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| Either my camera's too small, or the Palace too big! |
In our hotel lobby, a TV had shown proceedings from the House of Commons. A scandal had exploded upon Britain, and the Members of Parliament in the House of Commons were busy castigating the accused perpetrators and discussing how to resolve the crisis. While the country’s conservative Tory party currently holds power, a consensus with the Labour and Liberal Democrat parties is necessary to resolve any issue. But it seemed that partisan politics would not stymie action today, as all the people’s elected representatives seemed intent upon resolving this “phone-hacking” scandal.
The House of Commons (situated within the Palace of Westminster), with its wooden benches upholstered in the green leather, was familiar to me. Not only had I occasionally watched cable TV coverage of Prime Minister’s Question Time (a weekly event in which, theoretically, any MP, or Member of Parliament, may be allowed to ask the Prime Minister a specific question), but I had received a DVD set of “The New Statesman” as a Christmas present. This dark comedy, set in the late 80s and early 90s, follows the exploits of Alan B’Stard, a conservative MP who embodied all the hallmarks which those who opposed Margaret Thatcher’s policies accused her regime of. B’Stard made his fortune through callousness and cruelty. His marriage to Sarah is one of convenience: she desires only his money, and her father controls the local Tory party. Whenever he speaks in the House of Commons, or works in his office in Whitehall, one could be certain that his actions were motivated by greed, and not to aid the people he is there to represent.
Why do I laugh when he insults another MP, steals his colleague’s speech, or takes money from a woman to print an anti-pornography pamphlet, only to then use the money to publish the very materials she is protesting? Why do I enjoy following his misadventures when, for example, after a fist-fight with a cabby ends with B’Stard believing the cabby has died, he drives the vehicle into the countryside, seeking a secluded area in which to burn the cab and thus conceal his murder? Does this point to a perverse aspect of my personality? Or is it because I recognize that he is playing a stereotype in order to illuminate an essential truth: that not all politicians’ actions are devoted solely to themselves, and even those who get “found out” probably sought to effect something positive for their constituents?
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| Those Who Guard the Politicians |
Whatever the reason, it would appear that I am not alone. Although the show only lasted four seasons, its popularity continues in Britain. “The New Statesman” parlayed its popularity into a stage show. Columns appear regularly in British newspapers and magazines in which B’Stard boasts of his behind-the-scenes role in key governmental events and decisions. And earlier this year, Alan B’Stard, portrayed by the original series actor, succeeded in helping marshal opposition to a ballot initiative.
As Britain’s Members of Parliament do not represent me, there is no logical reason why I should wait in line to watch them conduct business. Yet that wood-paneled room with its green-upholstered benches holds a certain power for me. This is a country that has three major political parties. Instead of a Congress of two houses filled with representatives elected by the people, it has a Parliament, separated into two houses, and only for which its members are elected. (The members of the other house, the House of Lords, are appointed, or serve by hereditary right). Instead of having a President chosen by the people (or electoral ballots), the government is ruled by a Prime minister selected from whichever party holds the most seats in the House of Commons. The Queen even drops in occasionally (to keep an eye on them). While we may speak the same language (well, almost!), all this reminds me how very different England is from the United States. Thus, I yearn to enter this former palace, and watch the British government at work.
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| "Sorry, but there's no more room in the inn." |
We approach the attendants, only to be told that we could not be admitted at this time. Although the line outside wasn’t long, the police had determined that the number of visitors inside was excessive. “Why don’t you grab dinner and come back in an hour?” one of the uniformed women suggested. The idea had merit: it was six o’clock in the evening, after all. But not only were our heads out-of-sorts from a lack of sleep: our stomachs also out-of-sorts from the eight-hour time-zone change. So we lingered to ask them a few general questions about Parliament and the Palace, and then we wandered on. Would we get caught up in our explorations and return only to find that the members of Parliament had decided to retire for the evening? Time would tell....
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