There is very little more irritating or uncomfortable than being in smart clothes on a rainy and sticky day in the city.
By the time the Rock Star and I squished through St. Steven’s gate at Westminster Palace, we were pretty much thoroughly saturated, much to the amusement of the policeman who were charged with searching our soggy bodies for weapons before ushering us in to the main lobby where we picked up our passes for The Stranger’s Gallery in the House of Commons.
Having not grown up in a house with C-Span, I can’t comment directly on the distinct differences in governmental style between The House of Commons and the House of Representatives, although I’m not entirely sure that anyone on the floor of Congress has used the word “hogwash” or “rhubarb” in earnest since the early 1950’s. This is not the case in the Commons.
The running of Parliament, while obviously very regimented, seemed very informal. Proceeding Question Time was a Q & A session with the Minister for Wales; not a particularly full or gripping session. As it wound down, MPs began to arrive, sneaking in unobtrusively, cramming themselves tightly onto their benches and loitering in the corners. (a strange House indeed that doesn’t actually boast enough room for every Member of Parliament) Even the Prime Minister snuck in 4 minutes previous to the session with no fanfare whatsoever, a complete lack of body guards and a large notebook with roughly 200 brightly colored tabs jutting out of it in every direction. George Bush can’t even go for a whiz without 6 guys watching his back, let alone address a session of Congress.
The actual Question Time that we sat in on was a fairly bloodless affair. No one got red in the face or severely heckled, except for the MP who suggested that MP’s for London shouldn’t be allowed to sit in Parliament since they’ve already got enough representation in the city, the suggestion of which was drowned out in a chorus of “Sit down, sir!”
Sitting in the gallery was amusing as you could look down on the benches, point and whisper. “There’s that guy who had an affair!” and “There’s that guy who was caught up in that cash for questions scandal!” or “There’s that bitter twisted old badger from Northern Ireland!”
After Question Time was over, roughly 80% of the ministers hightailed it out the side doors, sneaking away like naughty school boys. We did the same due to the frightfully boring nature of the upcoming debate on the gross over expenditure of the Who Cares budget, so we retired to the main lobby, where we sat for a fashionably long time until our MP arrived to take us to tea.
Our MP is a personable fellow one on one, as all good politicians are. He generously (although the Rock Star pointed out that, as taxpayers, we paid for it ourselves) took us to tea in the lovely Pugin Tearoom, which faced out upon the Thames. We engaged in some friendly chit chat about business and the day to day workings of Parliament. The Rock Star sounded intelligent and I dropped a blob of apricot jelly on myself. I despair of me sometimes.
After tea, we sat in briefly on a session of the House of Lords. After being lead up to the gallery through a narrow passageway, The Rock Star and I sat and watched the proceedings and had fun trying to spot the number of people who were obviously asleep. Final count: 4. And at least one of them was a dead ringer for Yoda. (or possibly just dead. He didn’t actually move while we were there.) It should frighten everyone in Britain that these people have anything to do with making laws. The chamber didn’t boast as many famous faces, but we did spot the Archbishop of Canterbury.
Leaving quietly through a panel in the wall (I was terrified I was going to push on the wrong one, causing a terrible creaking sound and rudely awakening the members of the chamber from their afternoon naps) after 20 minutes, we headed homewards satisfied that the country was still running. And snoring.
