Way of theworld Michael Deacon

Until quite recently, no MP would ever have dreamt of looking at porn in the Commons. Of course, this doesn’t necessarily mean that MPS of the past were more moral. The reason may simply be that, before the invention of the smartphone, they couldn’t have hoped to get away with it. Because everyone in the chamber – and even worse, the press gallery – would immediately have been able to see what they were up to.

A backbencher could hardly have whiled away Transport Questions leafing through the latest issue of Asian Babes. Nor could he have wheeled a TV and VCR into the chamber in order to watch a bootleg of Debbie Does Dallas. As a result, looking at porn in the Commons was impossible.

The advent of the smartphone, however, changed all that. Its tiny screen meant that an MP could surreptitiously look at porn without anyone noticing. Or so Neil Parish must have assumed, at any rate.

Clearly, there’s only one way to ensure it never happens again. And that’s to ban MPS from taking their phones into the Commons in the first place.

It may sound draconian.

But I think it’s fair.

Because, frankly, MPS shouldn’t be using their phones in there anyway. From November 2011, I spent 10 years working as The Telegraph’s parliamentary sketch writer, peering down from the gallery at what was going on below. And what I saw, increasingly often, were rows and rows of MPS gazing listlessly at their phones, like a vast roomful of bored teenagers. They weren’t looking at Pornhub or Onlyfans – at least, not as far as I could make out. In all likelihood they were engaged in perfectly innocent, even useful activities: replying to emails from constituents, or to Whatsapp messages from party whips. No matter how worthy those duties were, however, it was never clear why MPS should be carrying them out during a Commons debate – rather than focusing on what was being said. Not only did it look rude, but it surely enabled ministers to escape proper scrutiny. After all, you can get away with saying anything, if no one’s really listening. Then again, ministers were often the worst offenders. As speaker, John Bercow would scold ministers for “impairing parliamentary decorum” by “fiddling ostentatiously with an electronic device”. Sometimes their opponents would scold them, too. I remember the SNP’S Ian Blackford complaining that Boris Johnson was “playing with his phone” instead of listening to him. (“Well, say something more interesting,” muttered the PM.)

Gawping at your phone, however, isn’t only insulting to your opponents. It’s insulting to your colleagues, as well. The day after the Chancellor’s autumn statement of 2016, newspapers ran photos of John Mcdonnell delivering Labour’s official response. Pictured directly behind him, as he made this important speech, were scores of Labour MPS. And almost every single one was gazing down at his or her phone, seemingly oblivious to the shadow chancellor’s existence.

On TV the next morning, Mr Mcdonnell was asked why so few of his colleagues had been listening to him. “It doesn’t look good, but that’s what happens now,” he replied, with a sigh of Eeyorish resignation.

I don’t often sympathise with Mr Mcdonnell. But on that occasion I did. Even his ideas deserve to be heard. And we should ensure that they are. Which means that, on their way into the chamber, all MPS should be made to hand over their phones to a sternlooking man in tights, like sheepish schoolboys being made to hand over a toy to the teacher.

They can always have them back after class, if they’re good.

Presumably, companies find customer surveys useful. There’s one aspect of them, though, that puzzles me. Their insistence on asking me how likely I am to recommend their services to people I know.

Fair enough if the company is new or obscure. The other day, however, I was asked to fill in a survey from Tesco. And, among other things, it asked me how likely I was to “recommend” my local Tesco “to a friend or colleague”.

A tricky question. Because I can’t imagine how or why I would ever bring up such a topic in conversation.

“Hi Michael, long time no see. How’ve you been keeping?”

“Very well, thanks. I’m glad I’ve run into you, because I’ve been meaning to ask you a question. Have you ever heard of a place called ‘Tesco’?” “Pardon?”

“Tesco. Essentially, it’s a large shop – or ‘supermarket’, to use the industry jargon – that sells a wide range of groceries and household goods. I don’t know whether you ever eat food, at all. But if you do, I strongly recommend giving Tesco a try.”