Cometh the hour, cometh the golden boy. As the Chancellor of the Exchequer resumed his seat in the Commons shortly after 1.30pm yesterday, a great cry went up from the Government benches.
It was a deep, booming roar, loud enough to loosen window putty. They probably heard it all the way over in the Treasury.
Beside him, the Prime Minister beamed like a doggie handler whose prized pup had just won best in show.
The Prime Minister beamed like a doggie handler whose prized pup had just won best in show
Rishi Sunak, the 39-year-old wunderkind who was barely known outside Westminster until last month, had been sent out to bat for the Government a nobody. Sixty-five minutes, 128 pages and several hundred billion pounds worth of pledges later, he returned a star
The Chancellor’s debut Budget speech yesterday was a triumph, a corker, more preened and polished than a Guardsman’s toecap
Rishi Sunak, the 39-year-old wunderkind who was barely known outside Westminster until last month, had been sent out to bat for the Government a nobody.
Sixty-five minutes, 128 pages and several hundred billion pounds worth of pledges later, he returned a star.
The Chancellor’s debut Budget speech yesterday was a triumph, a corker, more preened and polished than a Guardsman’s toecap.
If this was Broadway, critics would be declaring him a nailed-on runaway smash.
He was given just 27 days to get his calculations in order for the biggest day on the fiscal calendar. Less time than a Kardashian sister takes to pack a suitcase. In the end he delivered it with the ease and charm of a maitre d’ reeling off the daily specials.
And to think he was a swag bag of nerves when he arrived in the chamber at midday.
No really, the man was a mess. His arms were flailing, his eyes more panicked than a fish on a river bank. But in those uncertain moments, his gaze veered upward to the gallery, searching. Then he found her: Smiling wife Akshata. After that, all anxiety seemed to melt away.
He opened up by laying out his financial proposals for dealing with coronavirus.
There were commitments to the NHS, to workers’ sick pay, to delaying business rates. I looked down for signs of dissent on Labour’s front bench. None were forthcoming. Instead, the House listened in respectful silence.
Deputy Speaker Eleanor Laing scarcely had to raise her voice all session.
The Chancellor’s delivery was excellent, his pitch and timing as solid as a metronome. As each page of his speech fluttered from the dispatch box, his confidence seemed to swell.
‘We’re getting it done!’ he yelled at regular intervals.
Then a joke. He declared that under the current Government, there had been a jobs miracle.
‘Given the last few weeks I’ve had, I’m all in favour of jobs miracles,’ he remarked, a reference to his recent promotion after Sajid Javid’s resignation.
Javid, sitting several rows back, managed a brave smile but in truth he looked distraught throughout. Sometimes he’d close his eyes as though hearing measures he’d no doubt helped craft was too much to bear.
Politics. It’s a cruel business.
The Chancellor’s delivery was excellent, his pitch and timing as solid as a metronome. As each page of his speech fluttered from the dispatch box, his confidence seemed to swell
Biggest cheer of the afternoon came, surprise surprise, when it was announced that an increase in beer duty would be scrapped.
There would be no increase either on spirits, a boon for the whisky industry.
Did the SNP celebrate? Did they heck. The sourpusses sat there in stony silence.
Labour, too, were a glum bunch. When the fuel duty freeze was revealed, Barry Gardiner (Brent N) shook his head ruefully.
Sir Keir Starmer, making a rare appearance, passed the time by examining the stitching on his shoes. Diane Abbott tapped away busily on her telephone. Checking her sums, perhaps?
There was a decent wisecrack when Sunak announced he would be scrapping VAT on digital publications, the so-called reading tax.
There was a decent wisecrack when Sunak announced he would be scrapping VAT on digital publications, the so-called reading tax
This would mean readers no longer have to pay tax on ‘historical fiction by Hilary Mantel, textbooks such as Grey’s Anatomy… and works of fantasy such as John McDonnell’s Economics For The Many’.
The House erupted into cackles. Even old man McDonnell chortled along merrily.
Once upon a time, this would have been an ideal moment for the Chancellor to have savoured a stiff drink. Chancellors always used to take a drink during the Budget.
Ken Clarke used to slurp a large Bell’s. But since Gordon Brown did away with the tradition, no one has dared bring it back. Shame.
We ended on the customary flou- rish, Sunak breaking into his best racing commentator’s crescendo. ‘Building roads. Building railways. Building colleges. Building houses…’
As he sat down, Boris gave him a mighty thwack on the shoulder blades. Up in the gods, Mrs Sunak burst into euphoric applause.
Jeremy Corbyn’s cameo part in proceedings is barely worth mentioning. With no advance copy of the speech, it’s never easy for a leader of the opposition to respond, but he really was feeble.
He bleated on about austerity and lack of support for public services, issues that he worked himself into a synthetic fury over in the past – but yesterday he didn’t even bother.
Beside him, his frontbench colleagues Nick Brown and Valerie Vaz laughed and joked with each other. Behind, Labour’s benches sat in near total silence.
Corbyn tried to inspire a bit of fury in his troops by bringing up the Chancellor’s previous career as an investment banker at Goldman Sachs, but by then all was lost. The day firmly belonged to Rishi Sunak.