Before PMQs the BBC’s deputy political editor, James Landale, set out two choices for Ed Miliband. First, Ed could attack from the high ground, wrestling the PM statesman-to-statesman, armed not with partisan putdowns but with the righteous anger of the people.
And it would not just be the people of Tufnell Park this week; oh no Mr Cameron. Today the leader of the Labour party would make it personal for all of the people who buy Britain’s newspapers in a shop (at least a dozen) and all of the people who half-read them for free on the internet (about 12 million).
Or, James suggested, Ed Miliband could attack from below. I licked my lips. Forget worthy sentiments about the illegality of phone hacking, the plight of victims, the obstruction of justice – that’s for wimps. He should be political. A real leader of the opposition would step up to the dispatch box, toe caps winking under Commons lights, and with the lusty war cry of an angry Harriet ringing in his ears he’d arc back a long, left leg and kick the prime minister straight in his Coulson.
Nobody knew what would happen – and before the Landale Theorem of Binary Choices could be put to the test, Ronnie Campbell was on his feet. Mr Campbell and his question were confusing and magnificent. The preamble was extraordinary – touching in its tribute to the armed forces (in which his son serves) before swerving off suddenly into a knotty rhetorical thicket full of prickles and Grecian discontent. Some in the House held their breath and wondered if the question would ever end. Others wondered what the question might mean. Snotty linguists said that it wasn’t really a question at all. But we Campbell admirers who watch the Commons week in, week out already knew what Ronnie was talking about. It was about bailouts, and Greeks. But most of all, like always, it was about sacking bloody spivs. When an enterprising technician eventually builds the Ronnie Campbell Parliamentary Question Generator Alarm Clock Radio, I’m going to order a job lot from Argos. The Commons needs more like him.
With Ronnie back in his seat, Ed Miliband began by speaking for the people, in words they’d use themselves and with a tone they wouldn’t hate. This sorcery worked; within seconds he’d winkled out a phone-hacking inquiry from a tired looking prime minister. Somewhere nearby, aides were dispatched to fan the giant, sweating brow of Tom Watson. Today will surely rank as the best day of Tom’s life; better than when he was named backbencher of the year. Better than when he got married. Better than when his child was born. And nearly on a par with that day when Tony went.
Unflappable, Ed pressed on. Soberly, skilfully, he ripped up his own office’s missive that BSkyB and phone hacking should not be linked in public by Labour politicians. And then, for good measure, he called for Rebekah Brooks to resign. A Clause IV moment, as some excitably claimed? No – but it will reset relations between Labour and News International for the foreseeable future. Though given their current state we can’t be sure if anyone will notice.
Finally, Ed asked the Coulson question. The prime minister couldn‘t answer. Labour MPs went berserk. The Landale Theorem was disproved. And there, in the midst of it all, Harriet Harman was gently nodding her head; for years, she’s thought that the personal is political. Today, more than ever, she was right.
Tom Bage tweets @tombage