Voted into the Big Mother House

Posted on: 18th May 2011

Originally posted January 18th 2006

I’ve often said it. MPs should be nominated for ‘Oscars’ and ‘Golden Globe’ awards for their daily performances of synthetic rage, tragedian sympathy and magnified passion for a popular cause.

But there are some things which engender genuine indignation amongst this all-party fraternity; some things which get them all ventilating from the top most point of any soapbox they can find at the highest point their hind legs can take them…

…And that is a high profile escape of one of their colleagues from this, the warm and constraining embrace of the bosom of the Mother of Parliaments.

George Galloway, an MP whose effigy on the Labour benches must have more pins than there should be space for, operates in the belief that he commands RESPECT. But it’s quite the opposite since he took himself off a couple of weeks ago to another of those televised Big Brother Houses where, apparently, people live in a room to be experimented upon.

We have been told that he is ‘incommunicado’. Not able to contact the outside world and not able to be contacted by anyone from the real world. He lives in a televisual goldfish bowl, so I understand.

Sounds a bit like being marooned all week in the House of Commons.

In fact, now I come to think about it, I somehow doubt that Mr Galloway’s decision to escape the on-going opprobrium of his parliamentary colleagues is entirely motivated by his infamous capacity for self-publicity, nor even by the no doubt substantial TV appearance fee he will receive for putting himself through this merely different form of ritual humiliation which we all come to Parliament to enjoy.

It is now dawning on my fellow parliamentarians and I that we are, in fact, merely the naïve pawns in a cunning plot. We have been duped by the electorate into being elected into the Big Mother House to give others a rest from our constantly going around with our unending “I’m glad you asked me that question” babble.

From this point the same voters take turns to send us impossible and unanswerable questions to then enjoy the spectacle of watching us scurry around looking for plausible answers. A cruel fate indeed.

George, when he eventually comes back (though he’s never made a habit of spending much time here) will, no doubt, receive cat calls (literally) and meows whenever he rises to his feet. It’s envy, really.