On Thursday afternoon, Kwasi Kwarteng told reporters in New York he wasn’t going anywhere. As an expression of physical intent it turned out to be well wide of the mark. The chancellor was back in the UK a day early on Friday morning. But as a statement of existential despair it was spot on. Kamikwasi is going nowhere.
His political career is finished. His credibility trashed. Destined to become a pub quiz question as the shortest-serving chancellor who didn’t die in office. Still, at least he got a lot done in his 38 days. Forced the Bank of England into a £65bn bailout of pension funds. And increased everyone’s mortgages. Nice work if you can get it.
After landing at Heathrow, Kwarteng took his last ride in a ministerial Range Rover back to Downing Street for Liz Truss to administer the last rites. The prime minister having apparently switched sides to the “anti-growth coalition” and decided to sack her pro-growth chancellor. It turns out there are limits to how unpopular Librium Liz is prepared to be. She hasn’t seen anything yet.
Their conversation must have been awkward. Not to mention surreal. “I’m going to have to sack you for doing all the things we agreed in the mini-budget: I just can’t tolerate that level of loyalty from my chancellor. Imagine if every minister did exactly what I wanted. What kind of state would the country be in? Surely you must have realised I was bat-shit crazy and not to be trusted. But anyway, I’m demanding of you a futile gesture. If you resign then suddenly my credibility will be restored. People will begin to realise I know exactly what I’m doing.”
The exchange of letters was equally bizarre. Kamikwasi’s letter was a model of restrained politeness. With an undercurrent of passive-aggression. Understandable in the circumstances. “Your success is the country’s success,” he wrote. Twisting the dagger. Shame about the financial markets and all that, but you live and learn. And people shouldn’t have bought houses they couldn’t afford. Kwarteng went on. No one could have predicted that things would get worse after 23 September. Just mad. Still no understanding that it was his budget that created the chaos.
Librium Liz’s reply was no more grounded in reality. She began by praising him. As if crashing the economy was a tremendous achievement. Then she wrote that she respected his decision to resign. Hang on. He didn’t have a choice. You just sacked him, so he could hardly have remained in office. It made it look as if she wasn’t sure exactly who had sacked who. Maybe it had been a conscious uncoupling. Gwynnie would have been proud.
Then came the press conference. If you can call something that lasted eight minutes that. Best to call it for what it was. A train wreck. Beyond awful. More like a short suicide note. One that radiated anxiety and insecurity. One that screamed Truss wasn’t up to the job. Never had been. Never would be. The Tory members had signed their own death warrant for the next election by making her leader. It had been obvious to everyone else she would be a disaster. And she hadn’t let us down.
Truss opened the train wreck with a brief statement. She sounded even more robotic and disconnected than usual. Out of touch with herself. Out of touch with her party. Out of touch with the country. It would have been kinder if her minders had put her out of her misery and pressed the off button. It was excruciating to watch. A postcard from the edge. A tacit admission she was incapable of being prime minister.
Librium Liz then regressed to her childhood. The grinding middle-class poverty of being brought up in a nice area of Leeds. Previous Tory governments of which she had been part had let the country down. She was still committed to growth. She would do everything all over again in a heartbeat if given the chance.
Her one fault had been to try to do everything too quickly. So she was going to do yet another U-turn on her budget and increase corporation tax after all. And hopefully that would do. But if the markets were still unimpressed then she still had some other unfunded tax cuts she could reverse. And to prove she was serious, she had appointed Jeremy Hunt as the new chancellor. Quite what was in it for Hunt was less clear. His economics are not that much different to Kamikwasi’s so perhaps he’s just hoping to break his predecessor’s record for length of time in office. A race to the bottom.
It was all bonkers. Delusional. As if Truss still didn’t quite understand the seriousness of the situation. She also looked terrible. Washed out. There was a part of her that was terrified: a part she was struggling to suppress. She could barely even read out the names of the four journalists to whom she was prepared to grant a question. First up was the Telegraph. Usually a safe port in a storm. Not this time. Could she say why she should stay as prime minister and her chancellor should go? It was a joint project after all.
“I took decisive action,” she stumbled. Seemingly unaware that her decisive action had caused the chaos in the first place. Everything since had been reactive and defensive. Her voice petered out. Next she turned to Harry Cole of the Sun. But even her authorised biographer didn’t give her a break. Perhaps he’s already rewriting the final chapter. He too wanted to know why she wasn’t also resigning. There was a long pause before she mumbled nonsense about decisive action. Her artificial stupidity needed a reboot.
There were two final questions that went unanswered before Librium Liz dashed for the exit. Journalists left in the room were shell-shocked. Unable to process the shambles. It was the Trussterfuck of all Trussterfucks. There was literally no point to her premiership. All her leadership promises had unravelled. All that was left was to implement someone else’s plan. Anyone’s. She was a laughing stock. The Tories were a laughing stock. Give it a week or two and she would be gone. This press conference had merely been the Chronicle of a Death Foretold.