If only his parents could have foreseen it. Naming the future Labour leader and prime minister after Keir Hardie once seemed wonderfully auspicious. But they didn’t consider the rhyme. Scan across an extensively hostile media – established and social – and he is now “two-tier Keir”. Presiding over two-tier Britain. Trust me, unless there’s a radical shift very soon, it’s going to stick.
It started during the riots when legions of whatabouterists insisted racist thugs were being disproportionately harshly treated by the justice system.
Then it cranked into overdrive last week with the absolute certainty it was Huw Edwards’ position in the London media elite that meant he only received a suspended sentence for downloading child sex abuse images. This, of course, has nothing to do with the PM.
But now we’ve got the glasses, and party frocks, and Arsenal tickets, and Taylor Swift tickets, and a chief of staff earning more than the PM, while old folk go down to one bar on the coal-effect fire. (Yes, that’s a cliche, but we’re talking nursery rhymes here.) It’s tragically ironic for a man who, I believe, genuinely wants to make Britain more equal.
Last week, he made an attempt to rationalise against the accusations of hypocrisy. There are rational arguments to be voiced. But he’s mad if he thinks they’ll be heard.
What people are hearing is two-tier Keir. Whether that’s fair is irrelevant. (I’m sure Mary, Mary wasn’t always contrary.) Anyone bullied at school knows the power of rhyme. (This comes from someone whose children bear the surname Tucker.) At a time of extraordinary complexity for our economy, geopolitics and fraying society, it is almost comforting for a beleaguered public to channel anxiety and rage into a childish chant.
Lacklustre moves
The new season of Strictly Come Dancing is becoming an excruciating watch.
As this year’s crop of “celebrities” (I use that word in its widest sense) were matched with the professional dancers, it became a family game of “who’s going to be screamed/ sworn/spat at or kicked first?” Still, it’s a change from the old Strictly game of “Who’ll be shagging first?”.
Last night, we saw them training in various dance studios. (Or dungeons? Who knows?) After bullying allegations involving dancers Giovanni Pernice and Graziano Di Prima, the BBC has installed chaperones.
And yet knowing what was happening previously, it now feels less like watching a troupe of D-listers on the road to Blackpool, and more like a trailer of calves on the road to the abattoir.
The gloss has come off Strictly – and not even Claudia Winkleman’s hair products can put it back.
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Plastic fantastic
The world divides neatly into two types of person. Those who believe Tupperware is a gift for neatly stacking the fridge with leftover lasagne and last night’s curry “just in case”. Then there are those who see it as a curse, spawning in cupboards, spilling out across the kitchen if you so much as brush past the door, and cluttering up the fridge until the contents turn radioactive.
But most of our plastic containers have long since ceased to be of the Tupperware brand, replaced by cheaper alternatives. Tupperware parties are remembered only by those who recall avocado bathrooms and Arctic Rolls. And so Tupperware, last week, filed for bankruptcy. It may soon be gone but the name will live on. Probably as long as that curry at the back of my fridge.
Alison Phillips is a former Mirror editor-in-chief
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