Readers of this sketch will remember its recurring and heartfelt concern for the sanity of poor Tom Watson. First chronicling his deepening existential despair here, in subsequent months I went on to speculate it was only a matter of time before he would finally lose it and go the “full Bill Murray and turn up to PMQs stark bollock naked”, all in a desperate attempt to break this cycle of Groundhog Day-style self-immolations by the Labour Leader. Today was that day…
He’d almost made it as well, valiantly surviving most of Jeremy Corbyn’s rambling monologues by nodding his head slowly back and forth in scenes eerily reminiscent of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. That lasted right up until Mr. Corbyn finally took the plunge into complete self-parody and used his last question to spit at Theresa May that she needed to “INVEST IN OUR. ENN. AITCH. ESS!”, dementedly hammering his fist on the despatch box like a toddler to punctuate each syllable of “NHS”. At this point something broke in Mr. Watson, and he decided to do what any normal 50 year old politician would in such a situation and throw his arms maniacally in the air, performing an urban youth dance-craze known as a “dab”. Well, at least he didn’t go full Miley Cyrus and twerk on a dwarf in the chamber. Then again, Bercow may have been game…
In future weeks look out for the Deputy Leader of the Labour Party breaking into impromptu raps or street-dancing routines during PMQs, or heckling the opposition in Cantonese whilst expertly playing the piano (having spent years of repeated days tucked away in Norman Shaw North practising). Then, eventually, he’ll woo whoever the Labour Party equivalent of Andie MacDowell is (De Piero, perhaps?) and wake up in a new day with a new leader. At least that’s how it works in the film.
But who could blame Tom Watson for losing it? Jeremy Corbyn has spent a year and a half rehashing the same demand in a thousand different formats till eventually everyone is so exhausted with it they begin to question the very nature of time itself. “NHS, Beds, Social Care, CRISIS, Cuts, Funding, NURSES!!! Our NHS! MORE FUNDING!”. At a certain point the words lose all meaning and one naturally finds oneself contemplating just which dance move to trot out to break the monotony. This reached its nadir today when Mr. Corbyn couldn’t even be bothered to formulate a new question, instead asking the exact same one from two weeks prior about just “when will the other 151 social services departments in England get the same as the Surrey deal?”
Bemused, the PM shot back that “if he doesn’t like the answer he gets he can’t just keep asking the same question if I’ve answered it previously”. Well that’s where you’re wrong, Theresa. Jeremy Corbyn is playing from a fundamentally different playbook: it’s little and it’s red. In true Communist fashion he is waging a war of attrition against the PM, relentlessly hammering her on the same subject every week in the hope that eventually she’ll simply give up out of exhaustion, or come a cropper fighting on another European front. Meanwhile his own front-bench fatalities matter little as he replenishes the ranks with an endless supply of brain-dead young ideologues eager to sacrifice themselves on the altar of his discredited 20th century worldview. Don’t do Marxism kids, it’s one hell of a drug.
Watson now driven insane and Corbyn spent, Angus Robertson rose to talk about the Istanbul Convention, (I am not certain but think this is the unspoken dictum that you never reheat a kebab after a night out). As he finished talking Michael Fallon leaned back and looked up to the heavens, giving out a long sigh: you know it’s come to something when you’re so dreary a man with only one tie finds you yawn-inducing. Caroline Flint then got up to talk about the problem of “some 2.5 million children” growing up in an alcoholic household, before mentioning she did too. Then again, they did have to put up with Caroline Flint so it’s understandable. To be fair they’re probably in an AA meeting at the minute speaking movingly about their struggles raising a Labour MP. Enterprise-backing capitalist firebrand Caroline Lucas chipped in with a whinge about business rates devastating the local economy in Brighton. A grave trend indeed, with vegan friendly gay bars and artisan tofu breweries are said to be particularly affected.
Finally Sutton MP Paul Scully got up to celebrate his team’s “spirited performance” in the Cup, going on to “congratulate Arsenal for their absolute generosity in letting Sutton keep a little extra slice of the FA Cup Pie”, hinting at snacking Sutton goalkeeper Wayne Shaw. “A neat reference to pie if I may say so to my honourable friend!” eagerly responded the PM in her best impression yet of a character out of the Big Bang Theory. In fact the only way she could have been more Sheldon-esque would be to have exclaimed: “Ah, yes! Pi! 3.141592 I do believe!”. Banter thoroughly killed there then, but not one to be outdone at this point notorious cuckold and somehow still-Speaker John Bercow chipped in to exclaim that “I think it’s fair to say that in dealing with the matter the Prime Minister has deployed a very straight bat”. The House groaned and Tom Watson started furiously dabbing.