The Palace of Westminster loomed above me like a majestic
dragon. Not yet nine o’ clock on a chirpy Wednesday morning in June 2012, I
stood at the intersection traffic lights by Westminster tube station looking
upwards and across at the statue of Sir Winston Churchill, standing in my new navy
blue suit, crisp new white shirt and suitably neutral coloured tie, mauve.
Having only slept
for four hours due to excited anticipation my head was beginning to crave
caffeine. I checked my watch, eight forty am. No, I decided, stop for coffee
and risk being late. Not a good impression to make on the MP I was due to meet
a little over fifteen minutes from now. Crossing the road looking straight
ahead as a sea of respectable looking people in suits, clutching morning
newspapers or ‘plugged in’ to iPods steamed past me. I was to shadow an MP who
for the purposes of ‘saving my skin’ I feel should remain nameless. Not, I
hasten to add, due to any misconduct or misdemeanour on their part, or mine for
that matter.This being my first gentle
steps into a world I wish to make one important strand of my professional future,
that of political commentary it is with a flutter in my heart I write this.
So, as I cross the
road asking a polished and friendly looking policeman where I should go to
enter ‘The House’ proper, the enormity and grandeur of the old lady of London
struck me.
Once I navigated
the particularly ‘snakes and ladders’ approach to the inner-sanctum of the palace, the House
of Commons, my nerves evaporated, replaced with a sense of awe mixed with pride.
Strolling over to a thin gentleman perched on a high-chair, that is to say a
high, chair, not a piece of toddlers eating apparatus. Introducing myself in as
solemn and courteous voice I could muster, the gentleman directly picked up his
black polished telephone, dialled, spoke a moment, replaced the receiver and
announced I should wait here. Here I later realised was Central Lobby. Designed
by Sir Charles Barry a stunning mosaic pattern decorated the vaulted ceiling of
the octagonal meeting point for both upper and lower houses of parliament,
centered by a large tiled star beneath a glittering chandelier. A sort of cross
roads within the belly of the building, House of Lords was along one corridor with
the House of Commons leading from the corridor opposite and a slightly
awe-struck me in the middle trying hard to look like I knew what I was doing.
I heard it, before
I saw it. A loud clatter rang around the room as a small Chinese tourist
tumbled over the ‘No-Entry’ sign positioned next to the lectern serving as
reception. My goodness, the agility and speed with which the WPC stationed next
to the lectern turned her whole body in a ‘I am ready for anything’ action pose
was breath-taking. Yep, I remember thinking to myself, you’re here boy, in the
heart of British politics. Oh how I wish I could take a pee.
Promptly at nine
o’clock, a beaming if slightly dishevelled looking man, not too dissimilar to a
university professor of many years entombed in a room with more books than
could be read in a life time, strode out of a door to my left. ‘Good morning, sorry to keep you’ he said in a
friendly if, ‘let’s make this quick’ tone as he scurried past me disappearing
up a set of red carpeted stairs. I dutifully followed our bearded professor
taking two stairs at a time. I remember thinking here is a man who has been
scurrying around these halls and stairwells for years, always rushing. At the
top of the second flight of stairs we stopped outside a large oak door. The
smell of toast drifting down the long carpeted corridor, ‘smells lovely in
here’ I mentioned in attempt to strike up a conversation. Before my professor could reply, the door had
gently opened.
For a full hour I sat amongst three other young hopeful’s.
All of us dressed in new suits, looking serious, scribbling notes on our new
notebooks, with our new pens. The MP’s, one of which I recognised from Prime Ministers
Questions the previous week, were amiably, yet vigorously debating the EU Home
Affairs Funding for 2014. It was a small, yet sumptuous room, four rows of
carpeted benches on either side with a further ‘top-bench’ directly opposite
me. I noted with some keen interest the relaxed
manner with which they conducted themselves, all seemingly having separate
conversations whilst one speaker stood and laid there argument
on the table. ‘Minister’ boomed the presiding Lord from top-table. The room
instantly fell silent. A mark of respect I surmised for the fact an actual Minister
had taken the floor, oh my, this is real I thought.
Upon our exit down
the stairs our MP accompanying us regaling historical tales and contextual
anecdotes seemed relaxed, transparent and entirely friendly. We had first met
some months prior when they had allowed me to interview them for a research
project. I had chosen, and proudly wrote, twenty three thousand, seven hundred
and eighty eight words on ‘How Has the British Press Influenced British Politics
Since 1979?’ Within which we spent a fully-engaging and open conversation at
the MP’s constituency offices, discussing everything from the introduction of new
Labour Laws during the 1980’s by Margaret Thatcher. That’s new-labour not NEW
LABOUR Blair’s re-branding of the traditionally center- left-wing party, Murdoch’s move from Fleet
Street to Wapping of headquarters for many British Newspaper titles, the Expenses
Scandal and the relationship between politicians and the press up to and
including ramifications of the Leveson Enquiry. Candid, transparent and above
all insightful and friendly, this MP seemed to me, to be ‘in it’ not to
‘win-it’ but to ‘live-it’ and ‘change-it’ for the better. Elected to his current constituency in 1997 with
a ‘swing to Labour of 17.4% - sixth largest Labour swing in the country’, this
MP calmly walked us around the inner-sanctum warmly imparting valuable
knowledge as to the historic relevance of the Houses of Parliament.
At ten minutes to midday we congregated back at Central
Lobby, the heart of the building, watching excitedly as the procession of MP’s,
Lords and the speaker of the House John
Bercow, solemnly performed the ritual knocking of the door with a staff to ask
permission to enter ‘the House’ (as it is affectionately known).
PMQ’s, as Big Ben
chimed the hour I sat, in the ‘House’, notebook at the ready, no-longer craving
caffeine, energised by the ambience and adoration of being sat watching what
had, until this day, been a television only viewing experience for me. The
entourage of Ministers stormed in and I remember thinking they looked like a
heard of stampeding buffaloes, crisp suits, starched collars, full of energy.
The House erupted in noise and cheers, quietened only by the speaker as David
Cameron stood to face his interrogators, Ed Milliband and Ed Balls. I
remember reading in ‘Tony Blair In His Own Words’ edited by Paul Richards, how he
feared the weekly interrogation, wearing the same shoes at every Prime
Ministers Questions for the entire ten years he was in power. As I cast my eyes
around the room my heart sang to me that this was a world I truly wished to
become a part of through the words of my commentary.
Lunchtime, at last.
Together our MP and fellow keen young thing, Michael – Michael is not his real
name but forgive me, it evades me know - happily strolled along the maize of
underground corridors leading us out in to a large continental looking courtyard
framed with an array of coffee shops and boutique restaurants. A place where
MP’S of all political persuasions, reporters, broadcasters and police gather
merrily together , relaxing to discuss the day’s, week’s events, and who they
wish to see on the next ‘Dancing On Ice’. Much like any other place of work it
struck me how amiable everybody was. Not in the least like the rampage of jeers
and taunts witnessed shortly before. I did question whether since the
introduction of television cameras in to the House of Commons in November 1989
what impact on the politicians ‘theatrics’ this had had? Possibly none but
still I pondered. As we sat in the lunchtime sun, happily munching a very
generous beef burger with everything on it, our MP opting for a healthy pasta
dish I enquired as to his agreement to write about the day’s events for a local
newspaper. True to form, his answer was ‘of course’.
Towards the end of
the afternoon, sat sipping that much needed coffee on the banks of the Thames
at the Houses of Parliament’s internal, private, river-front café we were
invited to accompany our MP who ‘had better show my face’ at a charity meeting
for people with that most de-humanising of illnesses, Parkinson’s. We took no
persuading and so, with a weary yet fulfilled and eager spring in our step we
strolled over to No1 Millbank.
There is one figure
in the world of Political Commentary that I have watched avidly each Sunday
morning for many years now. A man who I do not hesitate to proudly name as a key
professional that I have no doubts in stating I aspire to be at least one tenth
as competent, engaging, informative and at times that most delicious of
qualities when dealing with serious political issues, whimsical. His name is
Andrew Marr. Currently recuperating from a stroke, for what my wishes are worth
I humbly and warmly extend my deepest encouragement, strength and goodwill to
Mr Marr, all his family, friends and loved ones for his full and lasting
recovery.
