01 Oct

We go over now to PMQs

the good, the bad and the ugly

of politics and sleaze.  Men in suits

that smell of London sweat,

and women members dressed by Next

and M and S, their eyes forever

on the move for the next over-familiar

over-ambitious male.  They are spread

stickily over the green leather of the chamber,

the House, this circus of black rods

and whips and fancy dress, of tired

stubborn confrontation, unseemly ambition.

‘What’s the party line on this?’

‘I defer to the (dis)honourable Member

for Gone West.’  ‘Order! Disorder!’

Listen to what they say and how they

say it!  That Tory with her pearls and

frills and leafy seat in Somerset; that

stubbled, bald, bespectacled Labour

man from Chip-on-the-Shoulder, both

speaking with the Party voice and the

fitting accent: cut glass, or northern

working man.  Never the twain shall

meet, separated by the barbed wire

of set positions.  Worse, the nation

is the same, so divided one from another.

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