Class war, day two, got off to a distinctly bizarre start when two of the poshest people in the Commons took up the battle. I speak of Sir George Young, a man who knows the playing fields of Eton, for he’s played on them, and Harriet Harman, who went to the exclusive St Paul’s Girls’ School.
Sir George stood, tall and willowy, at the dispatch box, his head bent down like a feeding giraffe. “Will you join me in condemning the Prime Minister for launching a class war,” he murmured to Harriet in his ultra-polite way, “against those with aristocratic connections who were educated at public school.”
Touch?. The (tea) pot was calling the kettle noir. How the Tories chortled. “Declare an interest,” they shouted at Harriet, who looked very head girl.
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“You ask about class war,” she plodded, saying that Labour was taxing the rich while the Tories gave them tax breaks. “You are truly the party for the few. We are the party for the many.”
She sat down, as prim as a doily. As a warrior, she’s rubbish. Boadicea, do not fret, Harrumphing Harriet is no match for you. Sir George just looked embarrassed. It was like watching two people attack each other with teaspoons, little fingers crooked.
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The Labour and Lib Dem benches simmered with hatreds. First it was posh people, then the rich and bankers in particular. “I note that the board of RBS wish to resign if they’re not allowed to pay extraordinarily large amounts of money to people within their company,” said David Heath, the Yeti that speaks for the Lib Dems. “Can I say, there is nobody standing in their way!”
Harriet got out her teaspoon. Chink. Chink. I couldn’t help but compare her with Dennis Skinner, who was snarling away in private yesterday. But on the “awkward squad” bench next to him was the volcanic Ken Purchase. He began, as all class warriors must on all issues, with the miners’ strike.
“Do you recall that when the miners went on strike in order to protect the pits they were denounced as traitors in the press? Does this morning’s action by the bankers put you in mind of that?” he thundered. “These precious self-centred people need to be brought here and cautioned for what they are saying in regard to their position blackmailing the Government!”
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Brought here and cautioned? Why not just put their heads on spikes on the Tower? Ken’s attack was made slightly surreal by the fact that later he was clutching a copy of Jazzwise magazine.
Harriet was getting better now, swept away now with the romance of it all. She was eager to agree with Ken. She was “happy to condemn” the bankers. “They’ve nearly fallen off the edge of a cliff because of recklessness and irresponsibility,” she said. They should not be giving themselves “massive” bonuses.
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The Hate the Bankers bandwagon was attracting some unusual recruits. “Most of my constituents would say good riddance to them if they did resign,” said Philip Hollobone, a Tory who would not usually say boo to a goose. Harriet looked at him. A Tory! On her side of the class war! She looked aghast. She found it “striking” that she agreed. His party only wanted to give “extra money to those who’ve already got shedloads of it”. She sat down with a flounce, still certain that the world really was black and white.