Subtle

With characteristic piledriver political cunning, the dead-eyed warden of HM Prison UK has bestowed a Ruritanian rah-rah upon the doll-eyed woodentop John Redwood, one of many pathologically undistinguished figures whom the poisonous borborygmus of Brexit has eructated into noisy if undeserved national prominence.

Prior to present upheavals, the height of Redwood's career was his appointment as secretary for Wales under the equally forceful and charismatic John Major; his most noted achievement in that office was to rub in Westminster's customary contempt for the occupied territory by failing to learn the national anthem well enough to mouth the words at a party conference. A little later, he ran for the leadership of his party and had the privilege of being voted even less considerable than Major himself. Readers of a certain vintage may also recall Redwood's Elysian vision, expressed around the time Thatcher and her footpads were starting to plunder the country's utilities in earnest, of a People's Capitalism whereby every bathtub in Britain would have a dozen taps, each one connected to a different private water company whose unit price would be conveniently displayed with technology.

Like many on his side of the House, Redwood regards representation of the people as essentially a networking opportunity for his proper job; and as chief global strategist for an investment management company, he has very thriftily advised clients to steer well clear of Global Britain. Redwood's persona combines the chlorinated-chocolate monotone of a pantomime child molester and a pair of muddy soul-windows with all the expressive animation of month-old rabbit droppings; and for those reasons if for no other, the Prime Minister's admiration may well be sincere.