As from the Manchester conference hall I watched Theresa May’s big moment falling apart, as I buried my head in my hands while her agonies multiplied, I suppose I thought this could spell the end for her premiership. But even as I thought that, then reminded myself that the same failure of the larynx has afflicted me in front of a big audience and could strike anyone and is in itself meaningless, I knew such an outcome would be unjust. There may be reasons why the Tories should find a new leader, but the triple-whammy of a frog in the throat, some joker’s idiotic stunt, and the failure of two magnetic letters to stick to a board, can hardly count among them.
And of course within minutes of her sitting down my smartphone started trilling and my inbox pinging with invitations to ‘comment’ on the unhappy hour. Could she survive? Should she go? Should (for heaven’s sake) the party chairman resign?
Every journalist and commentator in the hall will have had the same requests.
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