac. The dullness is a cover. That’s all.
