The photograph captures Rishi Sunak at the zenith of his popularity during the pandemic. It was July 2020, and after months of punishing lockdown, Britain's then chancellor of the exchequer grinned as he carried two katsu curries to waiting diners at a restaurant in London. In that moment, he needed no name tag; everyone knew who "Rishi" was. It was the launch of his now-infamous Eat Out to Help Out program, a dramatic policy U-turn that encouraged a shell-shocked nation to dine out with state-subsidized meals, despite lingering fears of a resurgent virus.
At the time, Sunak's star was rising fast. Alongside the unprecedented furlough scheme, which paid firms to cover wages for staff unable to work during lockdown, the restaurant initiative catapulted him from relative obscurity to become the second-most recognized politician in Britain, trailing only then-Prime Minister Boris Johnson. Plucked from the backbenches by Johnson, "Dishy Rishi" was already being whispered as the natural successor to the Conservative leadership. The carefully cultivated image was one of a youthful, dynamic, and compassionate chancellor — a man who understood the struggles of ordinary people and was willing to spend billions to protect them from the economic ravages of the pandemic.
Behind the scenes, however, a far less flattering portrait of Sunak had begun to emerge within government circles as Covid-19 infections surged again later that year. Angela McLean, now the UK's chief scientific adviser, allegedly branded him "Dr. Death the chancellor." Matt Hancock, the former health secretary, privately accused Sunak of prioritizing the economy over public health and of playing politics by showing "ankle to the hard right." Senior scientific advisers claimed they were deliberately kept in the dark about the design of Eat Out to Help Out. Even Johnson, according to leaked WhatsApp messages and diary entries, referred to Sunak's Treasury as the "pro-death squad."
This cache of criticism is now set to be presented as evidence when Sunak testifies at the official Covid-19 inquiry, an all-day session designed to probe his judgment during a pivotal chapter in British history. The appearance comes at a precarious moment for the prime minister, who is already navigating a bitter civil war within his Conservative Party over his controversial plan to deport asylum-seekers to Rwanda. Yet while the schism among Tory MPs poses the most immediate threat to his political survival, the long-term danger may lie in how the inquiry reshapes public memory of his pandemic decisions.
The Rise and Fall of a Political Reputation
Sunak's political ascent was nothing short of meteoric. Appointed chancellor in February 2020, just weeks before the UK entered its first national lockdown, he quickly became the public face of the government's economic response to the crisis. The furlough scheme — officially known as the Coronavirus Job Retention Scheme — was widely praised for preventing mass unemployment. It paid up to 80% of wages for millions of workers who were temporarily laid off, a move that cost the Treasury tens of billions of pounds but earned Sunak deep gratitude from the public and business community alike.
His approval ratings soared. During the early months of the pandemic, he was consistently rated as one of the most trusted politicians in the country. The contrast with Johnson, who appeared sluggish and evasive during the first wave, could not have been starker. Sunak's slick use of social media, his polished video addresses, and his reassuring demeanor made him the acceptable face of a government that was often accused of chaos and indecision.
Eat Out to Help Out was launched in the summer of 2020 as part of a broader effort to reboot the hospitality industry, which had been battered by months of closures and social distancing restrictions. Under the scheme, diners could claim a 50% discount on food and soft drinks, up to £10 per person, on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays throughout August. The Treasury spent approximately £850 million ($1.1 billion) on the initiative, which was promoted through a massive advertising campaign, restaurant stickers, and a dedicated website that crashed under the weight of public demand.
For a few brief weeks, it seemed as though the country was returning to a semblance of normality. Images of people packing into pubs and restaurants, celebrating birthdays and reunions, filled newspapers and social media feeds. Sunak's name was everywhere — from meme accounts to serious political commentary. He was the chancellor who had saved the economy, or at least that was the narrative being constructed.
The Scientific Backlash
But as autumn arrived, so did the second wave of Covid-19. By October 2020, daily infection rates were climbing steeply, and hospitals in the north of England were beginning to fill up. Scientists and public health experts began to question whether Eat Out to Help Out had contributed to the resurgence. The timing was suspicious: the scheme ran immediately before the spike, and the venues it promoted — indoor restaurants, pubs, and cafes — were precisely the high-risk environments where the virus was known to spread.
The official inquiry has heard testimony from several senior scientists who claimed they were not consulted before the scheme was launched. Patrick Vallance, then the UK's chief scientific adviser, told the inquiry that "it's very difficult to see how it wouldn't have had an effect on transmission." He added that "that would have been the advice that was given, had we been asked beforehand." Jonathan Van-Tam, England's former deputy chief medical officer, said he learned about the program on television. "It didn't feel sensible to me," he remarked. Simon Ridley, then head of the government's Covid-19 task force, admitted to being "effectively completely blindsided" by the Treasury's decision.
The most damaging academic evidence came from Thiemo Fetzer, an economist at the University of Warwick, whose peer-reviewed study concluded that Eat Out to Help Out had a "significant causal impact" on the increase in Covid-19 cases. Fetzer's analysis suggested that areas with higher usage of the scheme saw notably larger spikes in infections during late August and September. While his findings have been debated within the broader scientific community — some researchers argue that correlation does not imply causation and that other factors, such as schools reopening and people returning to workplaces, played a role — the study has nonetheless given political ammunition to Sunak's opponents.
During his own testimony at the inquiry, Boris Johnson said he had not seen "conclusive" evidence that Eat Out to Help Out had spread Covid and that he did not consider it a "gamble" at the time. Yet even Johnson, a manifestly reluctant enforcer of lockdowns, appeared uncomfortable when pressed on the issue by Hugo Keith, the inquiry's lead counsel. The sessions have made for gripping television, exposing the chaotic decision-making processes that characterized the UK's initial response to the pandemic.
The Political Fallout
Sunak has consistently defended his record, arguing that he was focused on protecting livelihoods as well as lives. In his written submission to the inquiry, he emphasized that the furlough scheme had prevented an economic catastrophe and that Eat Out to Help Out was designed to support the hospitality industry while respecting the social distancing rules in place at the time. He has also pointed out that the program was voluntary and that individuals were free to make their own choices about whether to dine out.
But the inquiry's revelations have already taken a toll on his reputation. The transcript of his WhatsApp messages and diary entries, where he reportedly used intemperate language about mask-wearing and school closures, has undercut the carefully managed image of a calm and rational leader. In one message, he allegedly wrote that "people are dying in their own homes" while criticizing the government's decision to continue funding the NHS Test and Trace program. Such comments have been seized upon by opposition politicians, who argue that they reveal a deeper indifference to human suffering.
More broadly, the inquiry has reinforced the perception that the Johnson government was dysfunctional, secretive, and unprepared for the worst public health crisis in a century. The UK recorded more than 230,000 Covid-related deaths — one of the highest per-capita death tolls in the world. The country went through multiple lockdowns, a catastrophic testing fiasco, and a series of mixed messages from politicians who seemed unable to agree on basic facts. The years 2020 and 2021 will be remembered as a period of immense trauma and loss, and many voters are still seeking answers about who was responsible for the failures.
Sunak's trip to the witness stand is therefore not merely an exercise in historical accountability. It is also a political event with immediate consequences. The prime minister is trailing the opposition Labour Party by around 20 points in national polls, and an election is expected in 2024. Many Conservative MPs worry that Sunak's testimony will remind voters of the worst aspects of the Johnson era, which they had hoped to move beyond. Others fear that he will come across as evasive or defensive, further damaging his claim to be a leader who is honest and transparent.
A Party in Turmoil
Compounding these challenges is the internal Conservative civil war over Rwanda. Sunak has staked significant political capital on his plan to send asylum-seekers who arrive in the UK illegally on a one-way flight to Rwanda. The policy, which has been repeatedly blocked by the courts, is seen by many on the right as essential to deterring small-boat crossings across the English Channel. But moderate Tories and human rights organizations have condemned it as immoral and impractical.
The resignation of Home Secretary Suella Braverman and the subsequent appointment of James Cleverly have intensified these divisions. Hardline MPs within the party have threatened to stage a leadership challenge unless Sunak adopts an even more aggressive stance on immigration and border security. At the same time, centrist members and former ministers have warned that abandoning international obligations would be a catastrophic political error.
Against this backdrop, Sunak's testimony at the Covid inquiry could not come at a worse time. The spectacle of a sitting prime minister being grilled by lawyers for hours on end is never edifying, and the inevitable flood of headlines will reinforce the sense of chaos and drift that has characterized his premiership. Yet he may have little choice but to appear. Unlike his predecessor, he cannot claim to be too busy to attend; the inquiry's legal powers are extensive, and refusing to testify would be politically catastrophic.
The Broader Context
Historians will likely view the Covid inquiry as the most comprehensive examination of government decision-making since the Chilcot Report into the Iraq War. The evidence has already exposed shocking failures in procurement, testing, care homes, and pandemic preparedness. But it has also highlighted the profound tension between health and the economy — a dilemma that every government faced during the crisis, and one that continues to shape policy debates today.
Sunak's defenders argue that he faced an impossible choice: impose further lockdowns and risk economic collapse, or reopen society and accept a higher infection rate. They point out that the furlough scheme saved millions of jobs and that the UK's economic downturn was less severe than initially feared. They also note that other countries, including the United States and parts of Europe, faced similar surges after relaxing restrictions during the summer of 2020.
His critics, however, maintain that Sunak was reckless. They argue that he dismissed scientific advice when it conflicted with his political instincts, that he was too influenced by the anti-lockdown wing of his party, and that his enthusiasm for Eat Out to Help Out was driven more by public relations than public health. Some have even accused him of consciously courting the "hard right" within his own party in an effort to burnish his leadership credentials.
What remains undeniable is that the pandemic left deep scars on British society. Bereaved families who lost loved ones to Covid are still demanding justice. The bereaved-and-affected group Covid-19 Bereaved Families for Justice has been instrumental in pressuring the government to hold a full public inquiry, and it has promised to scrutinize Sunak's testimony closely. For them, the inquiry is not a political theater; it is a necessary step toward accountability and closure.
A Nation Watching
As Sunak prepares to take the stand, much of the country will be watching. The inquiry is being broadcast live on major news channels, and clips have been circulating widely on social media. The prime minister's legal team has reportedly coached him extensively, but live testimony is unpredictable. His answers will be dissected by political allies and adversaries alike, and every hesitation, every nuance, will be interpreted as a sign of guilt or innocence.
In the end, the inquiry will deliver its report, which may or may not name individuals for criticism. But the court of public opinion operates in real time, and Sunak's image is already being refashioned. Once the golden boy of the pandemic, he is now increasingly seen as a politician whose ambition outweighed his compassion. Whether that reputation can be repaired remains to be seen.
The prime minister has thus far declined to comment on the accusations leveled against him, saying only that his record will speak for itself. For a man who rose to power on the strength of his communication skills, silence is an unusual strategy. But perhaps he realizes that nothing he says will change the minds of those who have already made them up. The inquiry has presented a damning picture of the Johnson government's failures, and Sunak was a central figure in that government. His choices were his own, and now he must answer for them.
The evidence heard so far has painted a portrait of a leader who was often absent from critical meetings, dismissive of scientific advice, and obsessed with cutting regulations that might have slowed the economy. It is a portrait that sits uneasily alongside the cheerful optimism of the Eat Out to Help Out campaign. But contradictions are the stuff of politics, and Sunak's defense may be that he was simply doing his best in extraordinary circumstances.
Whatever the outcome, the inquiry has already accomplished one thing: it has forced the British public to revisit the darkest days of the pandemic, when daily death tolls were announced on television and the streets were empty. It has reminded them of the fragility of life and the importance of competent, honest leadership. And it has put Rishi Sunak, once known as "Dishy Rishi," in the unenviable position of having to explain why he earned the nickname "Dr. Death" from those who knew him best.
Source: Yahoo News News