By Ann Apolis
That’s the thing about the House of Commons. No-one really knows what’s going on.
I finally got through security and off the benches and into the gallery whilst they were having a Division on an Amendment. Of course, poor ole me scanning down the Order Paper has no clue what’s going on; the most I could do was be overexcited at the politicians so close at hand. (Look, there’s Lembit Opik, gabbling animatedly if lopsidedly to a colleague! Jack Straw! Charles Clarke! And Hoon, and Miliband, and Hague! And Boris Johnson, standing by the entrance to the chamber! Oh, the thrill!)
Soon, though, the Speaker stood and called for order. He might actually have been the Deputy Speaker; there was a note of panic in his voice as if he hadn’t done this before. “O-ord…” he stammered, his voice trailing away. He was evidently nervous. Perhaps it was the real Speaker after all.
In the most authoritative voice he could muster, he called out “The ayes to the right: 68. The noes to the left: 271.” I didn’t know whether this was a good thing; I didn’t know what the amendment was. Considering the massive margin of defeat though, I thought, it was probably the LibDem’s proposal.
Someone came in and whispered in the Speaker’s ear. He’d got the figures wrong, an argument Peter Hain probably wishes he’d thought of. Nevertheless, the proposal was crushed, even though I had no clue what it was. I fidgeted nervously.
Then, as suddenly as they had swirled in, they swirled out. It soon became obvious why; after the Chairman (improbably called Sir Alan) read out the week’s lottery numbers, up stood an extremely unconvincing accent which I was horrified to discover was genuine. It went by the name David Heathcoat-Amory, and was talking about how people didn’t ever listen to no votes in referendums. Iain Duncan Smith rose to agree with him a few times. I think he sympathises; the problem is that when he votes no nobody can hear him.
Difficult as it was to concentrate, what with the Quiet Man talking to the Discordant Brogue Man with Sir Alan occasionally asking them to get back on topic (or presumably, like Ed Davey last week, they’d be fired), I managed to pick up that they were talking about the Treaty of Lisbon. Apparently there were casserole clauses in it. It’s French for bridge (I thought it was French for saucepan, but ho hum) and it means that the EU can amend the Treaties without a vote if they vote to do so.
Ken Clarke interrupted him, the twin motivations of Euro- and casserole-philia spurring him to speak. Apparently there have been casserole clauses since Maastricht, but they haven’t been used. I’m not surprised, given that the Treaty of Maastricht was signed in 1992. All the casserole has probably gone off.
The accent, now long seperated from the body of its original owner, replied that the new casseroles were more powerful that the old ones. I slinked off with the remainder of the Labour Party; all this talk of casserole was making me hungry.
Tags: EU(A)
