So, it is all change. Again. Just three weeks after the biggest gamble of his life back-fired, Cameron has lost his job and we have a woman back at the helm.
For feminists it should be a fist-pump sort of moment, but it feels like a hollow victory as numerous members of the country fear a drag back to the disenfranchised Maggie days.
As Theresa May prepares to take office, the fact that one of her first tasks as PM will be to write her Trident execution letter – an exercise that apparently made Blair turn white – brings home just how little we really know about the former Home Secretary. There have been heaps of reports on what she stands for based on previous votes, but what about when the chips are really down? Who is the lady behind the shoes? What are her flaws? That now become our foibles.
After a political month that has been as farcical as an episode of Fawlty Towers, people up and down the country are muttering into their corn flakes: “I could do a bleeding better job myself.” And do you know what, I bet some of them actually could.
But would you really want to be in her designer-clad heels at the moment?
Not me. In truth most of us would make terrible prime ministers. This is why I’m not throwing my hat in the ring (never mind the small matter of not actually being part of the political party, or an elected member of government). Here are a few reasons why:
- Despite an 8-year stint on a finance mag, I still don’t really know what the Bank of England does (except make announcements behind stable doors every now and again), I’d just have to nod in the right places when the new “Giddy” Osborne does his/her debriefs.
- I have the anger trait. I’ve made peace with that in my 40s. Dormant day-to-day, it rears its ugly head only when I get cut up on the road or after a few shandies and I’m surrounded by perceived slights. Just one state dinner and I’d have us all at war with Russia before you could say: “Eee, what’s the dirty look for Putin.”
- I’ll probably demolish that “special relationship” with the US within weeks. I have no filter on my brain and I know at some point I’d try to engage Hilary in a deep and meaningful about Monica. “Are you really okay with Billy?” *side head, sad face*
- I have a tendency to nod off as soon as the lights are dipped in a darkened room. So in important meetings, like say a G7 summit, I’d have to blag it all a bit. I’d end up arguing for an increase in the global average temperature because we all want better tans, yes?
- There would a female revolt as the third 50 Shades of Grey would never get made as I would be inviting Jamie Dornan to Downing Street receptions each week. The dress code would be a shirt and tie, but rolled sleeves so that he would have to display his brawny lower arms just so I could look at those pulsing veins…and their muscles… and that smile… good grief… (is it hot in here?)
- Sorry, what was I saying…
- One day I will also… no sorry… still can’t focus… probably another reason to keep me out of number 10.
- Poofed up hair is a minimum requirement of all British female PMs, yet my hair favours the “been in the rain” look.
- I’m not good in the morning. Even my own children get all the swear words (said in my head) if I see them before 6am and I adore them. Starting the day with a “What now Xi Jinping, for eff’s sake man!” wouldn’t bode well for further diplomatic relations.
- I’d never be able to wear my comfy yoga maternity joggers again in case the press took the piss (come on, we’ve all kept them!)
- I can’t hold my own water so after just one get-together with the Bilderberg group – I’d be breaking all the Chatham House Rules and dishing out the gossip to the Number 10 cleaners over a brew and a chocolate HobNob.
- Then there is the small matter of Boris, who I’d have to bitch flick in the head every time I saw him on the corridors of power and then I’d get repetitive strain injury and be unable to sign important documents like tax breaks and capital gains laws.
Perhaps, therefore, it is best for all if I swerve the prime ministerial call and focus on winning X-factor or something.
However, if there is a vacancy for the Duchess of Cambridge – that is another story. Opening hospitals and attending Pimms-sippy sports events whilst hanging out with Wills, Harry and that cheeky mate Thomas “Skippy” Inskip (who looks a right laugh), then I am your girl.
So for now, Theresa, daughter of Zaidee Mary and Hubert Brasier, your job is safe.
Maybe you’ll surprise us yet. One thing is for sure, you were right when you said last week after the Ken Clarke cock-up: “Politics could do with some ‘Bloody Difficult Women’ actually.”
I’m rolling with the punches on this on and hoping for the best.
Just stay off the prosecco Theresa and no gal pal talks with Hills and we should all be okay.