More than anything the chamber evokes memories of a school - an eccentric
superannuated school whose ageing members have never quite been able to leave.
As they stroll in through the swing-doors from the lobby, bowing gracely to the
Speaker, standing chatting to the sergeant-at-arms, then lolling on the benches
with their legs intertwined, they seem to have kept intact the mannerisms of
school prefects who have been given their own studies. As they bob up at the end
of a speech to catch the Speaker's eye, as if to say 'please, sir'; as they bay
and wave order-papers, shout 'shame' or 'hear, hear', it is hard to remember
that a few years ago - or even that same morning - these people were
accountants, company directors or even trade unionists, working in ordinary
offices outside in the city. The old-young faces and expressions of the most
pompous of them seem uncannily reminiscent of those school bores whom everyone
once teased (Isn't that - it can't be - yes it is - it's old Smuggins!) On its
dullest days the House sounds like a federation of bores who, having been
ignored and blackballed by the world outside, have finally found their resting
place in a club which has a tacit bargin: if I listen to you, you must listen to
me.
Talk is their business, and how they talk ! They talk apparently to no one.
They address this house, or the right honourable member, or Mr.Speaker,Sir; but
Mr.Speaker is chatting to a passing member, the right honourable member left
half an hour ago, and this house has just realised it's time for a drink and is
emptying quickly through the swing-doors. But never mind, the words still roll
out.
The words roll on through the long afternoon - forty thousand of them perhaps
in a day, enough for two long plays. The Speaker sits under his capony, while
his name is taken in vain, looking at his papers, his long wig flapping like the
ears of an elderly bloodhound.
Meanwhile on the government bench, chatting or reclining with their feet up
on the table, can sometimes be seen the men to whom the talk is really addressed
- the heads of the departments of state, who alone can change policy. The
visitor soon becomes aware that there is not only a wide gap between himself and
the members: there is a gap almost as wide between the ordinary members and the
government. Every afternoon, except Fridays, from 2.30 to 3.30 a few of the
ministers answer questions. Is the right honourable member aware that? Is he
further aware? Does he realise? Does he not comprehend? Will he say what action
is being taken? Will he make a statement? Is he satisfied? Yes, says the
minister, reading his civil servant's answers from his folder; he is aware, he
does realise, he has taken action, assessed the figures, borne in mind the
consequences, balanced the forces. The honourable member will appreciate, this
house will be kept fully informed. Her Majesty's government is deeply
concerned.
The member has done his bit. His questions and answers will be reported back
to his constituents. But does the minister really comprehend, will he really
take action? Can one man, the connection between the elected representatives and
their government, be relied on to translate words into action? Can one man, who
was only recently an ordinary member of parliament, know and care so much about
such a vast range of questions? And can all that hot air be transformed, as if
in a steam engine, into pistons and levels which actually turn wheels?
A.Sampson. The New Anatony of Britain.
