Even in times like these, MPS should mind their language
How do you like your Brexit: “shenaniganating”, or resembling “the living dead”? These were just two of the more colourful descriptions MPS this week extended to our political hinterland, proving that, just three short years after the referendum took place, a few have deigned to develop a sense of humour.
As with everything concerning this infernal process, one can only wonder what took them so long. But as the wheels have detached themselves at speed, MPS’ previous insistence on speaking in strong and stable terms has undergone the same about-turn: now, safe in the knowledge they can’t possibly make the situation worse, they are finally being frank.
It’s either that, or they’re just using a lot of rude words. I believe in the power of a well-placed swear, but seeing our elected parliamentarians so roundly embrace the profane is both amusing and alarming. A recent Cabinet meeting saw the Prime Minister, according to one report, go “bat----”; at a debate on Tuesday, a disgruntled MP apparently referred to John Bercow as a “p----.”
The Speaker has perhaps been principal architect of this linguistic circus. For a man who has previously objected to terms such as “guttersnipe”, “swine” and “stoolpigeon” being used in the Chamber, Mr Bercow seems to view his position as a platform for his sixth form-style performance art; a vehicle for more bellowing and bluster. None of which instils a great deal of confidence in the watching electorate, though I suppose the prospect of a great deal has now been off the cards for some time.
It is true that the Speaker’s increasingly unorthodox approach has centred more around his delivery, rather than the terms themselves. And granted, no Brexit-induced obscenities have been used in the Chamber – yet. This is likely not far off though, given several MPS have lately felt pressed to share how utterly “past caring” they are – about creating even the illusion of our negotiating a workable exit from the EU, or piecing our divided nation back together, or convincing us that anybody in politics has a clue or control of anything until or beyond April 12. MPS presumably no longer feel that regular adjectives can convey the stench coming from Westminster. Given the repeated use of “meaningful” in describing several votes that have meant very little at all – a sort of updated refrain in the vein of “Brexit means Brexit”, in which our leaders apparently hope that by saying the same thing incessantly, we might start to believe it – perhaps a few curt curses are the antidote. According to the Government’s website, “unparliamentary language breaks the rules of politeness”; which rules now mean anything at all is harder to pinpoint. The next round of indicative votes will take place on April Fool’s day, which feels like a kind of cosmic nod to the prank-level absurdity negotiations have reached.
The “living dead” of Westminster can continue to shenaniganate all they want. But hard as it is to believe, there will be a world beyond Brexit. And in that one, as in this, they would do well to choose their words carefully.
Winchester has been named the happiest place in Britain, which I can only take as further evidence that pollsters always get it wrong. I spent three days there in January and they were far from cheery – although this could be down to the fact I had been taken hostage, meaning my trip involved being blindfolded and dragged through a forest in lieu of pottering about the cathedral.
My captors were not rogue militiamen seeking revenge on the West via Hampshire, but largely ex-army folk who now spend their days simulating hostile environments for those whose work might land them in one.
These men, who had spent the days prior telling me of patching up soldiers’ obliterated limbs on the dust-strewn streets of Afghanistan; of rescuing civilians at gunpoint in Nigeria and colleagues sent skyward by Colombian landmines, apparently felt Winchester resembled these unforgiving climes most closely.
At odds, it would seem, with the Royal Mail UK Happiness Index, which ranked the city top for its proximity to the countryside and high levels of well-being among residents.
Having not (yet) found myself in a war zone, I cannot speak of how acutely Winchester resembles one and, given the top 10 also features Babergh, Ribble Valley and Elmbridge – places that sound to me as if dreamt up by a budget Enid Blyton – I have questions about just how rigorously this study was carried out. Yet if it really is the happiest place in Britain, perhaps a return there, without a blindfold this time, should be on the cards.
Oil paintings: not an extravagance when cheaper than £16,388.46 to produce, but utterly unforgivable when past that price point. This is what the furore over a portrait of Dame Glynis Breakwell, the former vice chancellor of the University of Bath who last year resigned following controversy over her sky-high salary, would suggest. The discovery of just how much the portrait (and, don’t forget, its frame) cost has apparently led to both the painting – unveiled by Prince Edward at a ceremony costing an eminently reasonable £750 by comparison – and its accompanying plaque (a snip at £462) being removed from the building in which they were displayed.
If excessive funds are going to vice chancellors rather than the students, we have a right to ask why.
Just as we have a right to question why someone taking home £468,000 a year did not feel even a tad red about the face in expensing £2 worth of biscuits, as Dame Glynis did in 2017. Though I suppose if having a £16,000 oil painting of yourself doesn’t cause the raising of eyebrows, elevenses likely won’t either.