Prime Minister's Questions
For the political junkie in Britain, Prime Minister's Questions is the highlight of the week. It's a mixture of all the things that make politics so fascinating: procedure, chaos, personality, flair and, in the end, a lack of tangible connection to the real world.
PMQs takes place every Wednesday at noon in the House of Commons. Members of Parliament have half an hour to ask the prime minister about government actions and policies. Most MPs are allowed two questions — one written, one oral — but the leader of the opposition may speak up to six times, and the leader of the third-party Liberal Democrats, twice.
A lottery decides which MPs will be allowed to question the prime minister. The written question has to be submitted beforehand, but the oral, supplementary question does not. The usual practice is to submit a banal written question, such as "Would the prime minister list his official engagements for today?" and save the real issue for the oral one. To save time, the prime minister answers the first written question at the beginning of PMQs, then lets that response serve for all subsequent written questions as well.
Because the oral question does not have to be submitted, the prime minister
does not know exactly what he is going to be asked — meaning he can't
have scripted answers in front of him. He has to speak off the cuff and be
quick on his feet with a response. In the spin-driven politics of our time,
this is a rare occurrence, especially within the official, recorded machinery
of government, and so PMQs feels like the way politics used to be, and might
still be, without the corrupting influence of today's obsession over image.
The theatrics of the process adds to this feeling. In the House of Commons, the parties sit on benches (which are plusher than the spare Puritan types)
opposite each other, with the party leaders and their cabinets on the front
row. When the prime minister answers a question from a member of the opposition,
he must face them all. When he answers a question from a member of his own
party, behind him, he must acknowledge the MP asking the question, while at
the same time dealing with the inevitable grumbles and jeers from those on
the other side of the house.
PMQs can get noisy. MPs stand up to show solidarity with a question or a response, or they wave their audit papers in the air, or they say "Yesssss" or "Hear, hear," or something else in lowing voices. They are also free to voice dissatisfaction at things that are said. Occasionally things get too loud and unruly, and the speaker of the house has to call for order. This exchange, lifted from the parliamentary record Hansard, is from PMQs on Dec. 10, 2003:
Speaker: Order. Before the Leader of the Opposition starts, Mr Fabricant is shouting louder than anyone else —
Michael Fabricant (Lichfield) (Con) indicated assent.
Mr Speaker: Order. The hon. Gentleman is nodding in agreement, but he is out of order. I have told him not to shout — [Interruption]. Order. I am telling the hon. Gentleman not to shout. He is far too near me.
Even written down, the seemingly chaotic aspects of PMQs come across. The
process is rousing, rumbustious and despite the arcane protocol language, it
brings politicians down to earth a little bit. Who doesn't want to see them
made to squirm, or be reprimanded by the speaker? (Imagine how President Bush would cope if half the Senate were given leave to jeer at him as
he speaks.)
Politicians, particularly the party leaders, can be made to look uncomfortable in PMQs. But with all the excitement, the tense exchanges, the witty ripostes and ad hominem insults comes the acceptance that it is little more than a showpiece, because like a lot of government procedures, it suffers from an insular political parochialism. After all, it's only half an hour, once a week. In the first PMQs of 2004, Tony Blair answered questions, among others, on the Hutton inquiry, statues of Sylvia Pankhurst, Camp X-ray, rural post offices, genetically modified foods and fox hunting. Half an hour is not long enough to discuss all of these topics in the detail they deserve. Throw in soft sucker questions from the prime minister's supporters ("Would the PM agree that with [insert beneficial statistic] [insert government policy] has been a huge success this year?"), and the time is again reduced. Furthermore, despite the spontaneity of the questions, if the prime minister is a good politician he or she will have some idea of what is going to be asked anyway. Should an absolute zinger come hurtling from left-field, there is always that deep well of evasive politician's answers to draw from.
This is one well unlikely ever to run dry. Evasive answers are not reserved for just the tricky questions. It's possible to watch an entire PMQs and ask yourself whether the prime minister has actually answered anything at all, the language becomes so wishy-washy. The focus instead is on how everyone performed: how the prime minister stonewalled that question, gesticulating frantically; how Conservative Party leader Michael Howard, with his thin lawyer's smile, leaned nonchalantly on his elbow during his tirade; how quiet and pathetic that anonymous Liberal Democrat backbencher sounded among the jeers; how sheepish that stuffy old bloke looked when the speaker called him to order.
These things are the real draw of PMQs. There's an undeniable degree of delight in just watching people argue, whatever the subject, however irrelevant and inconsequential. A parliamentary procedure providing the chance to do that on a regular, weekly basis is a thing to be cherished.
— Louis Cooke (louis@mintcake.com)
— graphic by Steve Carey (astrosteve@lycos.com)
