What The National Papers Say About David
Quentin Letts
Daily Mail, 19 December 2003
EARLY yesterday, a violent assault occurred in Westminster's Portcullis House. The Chancellor of the Exchequer, Gordon Brown, was bitten hard in the groin by an Opposition MP.
The attacker would not let go for several minutes. He may have left several front teeth embedded in the Chancellorial thigh.
Police were looking for David Ruffley (Con, Bury St Edmunds) - to congratulate the lad. For Mr Ruffley, our valiant attacker, claimed that unless Mr Brown relaxes his revenue-grab the average copper will be paying top-rate tax in two years.
The same will apply to NHS matrons, said Mr Ruffley. Ditto middle-ranking teachers. Top-rate tax. Forty per cent Freddies, all of them. Ouch.
Mr Brown was appearing at the Treasury Select committee to discuss his pre-Budget report. He and his officials sat at a long table, six pale blokes in dark suits.
Back to that Select Committee, and Mr Ruffley's horizontal lunge through the air at Mr Brown's soft parts. What a marvel Mr Ruffley is.
Wild-eyed. Incredible brave.
Mr Brown and his sidekick Ed Balls had been waffling for an hour, papering the room with statistics. We had heard at length about world trade growth, the output gap, tweakings of the national accounts and various appendices, footnotes and sub-pars in the multi-page, glossy pre-Budget brochure.
The committee's members tried to look intrigued. Then came Mr Ruffley's turn. Bang! It was as though a small, sharp-fanged canine had been shot out of a cannon in the direction of Mr Brown's vitals.
In went the gnashers, immediate and sharp. In a voice angular with contempt, Mr Ruffley asked hard, fast, loud questions about top-rate tax brackets, and about policemen, matrons and teachers.
Mr Brown grunted resentfully. Mr Ruffley shouted. John McFall, the committee's genial chairman, tried half-heartedly to intervene. Mr Ruffley simply ignored him.
Mr Brown, to his critic: 'Your case is collapsing.' Mr Ruffley: 'No it isn't. You're making it up as usual.' Mr McFall: 'Hold on! Hold on!' Mr Ruffley: 'How much does a sergeant get paid?' Mr Brown: 'Er.' Mr Ruffley: 'He doesn't know anything about public sector pay. Taxing them through the teeth!
Condemned by his own figures!' Now the two men were yelling at the same time, Mr Brown seething, Mr Ruffley holding on for dear life.
Marvellous stuff. Oyster-opening as a spectator sport. Give that Tory a medal and a new set of falsies. Oh, and Happy Christmas.