THE answer was pithy, precise. “He’s a knob,’’ a voter informed the Observer newspaper of his MP, Matt Hancock, the recently departed health secretary.

The newspaper was trying to divine the prospects of Mr Hancock being deselected from his West Suffolk constituency. The final verdict was Dalglishian, a sort of “mibbes aye, mibbes naw”.

The above quoted voter’s certainty of Mr Hancock’s personal qualities was thus not matched by a definitive prediction of the politician’s future. It was ever thus.

There has been of late a clamour over the seeming impossibility of a politician resigning over anything short of being found over Dr Black’s body in the library with a bloodied candlestick.

Ministers ignore a code set up precisely for them, cronyism (more accurately spelled corruption) abounds, and a series of errors that fuelled a deadly pandemic remain unpunished, even unexplored. Yet Hancock is the highest profile casualty – not for any of the above – but for setting a bad example on social distancing by snogging an adviser.

Hancock – a feckless and incompetent sort – thus ultimately proved the truth that in politics there is always a breaking point, though often not where people believe it should be. He could have been sacked for so much. He could have resigned for so much. But it was a camera that did for him, not principle on his part or that of the prime minister.

He was seen as part of a government that was brazen, even shameless. This did not dislodge him. Now he has gone. But for how long?

The importance of his possible deselection in West Suffolk is not only personal. It also testifies to the possibility of redemption in politics. If Hancock holds on to his seat, he retains a grasp on the possibility of a return to the Cabinet.

The trifling matter of a health secretary ignoring health guidelines will not be an obstacle.

Hancock has merely to retain the illusion that he could be useful to the government to prosper again. This is a political tradition. Banishment from the Cabinet has regularly been a temporary punishment.

The most conspicuous example of this truism is probably Lord Mandelson who was assailed by allegations of being far too close to Russian oligarchs, taking loans he should not, having lovely holidays with billionaires whose interests he might just have to rule on, and engaging in a passport application. All this unpleasantness led to a mass of controversy and two resignations.

But Mandelson always came back. His trick was not that he was indestructible or that it took a stake through his heart to disable him (though many of his adversaries were convinced of this theory). No, Mandelson was deemed useful so there was a welcome back into the fold after his indiscretions.

The same principle, of course, has applied to all political parties through the ages. Margaret Thatcher was not averse to consigning a minister to the ultimate abyss but she often held a candle for those who were forced out through public opinion. Cecil Parkinson, for example, resigned for being a cad, almost a hanging offence in the Tory Party of the early 20th century but a requirement for office by the end of it.

After what was regarded as a decent interval – if only by Thatcher – Parkinson was brought back, though to what purpose no one has properly explained.

It is another truism that the stresses and crises of a minister’s life reveal the true character of the individual. Mandelson sailed close to the wind and capsized at least twice. Parkinson was untrustworthy and selfish. Hancock believed himself above the rules.

Other ministers down the years have indulged in matters ranging from incompetence to borderline criminality and escaped largely unscathed after a period on the back benches. The honours list has been used, too, as a way of paying debts and rewarding support without any adverse effect on those drawing it up.

But the happy fate of redeemed ministers is not unknown in the wider world. The Mandelson Theory of Usefulness applies in a workplace near you.

Who of us has not known a boss who was sent to a back office for a time for a sackable offence only to be brought back when it suited the management?

These beneficiaries of the second, third or fourth chance have traits that make them attractive to those directly above them.

Mandelson, for example, was praised for his political cunning – strangely, a gift that did not apply to his own activities. Parkinson was prized for his smoothness, a trait that perhaps contributed to his original downfall.

And Hancock? If nothing else, he followed orders, did not become too upset by the contempt shown to him by the prime minister and did not step back from being ruthless. He was a survivor, until he wasn’t.

But if he can remain a Conservative MP he can come back again. There is never any shortage of opportunities for a politician such as Hancock. A premium can be placed on those attributes many of us regard as fallibilities.

However, his fate may rest on one certainty that might cause the redoubtable member for West Suffolk to lose some sleep.

At some point in the future there will be a Covid reckoning in the shape of a public inquiry or parliamentary commission. There has to be a scapegoat. Hancock may be kept around just to be thrown under the bus. This one will not have the lie of funds painted on the side. It will, though, carry the heavy load of more than 150,000 dead.

Our columns are platforms for writers to express their opinions.They do not necessarily represent the views of The Herald