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- guardian.co.uk, Thursday 29 March 2001 09.28 BST
Tony Blair wants it to seem that his choice of date will be made exclusively to benefit the national weal, and will have nothing whatever to do with cutting and running before the recession gets worse and before every animal in the country, including cute pet kittens and frolicsome puppies, has been shot, oh dear me, definitely not.
So Mr Hague had to employ a kind of code. After dancing around the prime minister, so to speak, trying to imply that the rampaging plague was in some way Mr Blair's fault without actually accusing him of feeding poisonous leftover number 37 with pak choi and egg fried rice to the pigs of Northumberland, he reached the point.
"The prime minister has promised to strain every sinew," he said. The present crisis required the use of all military resources "and every ounce of the prime minister's care and attention". In other words, this is no time for such frivolities as an election. Actually, "strain every sinew" is one of those dead metaphors you only ever hear politicians use. Brought back to life by a linguistic Frankenstein, it sounds to modern ears more like a cookery recipe. "Plunge the sinews into boiling salted water and simmer for five minutes. Then drain, being careful to strain every one."
Mr Blair, of course, was having none of it. "We are doing everything we can to bring it under control," and he was wise to say that, since if he had appeared to give way on the election, almost the entire parliamentary Labour party would have called for his removal to the nearest abattoir. They really want that election, now.
But nobody mentioned it. The tension in the chamber was almost unbearable. Most MPs are ready to snap. If they don't know about the poll, one way or the other, within 24 hours, some of them will be found naked under Westminster bridge, painted bright green, and claiming to hear messages from giant talking pigs.
So there was a happy moment of relief half way through. Tim Loughton, the Tory MP for Worthing East, had a question on the order paper. Unfortunately for him, it came the day after he had described his leader as "a baldy with a funny accent".
The public loves politicians who tell the truth, but politicians hate it. So even though Mr Loughton had gone on to say, "in spite of these drawbacks, he is a miracle worker who could cure foot and mouth if he only had time to lay hands on five million sheep" (or words to that effect), he was in big trouble.
Labour MPs had passed the word around, and greeted his question with cheers and cries of "more, more!", before he even started.
Mr Loughton had a choice. He could grin winsomely, chuckle, and make some self-deprecating remark, such as "...speaking as someone with far too much hair and a stuck-up accent..." Or he could be pompous.
He chose pompous.
"While Labour members cheer..." he said magnificently, rather like Sir Peter Tapsell waiting for the Hansard reporters to get out their stone and chisels so as to immortalise his words.
The cheering redoubled. The Speaker called for order. Mr Loughton sat down. The cheering ebbed. Then he rose again, pomposity coursing in his veins like steroids through an Olympic athlete.
"While Labour members cheer..." he went on, before reminding us of the state of play in the countryside.
A Labour MP I know was sitting diagonally opposite the Tory leader, and reported that, ever so slightly, he blushed.
