Prime Ministers on holidays

Prime Ministers on holidays

Many years ago the Labour MP Margaret Beckett proudly declared a passion for caravanning holidays during the summer. She loved the life of the great outdoor caravan holiday when all you had to do is park up in the greenest of English fields, unfold a chair that looked like the type fishermen or women use for just sitting in the mid-day English sun and just relax, taking your leisure, breathing the invigorating country air. 

But Margaret Beckett was the exception to the rule because most Prime Ministers preferred to live the life of luxury, escaping to some exotic bolt hole where nobody could find them. Boris Johnson probably got as far away as he possibly could from the hectic, toxic and poisonous conversations that must have burnt his ears at home. Johnson, presumably, went to one of the many Caribbean islands where the sweet fragrance of the hibiscus and jasmine would drift across his nose like the most heavenly perfume. 

And yet our new Prime Minister Andy Burnham is now on his holiday and you'd been forgiven for thinking that he might have committed some evil, heinous crime. How dare a new Prime Minister pack his suitcase and just go on holiday? What must he be doing? Has Burnham really deserted his country and just left Larry the Cat on his own with nothing to do but wander around Downing Street with nowhere to go.

There are times when it really seems as if politicians are determined to wind us up because there's serious business to attend and Burnham said he was going to roll up his sleeves and change the fortunes of Britain almost immediately. The country is in a perilous state and in serious danger of collapse and total disintegration. At this rate we may have to call in emergency help from somewhere just to keep the country ticking over while more pressing concerns are addressed. Andy Burnham. Your country needs you.

During the last week or so, Burnham could be seen enhancing his profile as a man of the people. Burnham is unashamedly working class, totally without the airs or graces of some of his predecessors and this week there were none of those false pretences or affectations that we normally associate with some politicians. Burnham may be regretting the timing of his holiday but he still knows how to drink a pint in his local pub, happily knocking back a foaming pint of amber nectar, a lager to loosen the vocal chords.

He did so with a cheerful disregard, possibly self conscious because he privately knew that he should never have been anywhere near a local tavern. There's the cost of living crisis, schools in desperate need of repair and renovation, hospitals crumbling to the ground, lengthy NHS waiting lists, always chronic poverty in the inner city housing estates and horrendous hardship that never seems to go away. And that's just on a Monday morning. The Prime Minister should be reminded of priorities rather than holidays. 

It's all very well digging out the sun factor 30, lounging by a pool in the Greek islands and diving into a hotel pool whenever the mood takes you. This is not the time though for sipping luxurious pina coladas or topping up the tan. And that San Miguel can wait because there's more to life rather than jolly enjoyment and indulging in karaoke sessions in the bar. Maybe Burnham should have thought twice about flying off to distant shores where the sun shines down with a glorious radiance.

But Andy Burnham is now unavailable for comment and should be left in peace. There is of course, as we probably know by now, a blokeish image to cultivate, a man who listens attentively to the British public, empathising with their every day problems, their uncomfortable predicaments, the harsh realities of life such as paying the bills, feeding their families or just living life to the full. But Burnham knows what he's doing because that daunting job description has made it abundantly clear. 

By the time Burnham gets back to the House of Commons in early September, a hushed silence will descend over Westminster because the anxiety and apprehension will be certainly be there. Too many times have we placed our trust in Prime Ministers only to discover that they're never quite the leaders of the country we thought they'd be. Or maybe there is an air of instability and impermanence about the PM's position that now seems like a common practice. It just feels like a part time job with no security.

Still, here we are at the beginning of August and Burnham's Everton are about to embark on a new Premier League football season. We may assume that he's already renewed his season ticket for the Hill Dickinson stadium. There could be a part of him that still romantically yearns for the days of wine and roses at the old Goodison Park but then Burnham is not one to dwell too long on the past. Today in the here and present Burnham will eventually re-connect with his people, building bridges, re- adjusting, tweaking, calming flustered heads and minds, reassuring with multiple charm offensives. 

Back in the old days, Harold Wilson, presumably ventured into the English countryside complete with camping equipment, a stove and a decent set of binoculars to admire the Cotswolds or the Lake District. Edward Heath loved nothing better than messing about yachts and sailing away blissfully into the distance, possibly a villa in the South of France but then you could hardly blame him. Margaret Thatcher struck you as another homebody, keeping her feet firmly on the ground, a woman with staycation tendencies rather than some Italian country estate with hanging baskets of bougainvillea and wisteria winding around pretty pleasure gardens. 

And so it is that we wish Andy Burnham on his foreign excursions because, at the moment, the natives are restless and upset. They really can't see how a recently appointed and unelected Prime Minister should even think about putting up his feet, dipping into some lyrical novel and then just chilling out. But we all need a holiday if only to recharge our batteries, take time out from impossibly busy schedules and just soak up the hot sunshine. Madonna might have had a valid point. But there can be nothing wrong with two weeks in Southend, Brighton, Bournemouth, Blackpool, Skegness or Scarborough because they always take us back to our childhood. And they'll always be remembered.