A class of his own
Last updated 09:05, Saturday, 01 November 2008
He knows and admits the flaws that make him objectionable. Chips on his shoulder – boulders, Stonehenge! John Prescott carries many weighty burdens.
All kinds of things add to his stack of insecurities and disappointments. He came from a semi, failed his 11-plus, was a “waiter on a ship” serving people with money, a trade unionist who was sacked from just about every job he had. He can’t forgive Nature, God or the world for not making him richer, better, cleverer, nicer... more upper class. So, he grumbles a lot.
All of that makes him a more fascinating chap than he’s given credit for. Not necessarily likeable, certainly not easy, more like Les Dawson than Les Dawson, to tell the truth... but fascinating.
Prescott: The Class System And Me (BBC2) peeled off one or two layers of defensive covering to reveal a little of the rawness of his continuing disgruntlement with life – or rather with those he suspects of having a cushier life than his own.
He lectured public schoolboys at Henley Regatta about their undeserved privileges; he railed against Lord Onslow for being well-heeled and titled; he grouched and grunted about his misunderstood values as a socialist – all of which made him hilarious, and rather sad.
He could address thousands at a TUC or Party conference without breaking a sweat, he insisted. But he still couldn’t walk into a restaurant on his own, preferring to send wife Pauline in first to find a table.
And as for the Blairs – well, no love lost there then. They’d added to his hang-ups by failing to invite Pauline and him to Chequers. A snub that had cut to the quick.
“We weren’t in their set,” he mumbled, with no hint of levity. “Well, we weren’t in her set, anyway.”
“Well, you see they were London and we were in the north and...” Pauline tried to avoid closer scrutiny of bad blood, in the interests of not rocking too many personal and political boats. One got the impression, she’d done a lot of that over the years.
But later, when asked by a South London teenager if he’d liked Blair, he told her the former PM had been a very talented man.
“Did you like his wife?”
“No.”
It’s an oddly uncomfortable feeling, watching a man who became deputy prime minister, bemoan his 11-plus failure as though that single event had blighted his life and thwarted all his ambitions. Even long-suffering Pauline conceded that much – and she’ll have had to cope with the black moods more than most.
“I was the one from the wrong side of the tracks,” she said, as though it were a competition. “You lived in a semi. I was from a terrace house.”
And as they playfully messed around on their own croquet lawn, behind their own enormous home, only she looked pleased with their achievements.
John Prescott’s obvious scarring by what he perceives as a loaded, unfair class system which denied him his due – a wounding he presents as something resembling envy – has made him a national caricature and a bloke viewed as anything but kindly. But his engagement with young, unemployed girls, who had to teach him the meaning of Chav, was spectacularly endearing, touching and extremely positive.
Complex man. Part two on Monday. Can’t wait.
