I cried on national TV just like Rachel Reeves. You never live it down

Telegraph

4 hours ago

The images, video and questions will follow her for the rest of her life. That tear that trickled down the side of her face, the puffy eyes, her hunched back, the tongue rolling around her mouth, the quivering attempt at a smile. The weeping coming as Sir Keir Starmer wittered on about 'promises made and promises delivered'.
And it's a measure of the power of Rachel Reeves that as she wept the markets shook. Why the Chancellor of the Exchequer cried in the House of Commons this week, we don't yet know.
What we do know is that she will be haunted by the incident until her obituaries and then far beyond. Perhaps she herself will one day reveal the reason, the advance for her autobiography being dependent upon it.
But the reason will be immaterial, as the incident itself transcends any explanation. And because politics is a harsh and bitter game, the cynics can have a field day. Her tears may splash down onto the green leather benches, staining them like a ghostly reminder, perhaps, of the drama played out in that historic chamber.
But think of the tears of those in hospitality who have lost their businesses because of her policies; the weeping of parents whose private schools have closed because of her slamming VAT on fees; or of the retailers and charities who are bereft of funds because she has driven out the rich with her policies on non-doms.
How does her quiet snivelling compare with the weeping and wailing of thousands? Except, of course, her tears were deeply personal. She was obviously in a teary mood but risked it anyway, making the decision that not being in the chamber would have set tongues wagging. Perhaps she thought she could hold it together. And perhaps she thought it was about time she had some public sympathy as she struggled with the wretched job. So, in she tramped to her position, taking the view – as the song goes – that 'it's my party and I'll cry if I want to'.
Cry she did, and the repercussions of that are far greater than the questions might have been about her whereabouts otherwise. Because no outsider can ever fully understand your tears, and sometimes you can't even explain it yourself. But your weeping will sure as hell give everyone else the chance to weigh in on it. And I know, because I've cried on telly.
I was on MasterChef, a show that I've appeared on for more than two decades. And I wasn't crying because a dish was so terrible, or indeed so good. I wept because I was cooking. I was a contestant on Battle of the Critics, a Christmas special in 2023. And I remember the moment like it was yesterday.
I had just finished cooking my dish of rabbit in a mustard sauce with green beans and a potato fondant. Weeks of practice, months of anticipation, came to this moment. And as I presented my dish on my bench, ready to take it through to the judges' room, I thought of someone close to me on whom I had practised the dish and who had just recovered from a near-fatal illness. I felt a dash of pride and up I welled.
'You all right, mate?' asked Gregg Wallace. And I pulled myself together. But there it was, months later, on the telly. And social media jumped on me: 'Savage critic shows he's just a pathetic ball of jelly' et al, ad infinitum. Friends mocked me, close family jeered: 'You cried on TV!' Then everyone went about pretending to burst into tears when I entered a room, which meant my sublime rabbit dish was forgotten. All that was left was me and my pathetic sobbing.
I used to have one private rule about appearing on television: don't be drunk. Now I've added: don't cry. And politicians and everyone else should strictly follow both of those rules.