Rab McNeil
Titter you not 4 June 2009 IT CAN be tough being a parliamentary sketch-writer. You titter.  But your titters are ill-founded. Consider the following. The presiding orifice, the security guards, the clerks and notetakers: all are relieved at regular intervals. And, as they come and go, who is still sitting there unrelieved, as it were? That’s right. The sketch-writer. He has to sit until he has collected enough gags in his notebook. These are then taken out of context, strung together to make an apercu, and handed in to the newspaper, which bludgeons them on to the page, there for the lieges to look on and learn. Yes, I thought as much: your titters have turned to tears of sorrow. How awful it must be to sit through so much tedium, to thole the oral ennui that issues from the gub of many an MSP. I do not wish to be unfair, for most of these amiable boobies are entertaining – whether they mean to be or no – but some leave you trying to eat your own nose. As in all areas of life, the professional sketchwriter has to have a strategy to deal with this. Mine is – or has been until now – to take a good novel into the Chamber. You gasp. But it is true. You wonder how it is possible to monitor the proceedings below while reading a novel at the same time. It is called multitasking and, for men at any rate, takes years of practice. The trained, highly experienced operative knows how to keep one earlobe open to the proceedings. He knows who the dullards are, and it is when they rise to chunter – and only on such occasions – that he picks up his book. A light comedy or thriller allows the brainlobes to relax for a few moments. It lets the batteries re-charge. It stops the operative becoming stale or grumpy. This practice has held me in good stead for many years. But, recently, I received this bombshell news: no one is allowed to read in the galleries of the Chamber. The news was broken by a sympathetic and kindly security guard. Readers, I confess I nearly fainted. If I hadn’t had a flask of brandy in my inside pocket, I might have collapsed headlong into the throng below, landing on Baillie Bill Aitken’s baldie heid. What was I to do now? I tried light napping but, like sleep generally, one finds that when one wants it to happen, one remains tensely away and, conversely, when one feels one ought to be paying attention, Hypnos sneaks up behind and coshes one on the napper. It is a dangerous strategy, to dabble with dozing. Very occasionally, the television cameras pan up to the press gallery and it would not do were the nation – and, more importantly, my editor – to see me gently dozing when they were paying me to remain alert and ready to write down anything sensational. For a while, I tried playing various games for the mind: which rafter might go next and who might it hit? How many grey suits and how many blue? If you had to marry one of the burdz, which one would it be? All very diverting, but for mere moments only. I watched enviously as note-takers, officials and, indeed, security guards were all relieved, probably under European Union health regulations. I couldn’t see what was wrong with surreptitiously taking a peek at a novel now and again. Down on the floor, Mike Rumbles (Lib Dem) was bunging paperclips hither and yon. In the Hoose o’ Commons, you get fellows using the premises as knocking-shops, smuggling in suspendered floozies, who then sell their story to the News of the Screws. And all I’m doing is reading a light farce by PG Wodehouse! I can understand some restrictions. The lieges are not allowed to take pies or other comestibles into the Chamber for the welljustified fear that these may be bunged at our national representatives, perhaps accompanied by the anguished cry: “Aw, shurrup!” But surely these restrictions should be loosened for the press gallery? We do not lob pastries. It’s in our contracts: “171 (b) Thou shalt not lob pastries. 172 (a) Try to be factually accurate and, if that proves rather difficult, at least be entertaining.” For the defence, I summon as my first witness Mr Harold Obvious, who has this to say: “Journalists live by the written word.” I submit that we are not as other men. We need to read and write. We can’t just sit there with our lower jaw reaching our knee, as if we were ordinary members of the public. As things stand, I am dreading my next visit to the Chamber, unaided by literature, be it ever so light or unimproving. You say: “Why not have a couple of pints and a bucket of Prozac before you go in?” Do you not think we do that already? No, it seems we are doomed to pay attention, like prisoners watching our jailers idly playing with their keys. Related articles: Politics and principles 3 September 2010 Hello voters 25 June 2010 Off the menu 11 June 2010 Life but not as we know it 28 May 2010 Magnetic result 17 May 2010 See all articles in this category Submit a comment |
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