A Green Leather Democracy

So I’m up too late watching Prime Minister’s Question Time on C-SPAN, and I find myself missing the oddest things about British politics. And wondering, in an up-too-late sort of way, if anyone has looked at the effect of the architecture of political debating chambers on debating styles and the democratic process. Because I have a nagging feeling that they’re linked, and the House of Commons is a model of how things ought to be done. Not the gothickery and the leather and such. The size and shape and topology.

You can’t have an adversarial system of government if the parties aren’t placed in opposition. It’s a fundamental tenet of British politics that the opposition’s job is to oppose, and it’s a damn good way to maintain checks and balances. But that opposition is so aptly supported by the chamber itself, which places the parties within spitting distance of each other across a no-man’s-land, on banked seating which means all faces can be seen, all gestures noted. Not for British politics the graceful arc, divided colourfully according to a rainbow of parties, all facing in the same direction. The benches resemble trenches in a war of political attrition.

More than that, the benches — and benches are what they are — are far too cramped to accommodate all who might wish to take part. In moments of greatest import, MPs spill out into the no-man’s-land, like those mythical WWI footballers. Day in and day out, they’re squished together, shoulder to shoulder, no room for ego. There’s a hint of school debating society about it, and that’s not entirely a bad thing. I miss that debate can switch from serious to jovial in a moment, that even across the trenches there are inside jokes, moments of levity and hilarity. It’s important, but it’s not that important, and one imagines enmities set aside the moment debate is finished and the bar opens.

The adversarial robustness is a terrific crucible in which a politician who wishes to get anywhere must be tested. Much is asked, in particular, of a British Prime Minister. During the hour or so of PM’s Questions he must cover a wealth of subject matter. Sometimes a mile wide and an inch deep, but even so. It’s a ruthless setting, and cracks are probed without mercy. Much as I might despair of Tony Blair’s messianic misadventure in Iraq, he’s a consummate politician, and this is his stage. He’s never less than in command of the spotlight. And, not for the first time (you knew this was coming, didn’t you?), I realise I would dearly love to see the Smirking Chimp placed in that sort of arena, without hand-holding, on a regular basis. He’d be left as a small brown puddle on the floor. After Dennis Skinner had done with him from that eager perch of his, Bush would be whimpering like a small dog. I regret the regal deference that’s paid to the office of US President. It’s a curtain behind which a pathetic Wizard of Oz can project a wholly misleading image of competence, or at least protect his incompetence from the sort of scrutiny that keeps democracy strong.

So, I miss the rough-and-tumble of British politics. I miss things being important, but not that important. I miss being able to assume, thanks to those green benches that face each other across the no-man’s-land, that whomever I might agree or disagree with, I can at least assume in them a basic level of competence and informedness. I’m tired of lacking even that in the most powerful man on the planet.