Back to HOMEPAGE The day Mr Who transformed himself
into a cyberman
Ann Treneman
Westminster Parliamentary Sketch: The Times
Filed 28 Jun 09
©Ann Treneman
This article was originally published in The Times on 26th June 2009.
It is reproduced here with the kind permission of its author and of the newspaper.
It was the day that Little Johnnie Bercow took on the Government and then Nanki-Poo. I feared for him in both battles. First came his historic demand that the Government come to the Commons to tell MPs (as opposed to the press) about its new cyber-strategy. It was his first show of muscle. The Government, observing his tiny bicep, sent David Hanson.
David who? I hear you ask and not without reason. The written cyber-statement had been from the Prime Minister but Gordon Brown was, of course, far too too busy to come in person to the Parliament he holds so dear. So he sent Mr Hanson, a new Home Office minister. To be honest, I doubt Mr Hanson had anywhere else to go. I cannot imagine that anyone, except perhaps his own family, has ever demanded his presence anywhere before.
Mr Bercow, preening in his giant chair, was heaped with praise for his fearless stand. My, but he is loving this. I even saw one Labour MP ask for his autograph. It cannot be long before he appears in Heat magazine, modelling his robes. I am hoping against hope that cyborg terrorists (as some MPs put it yesterday) were not listening. At one point Mr Who said: “I’ve only been in this post for two weeks and four days!” He did say, though, that he is setting up a cyber-ethics advisory committee.
Scary or what? I tell you what was frightening: the sight of Ann Widdecombe, wannabee Speaker, on the back benches, in a Hawaiian top, triffid flowers as loud as a megaphone. She leant forward, scarlet nails gripping the rail. Clearly she was on a mission.
Mr Bercow bounced up to say that all remarks should be short. He then called Widde who, ignoring him utterly, embarked on a voyage of a question about the de minimis rules about what MPs must declare on the new register.
“I have been told in all solemnity by the registrar today that in future every bunch of flowers will have to be registered!” she exclaimed, triffids outraged too. “My entry in the register, and that of several female honourable members, will have more petals than the average botanical gardens!”
As her question lengthened into a piece of string, Little Johnnie went into his pre-crouch position, a cannonball in search of a cannon, ready to cut her off. “Perhaps,” she trilled, “we should go with Gilbert and Sullivan that the flowers that bloom in the spring, tra la, have nothing to do with the case!”
Oh dear, Widde had become Nanki-Poo. Faced with this transformation, Little Johnnie (wisely) retreated. But now Sir George Young, another Speaker wannabe, unfolded his spaghetti form to also denounce the de minimis rules.
“Yes!” cried Nanki-Poo, backing singer.
“If I make an after-dinner speech and my wife is presented with a boo-quet,” said Sir George, “they become registerable and under the Parliamentary Standards Authority Bill, failure to register becomes a criminal office!”
“Yes!” cried Nanki-Poo.
Sir George added: “And if I ask my wife to give them back, I will be in even deeper trouble!”
This brought hilarity, not least from Nanki-Poo and her triffids. Little Johnnie slumped back, defeated. He may one day bring the Government into line but never those two. Tra la la la la.
©Ann Treneman
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