Madeline Grant

The day started badly for David Lammy. Well – we don’t know that for sure – it’s feasible that first thing this morning he won a great victory over his toothpaste tube, however his appearance on the Today programme wasn’t exactly a triumph. Asked by Justin Webb whether the US action was legal he told him that ‘we weren’t involved’. That’s the spirit: answer the question you want, not the question you were asked.  The Sage of Tottenham continued to manifest his dream interview rather than the one that was actually going on. We had a rather fun segue into the periodic table and percentages of uranium enrichment. ‘Oh Justin’, said Lammy at one point, ‘we’ve always been clear’. As a rainy day in Dundee.

The portents this morning were grim. The Grim Leadreaper was doing her HR manager of Hades act, buzzing around with faux sincerity like a wasp that had discovered LGBT History Month. Jess Phillips took a great huff on her vape in the lobby before walking into the chamber. Perhaps it was sulphur flavour. Inside the House of Commons the obviously sham last-minute ‘switcher’ Jack Abbott from the bill committee, as spineless a backbench toady as you ever did see, was there being all chummy with the unparalleled toad Jake Richards. Were they bonding perhaps over their new-found enthusiasm for death? It was Brokeback Mountain meets The Zone of Interest. Voting began on amendments.

As you might have noticed from the crowds weeping in the streets and the appearance of sackcloth, ashes and rent, er, garments: Sir Keir Starmer wasn’t at Prime Minister’s Questions this afternoon. Instead we got Big Ange – who absolutely, definitely, doesn’t want the job for herself. She'd come dressed in a fetching double-breasted blazer and cream trouser combo which made her look like a judge at Henley or an old-school pub landlord. Or even, perhaps deliberately, Nigel Farage. Ange breezily mentioned Starmer’s absence in the way you might mention you’d trod on a slug while gardening Ange breezily mentioned Starmer’s absence in the way you might mention you’d trod on a slug while gardening.

Sir Keir Starmer was doing an interview with Beth Rigby in the lush mountain landscape of Canada. Hardly a man who evokes the sweeping grandeur of nature, seeing the Prime Minister surrounded by mountains and pines was odd. It looked a little like someone had mistakenly cast a chartered accountant in the Sound of Music. What percentage is his approval rating? Seventeen going on sixteen of course. Seeing the Prime Minister surrounded by mountains and pines was odd Rigby asked whether the Prime Minister had any idea what President Trump was doing about the Middle East that was so important that he had to leave the G7 early. ‘I actually sat next to the President at that meeting,’ came the non sequitur reply.

Yvette Cooper had come to the House of Commons to shut, as loudly and with as much gusto as she could manage, a stable door long after the horse had bolted. The government was finally doing what it had long derided as ‘a far-right bandwagon’ and agreed to a national inquiry into the Pakistani rape gangs which blighted small-town England for decades. On the bench next to her were Bridget Philistine – who branded Tory calls for an inquiry ‘political opportunism’, Big Ange, whose new rules on Islamophobia would probably have made any of the journalism which exposed the gangs illegal, and Lucy Powell – the tin-eared, suet-brained embodiment of Blob-think who claimed that mentioning the gangs was a ‘dog whistle’.

Today the Assisted Suicide Bill returned to the House of Commons. Amid its many flaws and complications, perhaps most important is that it marks a landmark change in the state’s attitude to the sick, the weak and the vulnerable.  Leading the charge for the Bill are many wealthy, privileged liberals in the Esther Rantzen mould who, as they reach the end of lifetimes of total autonomy, cannot countenance the idea that the all-too-human world of pain, inconvenience and constraint might apply to them.  The assisted suicide debate has only highlighted Farron’s distance from this thought-world This is a problem for one party in particular. Many Liberal Democrats in parliament and elsewhere view themselves as the true champions of the needy or overlooked.

Rachel Reeves looked a little surprised at the cheers from the Labour benches that greeted her as she stood to give the Commons details of the spending review. As well she might: there can’t be many places where her presence is met with such enthusiasm; the National Reserve of Mauritius perhaps? Or Reform HQ? I’m sure her continued presence in No. 11 raises some smiles there. ‘My driving purpose since I became chancellor has been to make working people in all parts of our country better off’, began Reeves. It was interesting to learn that she has a ‘driving purpose’. I had assumed that she just existed – like nitrogen or lichen – without any definite end goal.

I’m not totally sure where they keep Ed Miliband in between his Commons appearances. Perhaps some sort of deep freeze for the terminally media-unsavvy, in between Lammy and Lucy Powell. True, he is allowed to do the odd cringe-inducing publicity video, like the time he filmed his atonal strumming of a ukulele in front of a wind turbine. Presumably Sir Keir releases him from the grip of his iron trotters for these occasional acts of self-humiliation pour encourager les autres.  Yet here he was today in parliament – an increasingly rare example of a cabinet minister actually coming to the Commons to announce a major policy.

Rachel Reeves was visiting a gardening club for the retired. ‘Do you come here every week?’ she simpered at some pensioners. No, but plenty of people wish you did. The Chancellor of the Exchequer was here to announce a U-turn on winter fuel allowance and so chose this almost comically soft-ball context to do so. It was frankly miraculous that nobody mistook her for a badly-pruned conifer and tried to bed her in. Elsewhere, a man who gave off the aura that he really could bury you under a patio was giving a speech at Port Talbot. Nigel Farage was still all grins as he described the Chancellor’s humiliating climb-down, but there was a hint that, as the Psalmist puts it, some iron had entered into his soul. This was no more Mr Nice Nige.

It has taken Sir Keir Starmer just under 11 months to enter his Brezhnev era. Portly, autocratic and reliant on past glories, the Prime Minister began today's PMQs by reading a list that would make Borat proud of the infrastructural benevolences to make benefit glorious region of Red Wall. In Sir Keir’s world, there is no decay or decline: the economy is booming, pensioners and children are well cared for and the streets are safe. Notable by her absence was the Deputy Prime Minister: those windows of Downing Street won’t measure themselves The praesidium – sorry, Front Bench – lapped this up. Or those who turned up did.