In all the analysis of last week’s election — looking forward to the economic, diplomatic, environmental and infrastructure developments to come — there was one seismic change that was overlooked by every major news outlet. Which is this: every middle-aged woman I know feels, right now, kind of … fruity. Turned on. As erotic as a British woman can feel during a wet summer.
“On the morning after the election,” one of my friends whatsapped, “I realised I’d got up and shaved my legs, put on a face mask and blow-dried my hair. Like I was subconsciously preparing for a date.”
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And whom was that date with? As we spent an enjoyable hour analysing her subconscious, we concluded it wasn’t specifically with Keir Starmer, or even a new Labour government, but with competency. There is nothing more erotic to a middle-aged woman than competency. It is the quality we value above all others. As we age, our preferred language of love shifts from, “I would die for you,” to, “I will stay alive and do your VAT return for you.” The single most sexual phrase we can hear is, “I’ll take care of that.”
Or — the best — the one that makes us start taking off our nicely ironed blouses and carefully putting them on a coat hanger: “I’ve taken care of that.”
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And so however it pans out, at the beginning of this new government, the fact that they seem at the outset incredibly competent is making women of a certain age very frisky.
Look who turned up to form a new cabinet, walking down Downing Street last Friday. Not the familiar parade of pink public schoolboys, all seemingly in the same suit, exuding a palpable Wooster-ish air of, “What ho! I guess being the minister for housing for 18 months could be fun. Don’t know anything about it, but why not give it a shot?”
Instead, the new minister for levelling up, Angela Rayner, is someone who has actually levelled up, from a single mother in a council house to deputy prime minister. The new minister for prisons, James Timpson, has spent the past 20 years finding jobs for former prisoners. The new minister for transport, Louise Haigh, has the kind of red emo hair dye that suggests she’s frequently jumped the barriers on the Tube on the way to a Green Day gig — and so actually knows what public transport is. All my friends were watching these arrivals as if we were watching Magic Mike Live. We were rubbing our thighs.
“It’s almost as if Keir Starmer has hired … the best people for the job, rather than just someone’s wife or a mate from school,” said my blow-dried friend, sounding palpably aroused.
“I think he has a lot of really full box files with ‘DETAILED PLANS’ written on them,” said another, before excusing herself from the group chat. She didn’t say why she had to excuse herself — but we knew.
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For me, there is a secondary source of arousal in Keir Starmer becoming prime minister, which is: it proves I know absolutely nothing at all. It’s a genuine surprise. I never thought he’d become Labour leader. I confidently went around telling everyone it would be Jess Phillips. I never thought he would resuscitate the post-Corbyn party — I enjoyed gloomily saying, “It will take a generation to detoxify it.” I never thought Labour would win, let alone by a landslide: “He’s been too cagey, too cautious — Britain needs someone with a bit more palpable passion.”
But look, I was so wrong! Everyone was wrong. Because, let’s face it, none of us thought this would happen. There isn’t a single political expert alive who, five years ago, said, “Keir Starmer will win an historic electoral victory.” Or, if they did, they said it very quietly — and then put on a very lucrative bet in a far more discreet way than certain former members of the Tory government.
And this thrills me, because it suggests that I and, by extension, everyone is wrong about all the other supposedly experienced, sombre and wise things we go around saying. Maybe we aren’t in the final years of an exhausted civilisation! Maybe we will continue to live on land, rather than dystopian rafts, built to combat catastrophic sea rises. Maybe our children won’t still be living in our spare rooms until we’re all collecting our pensions. Maybe, after all, mullets do look good!
Honestly, right now, I feel dizzy with how different this all feels. Someone has moved into Downing Street who absolutely, on the first day, asked where the stopcock was and made a careful note of it; and even the wisest people in the world don’t really know what the future holds. It’s quite revelatory. It’s quite gladdening. It’s quite … arousing.
