Grumpy Oldie Man
What’s under Michael Fabricant’s wig? In his desperate defence of the PM, the MP is completely brainless matthew norman
It by no means comes naturally to devote this space to the celebration of anyone, let alone a member of the governing party. In the case of Michael Fabricant, however, decency demands that the bile be displaced by the hero worship this fine parliamentarian is revered for inspiring. For anyone trapped in ignorance, Mr Fabricant is the Hon Mem for Lichfield in the Conservative interest. Or so at least it seems, because a small caveat is indicated. Even now, decades into their partnership, it isn’t wholly clear whether it is Mr Fabricant or The Creature That Lives on His Head (henceforth, for brevity, TC) that rules this richly engaging hybrid. While it is Fabricant whose name appears on the ballot papers, one school of thought posits that he is merely the host for an alien life form. Other scholars insist that TC is no more than a wig, or a weave, or possibly a mop head that detached itself from its handle after a bucket-related hydrogenperoxide mishap, and in its death throes clung immovably to the Fabricant skull in the fashion of the John Hurt ‘facehugger’ in Alien. This question must await the autopsy (which may the Lord postpone for aeons). In the meanwhile, we accord Mr Fabricant the benefit of the doubt by accepting that, of the duo, it is he who qualifies, however narrowly, as the sentient being. If so, his eagerness to sport a device that makes him resemble Boris Johnson’s Dorian Gray portrait, as reflected by an unusually mischievous fairground mirror, is not the only emblem of his ungodly courage. His eagerness to defend his leader on the airwaves establishes Mr Fabricant as the bravest politician of the age. Of course, there are others who let 10 The Oldie May 2022
Yellow peril: Michael Fabricant
themselves be wheeled on to TV and radio to parrot whichever No 10 partyrelated line-to-take some 12-year-old genius in Downing Street has forced them to memorise. Some, such as Jacob Rees-Mogg, are even permitted to invent their own fantasies. Yet, with the arguable exception of Nadine Dorries (into whose public appearances we cannot go for fear of intruding on private grief), no one plays the role with Mr Fabricant’s distinction. Unlike almost all the other praetorians, he is not a minister. Ms Dorries and Mr Rees-Mogg degrade themselves in the knowledge that no other PM in history – past, present or future; anywhere on this or any other planet – would tolerate their presence at, or within a 700-yard radius of, the Cabinet table. Neither would have a hope of being appointed Under-Secretary of State for Roast Potatoes (Crispy Yet Fluffy Within) in the government of Camberwick Green. Mr Fabricant has no job to protect, even if sceptics assume that, pushing 72, he is looking towards serene retirement and that untaxed daily £323 ‘allowance’ for attending the House of Lords. Mr Fabricant may well be ennobled. He may demand that a tiny ermine robe also be fashioned for TC. Yet to impute
brazen self-interest to such a selfless public servant demeans not their target, but the cynics and sneerers themselves. When Mr Fabricant tells us that at no time did Johnson think he was breaking the law – that ‘he just thought like many teachers and nurses, who after a very long shift would tend to go back to the staff room and have a quiet drink’ – he speaks from the heart. At the time of writing, the PM is en route to New Delhi to meet Mr Modi, and this passage to India puts us in mind of E M Forster’s famous dictum ‘If I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I hope I should have the guts to betray my country.’ Passing over the fact that Johnson has no friends (and that if he did, Mr Fabricant would not be among them), his guts are magnificent. To have a Restoration Comedy surname hinting at mendacity, and still be willing to spout gloriously misguided drivel in defence of a man who wouldn’t void his bladder over his head were TC spontaneously to combust … sorry, allow me a moment. Self-sacrificial heroism on this epic scale tends to have me choking up. Those who believe that TC is a life form from a distant galaxy suspect that she (genital-free aliens favour ‘she’ for their pronoun) is a first cousin of ET. If this is correct, it seems certain that she will eventually phone home, and that one day her people will come to rescue her. In that event, they will gaze on the newly bald member for Lichfield, shiver in awe at the might of British democracy, and leave this corner of the cosmos in peace. Saving Boris Johnson is a noble ambition for any hero. No one would argue with that. But Michael Fabricant is a superhero – and, just like Iron Man, Black Widow and his other confrères from the Marvel Cinematic Universe, his true business is saving the Earth.
