Our Bloke at Westminster

There could be no Spitting Image today. This isn’t a reflection on how bad ITV has become (they recently tried something called News Knight presented by the comic genius Trevor McDonald; saw one episode, was busy nailing my eyelids to the floorboards for the other five) but a reflection on how our political parties have descended into a bad brew of consensus politics.

Sure, PMQs still provides superb entertainment and, once in a while, we’re treated to a moment that may well make it into the history books, but does it actually mean anything?

With Brown and Cameron both desperately clambering for the middle ground we’ve seen grown men lob their own ideology straight out of the window. These guys will stop at nothing to showcase their all-things-to-all-men credentials. Gordon Brown invites Mrs T around for a Latte and emerges for an all-smiles photo shoot on the steps of Number 10 (Brown looking every bit the man who had just released a hostage after 30 years in his cellar). David Cameron legs it over to Alaska to get funky with a husky and then returns to stick a windmill on his roof. Cameron announces his intention to scrap a chunk of inheritance tax to be paid for by some rich Russians. Brown announces his intention to scrap a chunk of inheritance tax to be paid for by some, er, rich Russians. Blimey.

Any old dimwit knows that part of the political deal is to curry favour with as many people as you can but please, give us some choice. As the Tories and New Labour move ever-closer, the biggest losers in all of this are you and me. Despite urban myths that Neil Kinnock was more left than an Albanian keep-left sign and Margaret Thatcher would have happily shoved kids up chimneys if it had saved the nation a few quid, neither of these politicos actually lurked in the extremes of their own parties. They did, however, represent the basics of Right versus Left and that was a pretty good thing for democratic choice.

So, next time you’re having a pint and someone asks why we don’t see Spitting Image on the telly anymore, don’t blame Michael Grade, blame the men at the dispatch box

I’ve often told mates about how, as young teenager, I loved watching the weekly fest that was Prime Minister’s Question Time. This isn’t quite true. What had actually appealed to me was Spitting Image. The real life PMQs had simply been enhanced by the weekly goings-on in the ITV Sunday night schedule. (yes, ITV used to do satire). I’d somehow got hooked into a pattern of being mesmerised by the real Thatcher and Kinnock in order to be entertained by their puppet caricatures three days later. I suppose there was some kind of subtle education here; I don’t seriously believe I’d have given a tinker’s cuss about politics one way or another had it not been for the latex lunacy supplied by the bods down at the Spitting Image HQ. Gordon Brown The show was as much a part of Sunday as roast beef and a walk in a damp wood.

As a member of the Westminster Press Gallery I now sit and watch this weekly event for myself, and love every bit of it. To see PMQs in action is more than a tad impressive; this is raw, unrehearsed political theatre at its very best and perhaps our only chance to truly see a live-action example of what makes our political masters tick. Aside from lobbing a lion into the Chamber this is about as Gladiatorial as politics gets anywhere on the planet.

But there’s a problem.

Let’s rewind to those rubbery days of Spitting Image. It’s easy to see why the show appealed; it was superbly written, skilfully performed and hilarious on the eye. But there was something else. When it came to satirising Parliaments’ Finest, Spitting Image worked in the main because our political system was cut down the middle with an axe. Whatever your affiliation, watching puppets going nuts in the name of political humour was made all the more compelling because you knew it reflected a genuine difference in our leaders’ ideology; Thatcher and Kinnock were so far apart you could have stuck the Eurostar between them. Depending on where you nailed your colours, our politics had a good and a bad, a right and a wrong,
a charlatan and a hero. This is what made Spitting Image great.

1. Stand-in Lib Dem Leader Vince Cable has refused to meet The King of Saudi Arabia, citing the country’s human rights record as his reasons. The multi billionaire Saudi king must have been weeping into his A-Z when he realised a Liberal called Vincent had cancelled on him.

2. David Cameron says he’d be happy to do the job for half the money. He reckons MPs have too good. Easy for you to say Dave; when you’ve married into one of the richest land-owning families in the country, a drop of 30K from the household coffers tends not to dent the lifestyle too much.

3. MPs are not allowed to ask any questions in the House from now until the State Opening. It’s a period called Prorogation. Members are advised to use this time for other business. Other business? They just had three months off. Who knows where you end up when you instruct an MP to attend to ‘other business’, ahem.

4. Home Secretary Jacqui Smith says she stands by Police Chief Sir Ian Blair. This is despite his force being found guilty of breaching health and safety rules in the wake of the Stockwell shooting. She said I support people who keep this country safe from terrorism. Good to see that the years of closing ranks are well and truly behind us. Nice one Jacqui.

5. Immigration Minister Liam Byrne has been fined £100 after admitting using his mobile phone while driving. He said he was sorry but needed to take an important call about deportation. This is the bloke that described dangerous drivers as ‘the serial killers of the road’ - £100? Surely a couple of decades in the chiller would have been the only option. Idiot..

	Westminster canteen when I spied a group of people walking in my direction; half a dozen security characters surrounding a single lone figure. Wow. It was him. It was really him – it was the Prime Minister; and he was walking towards me. Look, I’m the man who has interviewed Hugh Grant and the bloke Dad’s Army (the one still alive) on the same day – I’m not easily impressed. Until now. Who knows what power does to mere men, but somehow, be it a perception, or a genuine new-found charisma, Mr B had undergone the most incredible metamorphosis. This was a man of some style and panache; well suited, neatly groomed with a confident walk and the face of a saviour. This looked like a fella you didn’t mess with; from dour to De Nero in just four months. As Britain’s most powerful figure walked towards me I did something really silly.	I’ve still no idea why. I tried to hide behind my doughnut. Now, this would be futile at any time but given the healthy chunks that had already been chomped, it was simply ridiculous. And then it got a whole lot worse. He spoke to me. ‘Good Morning’, said Mr Brown. Yikes. Clearly I had no choice but to offer up a reply. I had no idea I could do falsetto; as I replied good morning to our Prime Minister I sounded like a man who was having his foot tickled with a large feather. It was pathetic. There was no more conversation. Our PM moved on, presumably to run the country, and I stared feebly into my tea. They say that power corrupts; maybe so. What they don’t mention is that it also makes those on the receiving end of it feel slightly daft. I’ll be ready for Brown next time, you mark my words. I’ll also be armed with several more doughnuts.
This week I met the Prime Minister. Well, I saw the Prime Minister. He sort of said hello to me. We’re not meant to treat our Political Masters as celebs, but when they pop up on TV more often than Ant and Dec it’s difficult not see them in a similar light. So, what is the correct reaction when you come face to face with power? Gordon Brown has always been described as the most serious of parliamentarians; the dour Scotsman, even. This is a fella that cares nought about fashion, baulks at the idea of a make-over and probably thinks that Toni and Guy are an early 80s pop combo - there’s nothing showbiz about our Gordon. At least, there never used to be. I’ve bumped into Gordon Brown before. I remembered him as an ordinary chap with a baggy suit and a serious glare. This was my first encounter since he got the big gig. I was having a cup of tea and a doughnut in the