It always makes me feel anxious when I hear politicians use the language of therapy. By this I mean words like “denial”, “closure” and the ubiquitous “move on”. Actually, it is shocking how therapy-speak has infiltrated Britain. One minute everyone was making fun of anyone who said the word “closure” except when talking about a door. The next moment people started to talk about “achieving closure” as if this were an entirely normal activity. We seem to have forgotten that zips achieve closure but that people just muddle through somehow.
I am not sure who is to blame. Was it the death of the Princess of Wales that pushed us over the edge? Or was it just the insidious influence of American sitcoms? Anyway, we are now running around spouting these words as if we know what we are talking about. The latest politicians to succumb are the Liberal Democrats, who appear to have had a collective nervous breakdown over the new year.
I observed the strange political death of Charles Kennedy from the relative safety of my own home. I am told that Lib Dem MPs wanted Kennedy to go with dignity but the result was beyond satire. The “my name is Charles and I am an alcoholic” press conference was one of the strangest political events ever. Watching from my sofa, I felt like a voyeur, though I’m not sure why.
What preceded and followed this would have seemed sinister were it not so inept. Most Lib Dem MPs are relatively sane individuals (it’s a controversial view, but I’m sticking to it). But, as a group! It was embarrassing to see them band together to try to murder their leader. Of course, being Lib Dems, they wanted to do this as politely as possible. First they asked him to murder himself. But — surprise surprise — he declined. Then they held meetings, issued ultimatums and wrote letters that they never sent. It was like watching a gang armed with butter knives trying to stab someone to death.
I too have been party to writing multiple-signed letters that were never sent, but I was 12 at the time. It’s a teenage girl thing. You get all worked up about one of your alleged friends until you are in a gossip frenzy. You write in your diary. Your fellow gossips write in their diaries. You bring your diaries together and agree that the situation is intolerable. Something must be done. You spend ages agreeing on the wording of a letter. Then, for reasons I don’t really understand, you never actually send the thing.
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I never thought I’d see a bunch of grown-up politicians doing what seems to have been roughly the same thing. As I understand it, MPs wanted the party to become more serious. If this is the case, then they need to rethink their strategy and pronto. The whole spectacle, for that is what it was, was a bit scary for the rest of us. “It was like Lord of the Flies,” said a friend with horror. “It was ‘Kill the pig! Kill the pig!’ ”
The MPs kept on saying that Charles Kennedy was in denial. I am sure this is true but what they do not seem to have realised is that they were (are) in denial too. Kennedy was undoubtedly dysfunctional but so was the entire parliamentary party for they had to adapt to him as a leader. This is normal (ask any alcoholic family) but MPs seem oblivious to this. They think that because they want to return to normal (whatever that may be for the Lib Dems) they can do that by clicking their ruby red sandals together and wishing it were true.
The lesson here is to be careful what you wish for, as you just might get it. The truth is that, without Charles, the Lib Dems look a bit lost. You can see a slight sense of panic in their eyes. He was the devil they knew. Now they are free of him and they don’t seem to have the faintest idea how to behave. They are like the institutionalised bear which, when his cage is removed, just keeps pacing up and down.
The leadership contest has a weird clunky feel to it. Sir Menzies Campbell, usually the epitome of urbane, seems a bundle of nerves. “We have to move on,” he says at regular intervals. All the other contenders agree this is an absolute must.
But to move on, you have to go somewhere. You need a plan or, at the very least, a sat-nav system. If you don’t, then you end up like the Tories, wandering in the forest, desperate Hansels and Gretels (though in pinstriped suits) searching for breadcrumbs to lead them home again. The fact is that tractors move on but human beings just stumble round in the dark most of the time. The Lib Dems might be in denial about that.
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The pros . . . and the cons
The winner of the most out of touch idea of the week is the Home Office junior minister Fiona MacTaggart. She has the unenviable task of figuring out what to do about prostitution and her big new idea is mini-brothels that can be populated by three women (two prostitutes and a “maid”, whatever that means). “I do think that very small-scale operations can operate in a way which is not disruptive to neighbours,” she said.
I do not know where Ms MacTaggart lives or who her neighbours are. She certainly has the means to live well. She may be Labour to the core but she also inherited pots of money from her multimillionaire property developer father. She is the second richest Labour MP after Geoffrey Robinson.
I live in a normal street (if there is such a thing) in suburbia and I would certainly be disrupted if a mini-brothel was operating in the house next to mine. There would be an uproar over parking for starters. The net curtains would not be twitching so much as dancing the cancan all day long.
Anyone for squash
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This seems to be the season of air rage but whenever I get on an aircraft I experience air envy. I am always — and I do mean always — behind the largest man on the plane. If there is a sumo wrestling type, he will be in front of me. Within nano-seconds of take-off, he puts his seat back as far as possible. Every time he moves (which is all the time) my knees are crunched even further. I fantasise about changing places with him which is, let’s face it, sad behaviour. But that’s what happens when you have neighbours from hell.