Back when politics was bad enough that political satire was hard, but not so bleak that it was impossible to laugh at, The Thick of It brought us the “quiet batpeople”. The phrase was concocted during a painful meeting between a group of politicians completely out of ideas, lacking a mission, ambition or really anything. This shower of mediocrities was trying to find the language to appeal to and describe its ideal voters: the ones who hadn’t decided, didn’t really know, weren’t ideological; the voters beloved of Westminster “realists”, who weren’t noisy and didn’t make trouble, but were everyday superheroes. They couldn’t all be Batman, so there they were: the quiet batpeople.
It is nothing new to witness politicians run out of road, live on air, while plugging some dog-awful idea that would be laughed out of a mock election at a secondary school. It’s only 23 short, heady years since Tony Blair wanted the police to punish hooligans by marching them to a cashpoint and demanding £100. Even back then, when the average rowdy was considerably more likely to have £100 than he or she would be now, it was risible. But ever since the batpeople idea was coined, I have been unable to stop myself imagining the meetings in which these schemes were born and then feeling ineffably sad – not for the state of the country, but for the poor people in the room.
