VIEW FROM THE GALLERY

Prime Minister's question time

SALLY VINCENT

When the ex-sergeant major with the golden necklace told me I was not allowed to wear my overcoat in the Gallery on account of it being against the rules, I might have guessed something was up—besides, that is, feeling doomed to swelter all afternoon in a defiant display of independence and paranoia. The fact, too, that certain reporters from our more right-inclined publications (bless their clubbable hearts) were sporting special Gallery correspondents' ties (bird and gate on navy blue, obtainable from a little man down the corridor) seemed to portend an occasion of more than ordinary significance, calling for more than usual fealty.

Down there in the Chamber, it looks like carnival time, for with no presSure from the Whips the House is jam-packed with members hovering seatless and seven-deep inside the door. At 3.15 precisely, our noble Prime Minister, home from voyages afar, is to present himself for members' questions. In a mood of restive anticipation, the cast build themselves up into a state of aggressive rivalry, pretending to quarrel, passing the time away in idle cuts and thrusts, flaccid as stale rubber daggers. The ritual of addressing all questions and answers directly to the Speaker seems more than ever like the strained situation where members of a family have sent each other to coventry and com- municate by passing messages through a third party. That way you can call your pro- tagonist a liar in the nicest possible way and gain points through the shortness of the shrift you allow him.

Two gentlemen pre sharpening their tongues on the issue of price increases. To the right a fellow asserts that the slight (boo boo from the left) rise in food prices (boo boo) is caused by the demand for 'con- venience' foods (boo boo shame) and people who want convenience foods will have to pay the correct price for them (shame shame). Despite the unmistakable support of his friends, the chap on the left with the right to reply decides to drop the whole thing in favour of exclaiming what a lot of good sense his Honourable friend has talked. Mr Heath has made his entrance and who wants to banter with a back-bencher when the big chief is available?

He settles himself across the floor from Harold Wilson, above whose head he smiles uneasily, as well he might since at any moment I could point my overcoat at him and bring down the Government. However, the Prime Minister is looking well. Sun- tanned tO a Technicolor hisduit, hair softly silver, painted sleekly across his head, shoulders relaxed and lowered within their excellently tailored trappings. Before cameras he may well resemble John Bird's imitation, but here in camps, if not a leader sage, he is most certainly a coolly confidept man. At his side, his mouth with its immovable top lip beguiled into a grimace redolent of a smile, sits Sir Alec Douglas-Home, wrapped in the warm bandages of his place on the right hand. Clearly he has every confidence in his man.

To the first two questions, our hero is able to rise sprucely, emit the words 'No Sir', deeply, confidently, and neatly resume his seat, to the intense pleasure of the troops behind him who whoop and crow and beam at each other. A frustrated Opposition voice complains of certain inconsistencies in the Prime Minister's behaviour and 'Order, order', sing out the Tories, 'not a question', `Out of hand', `yah boo'. The comment is neatly translated into a question but only gains an extra point for Heath who deals another dainty 'No Sir' and is rewarded by further boisterous expressions of rapture from his side, who are now positive they are winning the day.

So the left brings out its big guns. It would appear that on 16 June last year, Mr Heath made a statement to the effect that the balance of payments was heading down- hill and that the surplus would melt away in a matter of months, a prediction that has subsequently proved to be mistaken.

Roy Jenkins, lyrical and dignified as ever, demands that the Prime Minister admits his mistake, 'without blustering', suggesting that to do so would display his self-confidence.

Smooth as satin, Mr Heath replies that Jenkins cannot prove it was a mistake, at which the poor man swoons back in his seat as though poleaxed, with a faint cry of `Really!' The Tories count it as a victory for them, the Opposition snarls and Sir Alec leans forward to exchange congratulatory smiles along the length of the front bench. His man has scored again.

The voice of Harold Wilson bears its built-in sneer as it silences the cheers and boos. So now we know, he observes, that the Prime Minister's idea of his duty to his party and to the electorate is to say things that are not true and to hope they will not be denied. In Labour's furore of praise for their master's turn of phrase, the Prime Minister seems to reply 'Not in the least' although, of course, it was difficult to catch and he might just as well have been saying `Don't be a beast'.

And so Prime Minister's Question Time lapses into bickerings about who is answer- ing questions, refusing to answer questions, transferring questions, begging questions, asking questions of the wrong Minister and generally being incoherent. Occasionally the Prime Minister's shoulders raise themselves to ear level where they shake a little around his smile, but this is the only sign of faltering ego.

To redeem himself he sets out on a policy of negating everything that is said to him.

No, he will not divulge details of his talks with Nixon; nor will he discuss the future Bank rate; he does not plan to reduce the number of ministers in the Department of Employment and fuithermore he denies that he and his ministers refuse to answer questions. Our bronzed hero might have swanned through the entire afternoon in total political glory, had it not been for one small trip of the tongue. While delivering what would otherwise have been a tricky reference to the Tolpuddle Martyrs destined to crush Mr Dick Douglas (Clackmannan and East Stirlingshire) he slipped on his own satin and came out with `tollmuddle parters'.

Oh what bliss for the Opposition. Like parrots at a bagpiper they gush forth their merriment; on and on, roll upon roll, with snatches of song thrown in, a roar for the equaliser made all the more victorious for coming so gratuitously by default. The Prime Minister is transfixed, his shoulders well up and his smile a rictus. Force of habit produces the defence. He says, in a feat of transference perfected by only the most accomplished politicians, that he can quite understand Mr Douglas's embarrassment at getting his story wrong.

From now on, Ted's boys lay in wait for vengeance. Under cover of a debate about the takeover of Thomas Cook and Son, the Government seeks its opportunity. First blood, then, to young Winston Churchill, whose back pew affords him a view of human conflict not yet so broad as his grand- father's. But there, he is swift to notice that an opponent has foolishly knighted Mr Cook and is blithely referring to `Sir Thomas Cook'. `Sir', yells the clever Mr Churchill, and his companions seize the chance of a round of catcalls. Thus exhilarated, a man has only to venture 'Is it not true, Mr Speaker?' from the left for the entire Government to bellow back `Nol' and hug its witty sides. Joy is truly unconfined when a hapless soul men- tions the member for Worcester and Sir Gerald Nabarro is able to wreath his face with smiles and shout 'Worcester!' a term that fairly buckles his party. 'Worcester sauce', they call, `worcester sauce, worcester sauce'. One honourable member of our Government actually clasps his hands about his head and bounces his buttocks up and down on his seat. 'Worcester sauce', he cries and wipes a helpless tear from his eye.

So high are government spirits now, that when Mr Harold Wilson is earnestly de- scribing his wariness of 'crook' travel agencies and his forebodings over future safe conduct hither and thither for himself

and his colleagues, he unfortunately admits that knowledge and personal experience of bad dealings have come to him through members of his family. This is enough to set up a guffaw that has a duration of a little over a minute. 'Good old Mary', they chant, and 'you said it': Surely no British gentlemen have ever had more fun and certainly the possibilities of capping such a coup are re- mote. A sort,of post-coital sadness descends,

made all the more poignant by the Prime Minister's exit. He seems to take all the • excitement away with him. All we have left is the boring old business of what we are going to plod through next week,