Barney Frank is dead. The former US congressman, a titan of American liberalism and the first openly gay member of Congress to come out voluntarily, passed away at 86.
Whitehall is flying flags at half-mast. That is not a cliché. It is a measure of the man's peculiar status here. A domestic political figure, but one who reshaped the transatlantic alliance on social justice. Frank was a regular at Labour Party conferences. He drank in the Strangers' Bar. He understood the game.
His death leaves a hole in the firmament of the American left. But here, it sparks a more specific grief. Frank was a bridge. He helped drag the Labour Party, kicking and screaming, towards full-throated support for gay marriage. Blair's government did the legwork. But Frank provided the intellectual heft, the political cover. He showed them it could be done without electoral wipeout.
Downing Street sources are subdued. One veteran advisor put it bluntly: "Barney knew our politics better than we did. He saw the traps. He told us where to kick."
The backbench tributes are pouring in. Labour MPs are calling him an honorary Brit. They mean it. The speaker is expected to lead a minute's silence. That is rare for a foreign politician.
But let's be clear-eyed. Frank was not a saint. He was a brawler. He took no prisoners. His wit was a weapon. His temper was legendary. The 2008 financial crisis? He helped craft the response. He was a creature of Washington's bear pit. But he loved this place. He loved the gossip, the intrigue, the sheer, bloody relentlessness of Westminster.
So, what now? The funeral will be a state occasion in the US. Expect a senior British delegation. Maybe a prince. But the real legacy will be felt in the quiet moments. In the Commons, when an MP references a piece of legislation Frank helped shape. In the bars, where his stories will be retold.
Barney Frank is gone. But he left his fingerprints all over British politics. That is a rare thing. A rare man. Rarer still, a Yank who genuinely got us.
