The Sound and the Fury

It is a source of constant wonder to me how we, as a species, have managed to colonise the globe, split the atom, and invent the self-threading needle, while remaining utterly incapable of having a quiet chat.

If Mary and I have a disagreement over, say, whose turn it is to take the recycling out, we do not stand on opposite sides of the living room and bellow at each other. We do not recruit our neighbours to sit on the sofa and shout “YEAAAAAH” every time one of us makes a point about a cardboard box.

—Did you put the bin out, Andy?

—I refer the honourable lady to the answer I gave some moments ago, wherein I pointed out it was very warm.

—YEAAAAAH! shouts the chap from number 132, waving an oven glove.

It would be exhausting. Yet, if you tune your television to Prime Minister’s Questions, you will find that this is precisely how the governing body of our nation conducts its most solemn business.

I watched Starmer at the dispatch box the other day, and it occurred to me that PMQs is not actually a political event. It is a highly specialised branch of amateur dramatics.

First, there is the room itself. It is deliberately designed to be too small, ensuring that everyone is crammed together on green leather benches like commuters on a particularly humid Monday morning train. Then there is the “Speaker”—a man whose entire professional existence is identical to that of a deeply tired primary school supply teacher who has lost control of a wet Wednesday afternoon playtime.

—Order! he bellows. — Order! I want to hear the honourable gentleman!

The honourable gentleman in question does not, of course, want to be heard. He wants to deliver a pre-packaged zinger that was written for him by a twenty-four-year-old assistant three hours ago.

And then there is the noise. When the Prime Minister speaks, his supporters do not clap. Clapping is strictly forbidden by the ancient rules of the house, presumably because it sounds too civilised. Instead, they emit a low, guttural roar that starts in the stomach and exits the mouth as a sort of collective, vibrating grunt:

—Heaaaaar-heaarrrrr.

If you played a recording of PMQs to an alien visitor from Proxima Centauri b, they would not assume they were listening to the pinnacle of British democratic debate. They would assume they were listening to a colony of highly stressed sea lions disputing the ownership of a particularly desirable rock.

The rules of engagement are equally baffling. You are not allowed to call another Member of Parliament a “liar.” This is considered unparliamentary. Instead, you must use the grand, linguistic detour of suggesting they have “inadvertently misled the house,” or that they are being “economical with the truth.” It is a system that suggests we value the quality of the vocabulary far more than the accuracy of the facts.

Ultimately, watching Starmer and his opponent trade blows across the table is like watching two men trying to play chess by throwing the pieces at each other’s heads. It is loud, it is sweaty, and by the end of it, nobody is entirely sure who won, but everyone has a headache.

I switched the television off, realised that would be thirty minutes of my life I wouldn’t get back, and went to empty the bin. It was already warm, but at least the garden path didn’t shout “YEAAAAAH” at me when I opened the lid.