When I meet a parliamentarian my first question is always: do you know where your nearest fire exit is? Because the Palace of Westminster, built on Thorney Island, an eyot in Thames, is falling apart. Not falling down (though the Victoria Tower leans 22mm to the north-west) but apart.
It is an exquisite metaphor for our parliamentary democracy. The palace is unsafe, and last week Parliament decided what it would do about it. Nothing.
It last burned down on October 16, 1834, after two workmen burnt some tally sticks, an ancient form of record, in a stove under the Lords chamber and the chimney caught fire. The 11th-century Westminster Hall only survived because it was already in scaffold. The historian Thomas Carlyle was in the crowd that night and wrote: “A man sorry I did not anywhere see”. (This was before universal suffrage).
If the palace were any other workplace it would be ruled unsafe, and they would be moved into portacabins like schoolchildren. But parliamentarians, who are a curious blend of self-hatred, grandiosity and cynicism, do not pay themselves that courtesy.
For a decade they have dithered. They have pondered “full decant” — the sensible option, at £13 billion or so, is moving out — and “continued presence” while work is done, which is more expensive, and hubristic. Do they think they are the ravens in the Tower? That if they leave, the palace will fall?
They were supposed to choose their preferred option by the end of this Parliament, but they — meaning the Treasury — don’t want to spend money on something as minor as the seat of democracy so close to a general election: let it be Labour’s problem. They will now only “take note” of the options — they know the options — while further “scoping work” is carried out. Each week, the costs rise by £2 million: the patchwork option.
I toured the palace five years ago. Its creators, Charles Barry and Augustus Pugin, were marvellous but they died before it was finished in 1870, and left us Gormenghast: 1,180 rooms, 4,000 windows, 126 staircases and 980 feet of river frontage. I interviewed an engineer about it. “By 2025,” he told me, “half of everything I see will be classified as at major risk of failure and everything else won’t be far off”. He showed me the basement, which smells appalling, and the giant chimney: almost every room has a fireplace but none has been lit since 1956. There are recesses filled with faulty pipework: no one knows what is there. There are leaks, rats, asbestos, rotting masonry and fires. On the day of the EU referendum the basement flooded. The Victoria Tower is most important archive in the country, and it would take a year to remove all the documents — in an emergency.
We’ve been here before. Barry’s palace was three times over budget and took five times longer than estimated to build. I don’t know if Gormenghast is the right home for our modern legislature — I wonder if it drives parliamentarians mad and alienates the rest — but doing nothing is the worst option.
If parliamentarians don’t care about Parliament, who will? I know it’s hack, but I think of the captain’s line from Titanic, after the ship hit the iceberg: “I believe you may get your headlines”.
Spare us this Bully furore
A walk to defend the XL Bully dog took place on Saturday, to persuade the Government not to sanction the breed. The flyer said: “Let’s show how gentle the XL Bully really is! Bring as many kids and people as possible!”
In common with people mauled by Bullies — a growing number, and some are dead — the walk suffered some teething problems. It was quickly pointed out that putting all the Bullies in the same place with as many children as possible was not a great idea. They are fighting dogs. So dogs were banned. Then only dogs that were older than six months were banned.
As with any crisis, the Bully furore has exposed more about people than about dogs. Bully lovers talked about “racism for dogs”. Bully haters asked if they could walk a six-metre saltwater crocodile down Dalston High Road (“He’s really friendly”).
More as it comes.
