Unparliamentary papers and other diversions

by Reginald Berkeley

The successful Back Bencher should approach his work in the spirit of the Lower Third. Whilst he should not actually permit himself the relaxation of practical joking, and would perhaps be called to order if he shook a mouse out of his trouser leg, like “Pater” Winton in Kipling’s story, he has within reasonable limits of good humour, an ample licence to make sport. One well-known member of the House spends the greater part of his Parliamentary time twisting order papers into something between a spill and a spear, which he then ostentatiously throws upon the floor, as though he feared to encounter the temptation of continuing to hold them. Another is assiduous in the manufacture of paper darts, which as yet have never been thrown.

The experiences of other deliberative Assemblies have taught the House of Commons that Back Benchers are not to be trusted with inkwells. This is probably the reason why there is no provision for making notes, except upon one’s knee. But a lot of quiet fun can be had out of raising points of order that are not points of order, and by the judicious organisation of a hum of conversation to drown an opponent’s speech. Isolated interjections, if possible foreign to the subject of the Debate, and Supplementary Questions bearing no relation whatever to the original question, are also amongst the legitimate weapons of the Back Benchers. And finally, there is the great Parliamentary instrument, the use of which is almost entirely confined to Back Benchers, of moving the Adjournment of the House. Where some luckless Minister can be tripped up in answering a question, and it can be made to appear that the answer reveals a state of affairs definite, urgent and of public importance, the Speaker may be asked for leave to move the adjournment. If leave be granted, the motion is made, and, if supported by 40 members, is set down for discussion at 8.15 on the same evening, irrespective of what business has been allotted to that hour. This, in the hands of senior Back Benchers, can be turned to very effective account. Junior Back Benchers are well advised to master the use of the lesser Parliamentary weapons to begin with.

In all seriousness, there is a noticeable difference between Front and Back Benchers, noticeable whether you put Back Benchers on the front benches or Front Benchers on the back benches. Thus, in the last Parliament, Mr. Austen Chamberlain and Mr. Lloyd George, addressing the House from back bench corner seats, contrived to present the appearance of Gullivers amid Lilliputian surroundings—a phenomenon largely attributable to the Front Bench manner. Some members of the new Government (and one or two members of the last Government) who have not yet attained to Front Bench dimensions, present an equally astonishing contrast of the opposite kind. Their painfully unsuccessful efforts to command attention are a source of dismay to their friends and discomfort to their foes. The secret of successful Front Benchery is heavy thinking, and a heavier form of expression. His chief weapon is the polysyllable. A Back Bencher does best to study plain speech, the simpler the better. He may enliven his argument with jest and flippancy. He may controvert his opponent with a plain denial.

Woe to the leader who makes a joke. “Pas de plaisanteries, Madame,” observed a scandalised European monarch, to his jesting spouse: and that is a safe rule for Front Benchers in Debate. If a man is dull enough he can get almost anywhere, once he has reached the Front Bench; but ah, how difficult are the demands upon those behind him! The speeches which the House would fill to hear from the Front Bench, would, with equal certainty, denude it of all occupants, if delivered from behind. A Front Bench speech may run half an hour, three-quarters of an hour, and even, in the case of the leaders, an hour. No Back Bencher should speak for more than twenty minutes, and fifteen is better. The Front Bench speech should be sonorous, well documented, weighty, responsible—in fact, a pronouncement. The Back Bench speech should be pithy, strictly to the point, not too serious, and, above all, modest—in the nature of a tentative expression of opinion.

Fortunately Front Benchers are not always dull—though they do their best. And Back Benchers as a rule are far from modest.

For a consequence the proceedings often provide such a feast of good fun, that successive Chancellors of the Exchequer have only narrowly resisted the imposition of an Entertainment Tax. This would be fair enough, if substantial compensation were payable for enduring the agonies of devastating boredom entailed by sitting through, for instance, some of the Scot——

Hush! There are too many Members of that virile race, for such remarks to be altogether wise.

“ORDER, ORDER”

In other lands they manage things differently. The President of the Lower House is enthroned on a majestic dais, at the head of a steep flight of steps; the Tribune, from which speeches are made, is beneath him; and he could, if he wished, bring the orator to reason, or, if need be, to the conclusion of his discourse, by a few steadying taps on the head with the ivory mallet which (auctioneer-wise) is his normal instrument for obtaining order. The mallet is reinforced by a large muffin bell, which, in times of distress, the President rings. And his final means of expressing disapproval is to put on his hat—a custom which perhaps furnishes us with the source of the jolly old folk tale, recorded in Grimm, of the King who used to suppress insurrections by pulling down his hat over his eyes, whereby cannons were fired off in all directions. This picturesque ceremonial, far more imposing than the procedure of the House of Commons, is also less effective for the maintenance of order. In the course of really closely reasoned arguments, in those less reticent assemblies, inkwells have been known to fly, the members have been kept from each other’s throats only by the intervention of the sabre-girt attendants, and the very citadel of the President himself has been beset; whereat, jangling his bell with one hand, and repulsing his assailants with a ruler in the other, he has resolutely maintained his hat upon his head, in testimony of the fact that, legally speaking and despite “the tumult and the shouting,” the séance has long been at an end.

But in the House of Commons the powers of the Speaker are satisfactorily real; not only has he temporary jurisdiction over all persons within the precincts of the Palace, he has also unassailable power to deal with the members. He is himself both a member and something more than a member. He is chosen by the vote of the House; and, once approved by the King, is vested with supreme authority in the management of the Commons. Should a point of procedure arise, his decision is final. Should a question be put of which he disapproves he may disallow it. Should a member say that which, in the Speaker’s opinion, should not have been said, he may order the member to withdraw. Should his ruling be disobeyed he may send a member out of the Chamber. Should the defiance be persisted in, he may suspend the member from the service of the House, whereafter that member may not be admitted to the precincts, until, by resolution, the House itself has terminated his suspension. Yet the Speaker, omnipotent though he seems, is also the servant of the House. It was instructive not long ago to hear Speaker Whitley define his powers, in relation to the Crown, almost in the very words used by Speaker Lenthall, well-nigh three hundred years before: “For myself I think my reply must be that I have no tongue to speak in this place, but as the House is pleased to direct me.”