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The House of Commons meets on a Saturday for the first time since the Falklands war to vote on Boris Johnson’s renegotiated Brexit deal
The House of Commons meets on a Saturday for the first time since the Falklands war to vote on Boris Johnson’s renegotiated Brexit deal. Photograph: Uk Parliament/Reuters
The House of Commons meets on a Saturday for the first time since the Falklands war to vote on Boris Johnson’s renegotiated Brexit deal. Photograph: Uk Parliament/Reuters

30 years of televised parliament: how Westminster became mainstream entertainment

This article is more than 4 years old

From Thatcher’s fall to Johnson’s ‘Super Saturday’, political playwright James Graham unpicks the first three decades of on-screen politics – and picks his top 10 memorable moments

When Ian Gow, the member for Eastbourne, rose to his feet on 21 November 1989 to make the first televised speech in our most ancient of parliaments, it is fair to say he wasn’t too happy about it.

“I have always voted against the televising of the proceedings of this House,” said the Tory MP, and he was not alone. His ire stemmed partly from a letter that had been circulated to MPs three weeks earlier, confirming in his mind the cynical and unseemly nature of the whole ghastly endeavour.

“The impression you make on television,” Gow recounted from the advice contained in the memo, “depends mainly on your image (55%), with your voice and body language accounting for 38% of your impact. Only 7% depends on what you are actually saying.”

The guidance to camera-shy members went on to say: “We can guarantee to improve your appearance through a personal and confidential image consultation. You will learn if you need a new hairstyle – and where to get it – and the type of glasses to suit your face.”

Gow considered himself “beyond redemption on both counts”. Neil Kinnock sympathised, recalling that before he made his entrance on to what was now essentially a TV set, he had been handed a “papier poudré, which looks to me like cerebral blotting papers which apparently are for mopping one’s head”.

Self-deprecation aside, much of the dialogue came from MPs wearily accepting something that had divided Westminster, and been delayed by its members, for decades: the inevitability of the mass media age. Not only on the issue of picking your best side for the camera, but over deep philosophical anxieties about the nature of democracy, and the very soul of a democratic chamber itself.

Today, as we approach the 30th anniversary of that first televised session, it is hard for most of us to imagine what the fuss was about – not least a younger generation so used to capturing and sharing almost anything and everything as part of daily life. This is especially true of the withdrawal agreement, a year-long soap opera that has seen live parliamentary coverage cross over from niche geek activity to mainstream spectator sport. John Bercow, until recently Speaker of the House, is now a star on the continent, where an app can imitate him saying: “Uuuuhhhder”, and BBC Parliament even enjoyed a ratings spike that briefly took it above MTV. It would be hard for any democrat to argue today that a citizen has no right to see inside.

John Reith first pushed the idea of parliamentary broadcasting as far back as the 1920s, but it was never given serious consideration until Harold Wilson arrived in No 10 for his “white heat of technology” revolution. What precipitated the unthinkable? The 1960s had brought a sharp rise in TV interviews and panel debates between politicians, and there was a rising sense that the “supreme forum” of national debate was being substituted for something baser. So in May 1965, the member for Ilford (the appropriately named Mr TL Iremonger), begged to move that “the maximum involvement of a responsible people in the processes of parliamentary government is a sure guarantee of liberty”, and it was time to directly enter people’s homes.

But a select committee investigation and test screenings brought unfavourable feedback, and members voted against. As they again did in 1972. And 1975. It took more than 22 years and 11 debates before a sea-change occurred – in that bastion of forward-looking modernity, the House of Lords.

A sort of “out of town tryout” was initiated in “the other place” by Christopher Soames – leader of the Lords and son-in-law of the orator-in-chief, Winston Churchill – in December 1983. They tested it in January 1985, when Harold Macmillan – whose own premiership had been destined to end when he was mocked in a theatre by Peter Cook and the rest of Beyond the Fringestole the show.

The Commons, whose inhabitants would be elected by those watching, after all, had many concerns. Who was going to edit the coverage? Would exhibitionists get to hog the mike? Would it change the character of the house, turning politics into mere performance – the substance, the nuance gone?

But the die seemed cast by 1989, when the leader of the House reported back from the select committee with reassurances: “Eight remote-controlled cameras will be mounted just under the galleries and will be as unobtrusive as we can make them. We went into lighting with some care, as many honourable members feel passionately about the subject.”

Only a standard head-and-shoulders shot would be permitted. There would be limited use of wide-angle shots, a limit on the use of reaction shots, and a prohibition on the use of split-screen. No panning, just straight cuts. All in the interests of fair coverage and balance. It didn’t take long for the pressures of “good drama” to intervene. Only weeks after opening night on 21 November, the restriction on reaction shots was relaxed.

Today, the controller of BBC Parliament, Peter Knowles, tells me that the intention is to “make you feel like you are part of the event. We see members who are actively taking part in the debate – not just when they are speaking – and in the floor-level shots you see the chamber much as the Speaker sees it, which gives some thrilling moments of drama.

“There’s suddenly – and perhaps surprisingly – a big appetite for the authenticity and rawness.”

And it is thrilling. At least, I think so. I began watching footage of the House on the evening news as a boy in the early 90s, as the industries in my Nottinghamshire village began to disappear as a consequence of the discussions and the votes taking place on the TV. Getting to know the faces, learning the names. It’s a fascination that fed into the writing of my play This House for the National Theatre in 2012, about the high drama of the 1974 hung parliament.

So, have the old anxieties passed about turning the chamber into a variety hall and politics into mere performance – about parliament becoming a place where the best actors triumph over the best minds, with elected representatives in the chamber not so much speaking to each other as simply broadcasting to those outside? The motivation for Boris Johnson’s war against parliament was the message being sent out to his leave base – he had little time for winning around the people sitting opposite him. And Jeremy Corbyn’s final question in PMQs is no question at all, but clippable content to share among the Momentum network.

My own local MP, Gloria De Piero, retiring this year and a former TV news star herself, champions the way the cameras force you to think of your constituents watching at home. When getting to her feet, she says: “I am totally thinking about my constituents, and bringing their voice to parliament.” She doesn’t judge those who use the stage to grandstand and wax lyrical, “but I just can’t think of the job like that”. The best question she thinks she ever asked was 11 words long, to David Cameron: “Does the prime minister support the closure of local police stations?”

The British remain squeamish about cameras entering other public spaces, courtrooms in particular. Yet this too is now being trialled. The direction of travel was set, 30 years ago this month. But as the boundaries continue to blur between real and manufactured, truth and lies – as a reality TV star prepares to fight for a second term in the White House, having instigated a new culture of constant campaigning that is taking root here – our anxieties over politics as exciting television persist. We celebrate what has been gained, but fret over what we may have lost.

Cameras in the Chamber: a history in 10 scenes

1. Geoffrey Howe resigns, 13 November 1990

Sir Geoffrey Howe makes his resignation speech. Photograph: PA

Iconic for what it captured on camera as well as the events it precipitated off (the Iron Lady would be out two weeks later). The camera cut from the quiet assassin on the backbenches to the stony-faced Thatcher listening upfront, staring forward, trapped in the frame and possibly cursing the decision to let the cameras roll a year before. Howe joked about her cabinet being a cricket team whose “bats have been broken before the game by the team captain”; the laughter that followed echoes down the ages to all restless leaders looking over their shoulders.

2. ‘I’m enjoying this!’, 22 November 1990

Photograph: BBC

Margaret Thatcher reclaimed the spotlight on the day of her resignation, refusing to be cowed by the Commons. “Her performance was as tough and uncompromising as ever,” came the Paxman review that night. There are some classic, quotable lines for sure, such as her attack on the Liberal Democrat MP Simon Hughes. “He would rather the poor were poorer, provided the rich were not richer,” said Thatcher, mockingly demonstrating her view of socialist economics with her fingers to the delight of loyalists behind. Then came a classic quip from Dennis Skinner. In response to the question of whether Thatcher would continue her fight against a central European bank, the Beast of Bolsover volunteered from his sedentary position: “No, she’s gonna be the governor”. Cue a roar of laughter, unusual for coming from all sides – including the Iron Lady, who had been crying only hours before. “What a good idea!” she cried, giving a swing of her fist.It was such a bravura swansong that the party may have already begun to regret getting rid of her. And she knew it. “I’m enjoying this,” she trumpeted with a smile.

3. The death of John Smith, 12 May 1994

Margaret Beckett talks to the house after the death of John Smith MP. Photograph: BBC

It’s often the more sombre sessions that bring out the best behaviour. John Major should have been facing John Smith at the dispatch box that day, but the Commons instead met together in grief. “When I think of John Smith, I think of an opponent, not an enemy,” said Major. Despite her clear grief, Margaret Beckett – who as deputy leader took the place of her friend – was impossibly dignified as she informed the House of the closing words of a speech Smith had given the night before: “‘The opportunity to serve our country. That is all we ask.’ Let it stand as his epitaph.”

4. Robin Cook resigns, 17 March 2003

Robin Cook resigns as foreign secretary in the runup to the invasion of Iraq, 2003. Photograph: PA

There were many turbulent and emotional scenes in the lead-up to the Iraq invasion in 2003; the resignation of the respected former foreign secretary, who could not support the war, was one. “History will be astonished,” he rightly predicted. Note that man to the left of the frame, sitting behind him – a future Labour leader and key player in the Stop the War coalition.

5. Purple rain, 19 May 2004

Photograph: BBC

One of the more surreal moments, as a screaming Fathers4Justice campaigner in the public gallery launched a flour bomb at Tony Blair, which connected with his shoulder and burst into a purple puff. No one knew what the concoction was, so the session was suspended immediately. A Perspex barrier has sealed off the gallery from the chamber ever since.

6. ‘That is that. The end’, 27 June 2007

Photograph: AFP via Getty Images

Tony Blair ended his tenure with a quieter turn than Thatcher, paying tribute to the House despite admitting he was not exactly a “Commons man”. Politics, he said to the occasional swallow, was the arena that set the heart beating a little faster, a place for noble causes. “I wish everyone, friend or foe, well. And that is that. The end.” A highly unusual (and technically forbidden) standing ovation from the entire chamber followed.

7. Tributes to Jo Cox, 20 June 2016

Jo Cox’s empty seat in the House of Commons, 20 June 2016. Photograph: PA

As with the death of John Smith, this was an occasion everyone would sooner had never taken place. But it was also, once again, a deeply moving national moment that showed the House at its humane best, and a testament to a clearly loved colleague. The white rose of Yorkshire was worn by every member and also occupied the seat – alongside a red rose – where Cox should have been, as her friends repeated the sentiment now familiar (though still too frequently ignored) from her maiden speech: “We have more in common than that which divides us.”

8. May government found in contempt, 4 December 2018

Photograph: Xinhua/Barcroft Images

The Netflix-style saga around the withdrawal agreement’s traumatic passage through parliament has too many episodes from which to choose, from the points-of-order attacks against the Speaker for selecting the Grieve amendment, to Labour members trying to prevent the proroguing of parliament, to the final fall of May. But this is where it began: a government voted 311 to 293 to be found in contempt of parliament for the first time in history. One member is heard to call out “beginning of the end”. Talk about spoilers.

9. Rosie Duffield recounts her abuse, 2 October 2019

Rosie Duffield is comforted after delivering her domestic abuse speech to the House of Commons. Photograph: Parliament tv

There is no better recent example of MPs reminding us they are real people, with real lives, than Rosie Duffield’s brave and precise account of the ways, big and small, that abusers can trap those that they abuse. She makes it all the way to the end before allowing her grief to flow out, to be immediately swamped with hands by her colleagues and friends.

10. Saturday matinee, 19 October 2019

Britain’s PM Johnson speaks ahead of losing a vote on his renegotiated Brexit deal. Photograph: UK Parliament/Reuters

The first televised weekend fixture in the House’s history. It must have been serious. Kick-off was 9.30am and the big vote to delay a vote on Johnson’s deal was passed around 3pm. It didn’t have the fireworks or the memorable lines of other Brexit sittings – in fact, everyone was trying to be very collegiate and statesperson-like. How much of that had to do with the cold light of a Saturday? Or was it a greater understanding of the little lenses fixed menacingly around the chamber, as they have been now for three decades, the knowledge of a captivated world watching?

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