The speaker of the house
There I was sitting in the kitchen watching a Champions League game between; well to be honest it was so boring I can’t even remember who was playing, so I began switching channels, eventually landing on Sky News.
Sky were in what the Brits call ‘The Mother of Parliaments’ — the rest of us simply call it the House of Commons.
I hardly need to mention what the topic the learned ladies and gentlemen were discussing but we’ll just say the ‘B’ word was being used constantly, along with words such as ‘hard’, ‘soft’ and a few others in between.
To say it was fascinating would be an understatement.
It was certainly more interesting than looking at spoilt, over paid ground footballers rolling around like they had been hit by a scud missile forcing them to roll over four or five times before coming to a sudden stop, holding their head, knee or ankle; helped to the sideline before sprinting back on to the pitch as if nothing, which more times than not, had happened in the first place.
Anyway, back to the House of Commons where a vote had just taken place on the ‘B’ subject and the result of the ballot was about to be announced.
Your man on the high chair, John Bercow, aka the Speaker (Seán Ó Fearghaíl’s equivalent in the House of Commons) was wearing robes that reminded me of curtains that used to hang in me late granny’s sitting room.
Enjoying every minute of his centre stage role in this entire affair, the Speaker was handed a piece of paper, the result after the boys and girls from England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland (well at least one side of the divide from up North; the other side, The Shinners, don’t participate in the House, ironically while they have a problem with the ‘Crown’ they have no problem with the half crown, if you get me drift).
Anyway and to make a long story even longer, Mr Bercow addressed The House, that at this stage had gone as quiet as the big punters went when Ruby parted company with Benie Des Dieux at the last in Cheltenham.
Speaker Bercow, was on his feet which automatically sees all other ‘members’ sit immediately. A bit like a dog having been given instructions to ‘sit’ from his master.
Having scanned the piece of paper the Speaker delivered its results in that very distinctive and authoritative manner.
The ayes to the right 245; the nays to the left 394.
The nays have it.
The n-a-y-s have it.
Suddenly the boys and girls go all giddy shouting ‘Yeahhh’ for support and a sort of ‘No/Whoo’ from the other side while rotating between sitting and standing.
It was some craic, I can tell
As it turned out it was another defeat for the Theresa wan. You know her, she usually wears a necklace that looks like a larger version of what we used to call pearls back in the day, only much bigger and the colour of plums that had just gone off.
Poor Theresa. Wouldn’t you have to feel sorry for her?
Well, not really — while she was handed a poison chalice when that other lad that speaks like he had one of Sarah Flood’s gob stoppers permanently in his mouth, David What’shisname, resigned; the bauld Theresa put her hand up, got the gig and while things have gone down and down ever since, some people, especially folk in Ireland mind you, think highly of her.
How often have you heard people say “Isn’t she great”; “where does she get her energy from?” or “how does she keep going?”
The woman is a disaster.
She can’t even get the support of her own party never mind Corbyn’s cowboys, who don’t seem to know whether they are coming or going.
Yet she keeps coming back.
It’s like backing a horse, if your luck is out, you don’t keep backing the same nag; you look elsewhere for a winner.
Ah but those Brits are a stubborn lot.
But they’re great craic, nevertheless, you have to give them that.
Hilarious at times.
And do they get paid for all this hilarity, I wonder to meself.
Well if The Shinners get paid for not turning up (either up North or on the Mainland), I suppose those who go into The House and provide us with pantomime that you couldn’t make up, are certainly entitled to a few bob.
When it comes to the Queen’s shillings, it’s all yaes; not even a murmur of a nay!
As for the Champions League?
If it’s a bit of craic you’re after, The House of Commons is your only man (or woman).