The problem is the Post-its. Many criticisms have been made of prime minister’s questions (pmqs). It has been called “boorish”, “childish” and “rude”. Sir Tony Blair thought it “unforgiving”; David Cameron called it “Punch and Judy politics”. It can be cruel: it was at PMQs that Boris Johnson called Sir Keir Starmer “a pointless human bollard” and “Captain Crasheroony Snoozefest”. It can cause shock—and awe. “I count my blessings”, George H.W. Bush said, that “I don’t have to go into that pit.”
But PMQs is changing. “Captain Crasheroony” does not bring insults to PMQs. Instead he brings a nice, smart A4 file, neatly flagged with Post-its. Then he opens it and says things like: “Clean energy is at the heart of this mission-driven government.” He is not boorish, childish or rude. Or interesting. He is unlikely to strike fear into foreign presidents. He does have a splendid collection of stationery.
And that too is a problem. Listen closely in the corridors of power and you will hear the usual worries: that Britain’s finest hour is over; that the cradle-to-grave NHS is in its grave; that even the white heat of AI technology won’t save us. But you will hear another worry too: that politicians can no longer even articulate our inadequacy. That phrases such as “finest hour” (Winston Churchill) and “white heat of technology” (Harold Wilson) and even “corridors of power” (C.P. Snow) are no longer being coined. That, as one MP put it, “the day of oratory is passing.”
Given that that MP was a young Churchill it is possible that the death of rhetoric has been exaggerated. Memory is a poor judge of oratory, since memorable phrases are just that: memorable. The sieve of history will therefore tend to catch the best and lose the rest. But something does seem to be changing, quantitatively as well as qualitatively. Study a century of parliamentary speeches (excluding interjections of under 100 words) and a pattern emerges.
In 1938 the average speech was almost 1,000 words long. In 1965 James Callaghan delivered a budget speech that was almost 19,000 words: less a speech than a novella. Until 1970 the average was still almost 900. Then they start to shrink—dramatically so after 2015, when video functionality appeared on Twitter (now X). Last year the average was 460: less a novella than a few tweets (see chart).
This matters. Britain is in trouble. Its GDP has barely risen in five years. It needs to grow. Yet speak to people in business and few have a sense of how the government hopes to make this happen. Political speeches are, says Michael Gove, a former Conservative minister, more than mere messaging. “Think in ink” was, he says, a phrase he lived by when in government. Write a speech down and “it has to be logical.” People sniff at slogans but words are not witchcraft. They are simply thoughts on the page. Sir Keir needs to offer his, clearly to the country. A stationary country requires more than stationery from its PM.
This matters historically too. British politics has been shaped by combative debate. Leaders at PMQs stand, it is said, two swords’ length apart. Their week is defined by that joust: PMQs lasts for only half an hour in total but Margaret Thatcher spent almost eight hours preparing for it. Debate defines who becomes a politician: a list of former presidents of the Oxford Union is a “Who’s Who” of British politics—William Hague, Mr Gove, Mr Johnson.
Arguably Britain has overemphasised argument. Open the first edition, published in 1844, of “Erskine May”, the parliamentary handbook, and between advice on whether one can hiss in the House of Commons (one cannot) or insult the monarch in it (definitely not), you will find 87 mentions of the word “debate” but only five of the word “constituents”. This is Parliament less as a democratic tool than a debating club with a country inconveniently attached to it.
Debate shaped its elite institutions. For centuries, students at Eton, Oxford and Cambridge stood at despatch boxes to debate the issues of the day. The titles of these offer an index of each era’s anxieties: in Oxford, students considered such topics as pacifism (“This House will in no circumstances fight for its King and its Country”), the rise of socialism (“this House deplores” it) and delicate questions of feminism (“Woman: Angel or Idiot?”).
Talking less, tweeting more
Such debates might seem absurd. They are also excellent preparation for Westminster. Points are not awarded for factual knowledge or deducted for ignorance. Victory comes, as in politics, with a vote. Thus the “person with the funniest jokes wins”, says Simon Kuper in “Chums”, a book on Oxford politicians. This trains you “very well for survival and success in the House of Commons”. Though not necessarily, as Mr Johnson’s eloquent but chequered career shows, for how to run a country well.
To understand the state of English oratory, creep into Parliament’s press gallery. This offers the usual blend of decadence and decay. It has a doorman in bowtie and tails, magnificent leather seats and frayed carpets. Sit here and you are close enough to hear the PM turn the pages with those Post-its. But do not look at him; turn and look at the press gallery behind. Except at PMQs, it will be almost entirely empty.
The real problem with Parliament is not just that people cannot speak. It is that nobody is listening. “Parliament”, says Ben Griffin, a senior lecturer in history at Cambridge University, “is becoming peripheral”. It is notable that Britain’s fastest-growing political party has just five MPs. Parliament’s benches are less a place to go to pose questions than to pose for clips on X. This House seems to believe old-fashioned debating is a waste of time. ■
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