In 2020, Westminster isn’t short of a villain or six. Obviously, there’s Dominic Cummings – the Pied Piper of weirdos and misfits – shuffling up Downing Street, grey trackies billowing in the wind, twitching like a student fuelled by two cans of Monster Energy. The etiolated Victorian dandy Jacob Rees-Mogg has been lying low for while, but he has a sort of ghoulish, Turn-of-the-Screw vibe that really stays with you. Meanwhile Dominic Raab’s eyes glint with psychopathy, and Gavin Williamson will unleash his pet tarantula Cronus on anyone who whispers the word “Huawei”.
Small fry, the lot of them. SW1A’s scoundrel-in-chief is, quite clearly, Priti Patel. Allegations of bullying, departmental resignations, charges of incompetence – and that’s just last week – puts the Home Secretary out in front. Though what propels her into another league altogether is her smirk: that insolent, pantomime villain smile that can exasperate the most calm and practised of political commentators. In October, the BBC’s Andrew Marr finally snapped at her. “I can’t see why you’re laughing”, he exclaimed, as he read out a list of British industry groups who had raised concerns about a no-deal Brexit, and Patel appeared to sneer.
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Did she, though? The BBC later apologised, conceding that what Marr interpreted as a “laugh” was simply Patel’s “natural expression”. Resting Smirk Face? What a curse. For a smirk does a politician (or a person) zero favours. Inadvertently or otherwise, it semaphores smugness, superiority, aloofness. Should Patel own her story? Add “#restingsmirkface” to her Twitter bio, or make a YouTube video sending herself up? (Shudder.) Certainly, it’s such an obvious nonverbal signal, you do wonder why she doesn’t at least try to suppress it – if only on screen. At school, when you were accused of smirking in assembly, you’d rearrange your face into a mien of earnest concentration – perhaps nodding slowly – to indicate the depths of your sincerity. But this zealous Thatcherite will grant no such concessions: the lady’s not for turning down that smirk.
She’s not the first smirker to rise to a recent cabinet position, either. Former Foreign Secretary and erstwhile Tory leadership contestant Jeremy Hunt – look how well that worked out – was once commanded by veteran Labour firebrand Dennis Skinner in the Commons to “wipe that smirk off your face”. Zing. Still, Patel’s survived the most recent reshuffle – having been returned to the Cabinet from the wilderness after her 2017 sacking over unauthorised meetings with the Israeli government. Assuming that this week’s bullying scandal – do keep up – doesn’t see her off, then that smirk is sticking around.
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What does it say about our political culture that a smirk can go all the way to the top? The BBC issued its apology over the Marr-Patel altercation after viewers complained, so perhaps not everyone fears the pantomime villain. Still, sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, and smirking is the doldrums of smiling: strictly, it is a smile, but one absent of any warmth or good humour. It gets off on a technicality, but normal smiles aren’t insolent, taunting, infuriating. A smirk is a smile that went askew: familiar, but not familiar, slightly uncanny. We should know where we stand, but instead feel distrustful and uncertain – are we being teased? People who send the smirk emoji – that little yellow avatar’s mouth cocked just so, flashing a bit of side-eye – must always be filed away as Bad News. Especially if they’re trying to date you.
Do you know one? Does your office have a smirker? Must you regularly endure a Saturday pub lunch with a smirky friend-of-a-friend? Undeniably, surviving an encounter with a smirker is a game of wills. It is easy to fight fire with ire, to go full Marr and snap. Stay strong and do not lose control – for that way, the smirker prevails. The more flustered you get, the more cocked that smile becomes, the more the smirker’s eyes dance with laughter. Be calm, collected. And smile.
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