Barney Frank, the man who turned congressional hearings into a spectator sport, has finally clocked off at the age of 86. The former Massachusetts congressman, who came out as gay in 1987 – a move that sent shockwaves through a chamber still reeling from the sight of a politician without a comb-over – has left us. And Britain, bless its crumpet-encrusted heart, has poured forth a tidal wave of tributes that reek of genuine affection and a fair bit of gin.
Frank was the kind of politician who made you believe that democracy might not be a complete waste of shoe leather. He was a liberal bulldog with a wit sharp enough to slice through the fog of bullshit that perpetually clings to the Capitol dome. When asked about his sexuality, he famously retorted, 'I’m not a stereotype, I’m a politician. And a politician who happens to be gay is still a politician – which is to say, slightly less trustworthy than a used car salesman.'
His death, confirmed by his husband Jim Ready, has prompted an outpouring of grief from across the pond. British MPs, who usually reserve their emotions for debates about the proper way to brew tea, have been falling over themselves to sing his praises. Lord Smith of Finsbury, the first openly gay British cabinet minister, issued a statement: 'Barney was a titan. He taught me that you can be both fierce and funny, and that a well-aimed insult can be more powerful than a poorly drafted bill.' Even the Queen, in a rare deviation from discussing corgis, is said to have muttered, 'That chap knew how to handle a committee.'
Frank’s legacy is not just in the Dodd-Frank Act, which he co-authored to curb the excesses of Wall Street – a law that financiers hate with the burning passion of a thousand suns. No, his true gift was his relentless skewering of the absurd. He once called the Tea Party 'the political equivalent of a toddler refusing to eat his broccoli.' When a Republican colleague complained about Frank’s rhetoric, he replied, 'If you want me to treat you with respect, try saying something that isn’t a direct insult to the intelligence of a turnip.'
The British press, never ones to let a good headline die, have revelled in his memory. The Guardian ran a piece titled 'Barney Frank: The Man Who Made Politics Bearable.' The Daily Mail, struggling to contain its admiration, offered a grudging 'He wasn’t all bad, you know.' Even the Sun weighed in with a front-page splash: 'Barmy Barney’s Best Burns: Top Ten Insults to Tories.' The fact that Frank never insulted a Tory in his life didn’t stop them – they simply made them up, because that’s what the British press does.
But let us not forget the man behind the bullhorn. Frank was a creature of Washington, a city where sincerity goes to die. Yet he possessed a kind of brutal honesty that made even his opponents chuckle. When asked about his famously stormy relationship with the press, he said, 'Look, if you’re going to cover politics, you’re basically writing about professional wrestlers who think they’re the good guys. I’m just the one who points out the chair is fake.'
His death marks the end of an era. An era when a politician could be both brilliant and brutally honest, when a gay man could stand at the centre of power and tell everyone to sod off. Britain, in its eccentric way, has claimed a small piece of him. Perhaps it’s the gin-soaked wit, or the utter refusal to suffer fools. Or maybe it’s because he reminded us that politics, at its best, is a form of theatre – and Barney Frank knew how to bring the house down.
So raise a glass, you lovely British bastards. To Barney. May his insults never be forgotten, and may his spirit haunt every dull speech in Parliament from now until the last crumpet goes stale. Cheers, you magnificent bastard. You’ll be missed.
