irman
02-06-2008, 20:18
They snigger and smirk. They sneer and jeer. They murmur and yawn. They gossip solaciously in the bars. They honk and cackle when the prime minister or his opposite number is trying to talk. They are like unruly schoolchildren, egged on by the thrill of a chance of being spanked by Madam Speaker but knowing they will usually get away with their naughtiness.
To be fair, this picture of the denizens of Her Majesty’s House of Commons as they make the laws of the land is accurate only some of the time. But the dominant flavour is decidedly more of theatre than real world. The spectacle is bizarre and beguiling.
The entertainment unfolds in a surprisingly small chamber. Old-time bit-part actors, some of whom once strode centre-stage, heckle and interject, bobbing up and down from the green-padded benches, eyebrows begging the speaker to allow them to perform.
The hotchpotch of accent and language remains a fascinating testimony to the durability of British class and regional chasm. With a very few exceptions, the Labour benches still rumble with the rougher vowels and vocabulary of Up North and (less audibly) Cockney south, with a leavening of a strong Scottish dollop and Welsh blur and lilt.
For sure, the Tory voice spectrum has widened since the days of Macmillan. Naw you can hear the slicker jargon of builders’ and grocers’ and the occasional railwayman’s sons, cutting into the clipped tones of the traditional professional class and the plumminess of the diminishing landed interest. Listen to the gales of appreciative laughter with your eyes closed and you can bet pretty safely where all the speakers are sitting, even if you try to ignore the content of their words. In no country in the world can the personae of parliament be so type-
Cast by the inflection of their voices.
(After the British press)
To be fair, this picture of the denizens of Her Majesty’s House of Commons as they make the laws of the land is accurate only some of the time. But the dominant flavour is decidedly more of theatre than real world. The spectacle is bizarre and beguiling.
The entertainment unfolds in a surprisingly small chamber. Old-time bit-part actors, some of whom once strode centre-stage, heckle and interject, bobbing up and down from the green-padded benches, eyebrows begging the speaker to allow them to perform.
The hotchpotch of accent and language remains a fascinating testimony to the durability of British class and regional chasm. With a very few exceptions, the Labour benches still rumble with the rougher vowels and vocabulary of Up North and (less audibly) Cockney south, with a leavening of a strong Scottish dollop and Welsh blur and lilt.
For sure, the Tory voice spectrum has widened since the days of Macmillan. Naw you can hear the slicker jargon of builders’ and grocers’ and the occasional railwayman’s sons, cutting into the clipped tones of the traditional professional class and the plumminess of the diminishing landed interest. Listen to the gales of appreciative laughter with your eyes closed and you can bet pretty safely where all the speakers are sitting, even if you try to ignore the content of their words. In no country in the world can the personae of parliament be so type-
Cast by the inflection of their voices.
(After the British press)