Westminster Corridors
Friends, acquaintances, nay even discerning critics, of Tom Puzzle need hardly be told that his standards in social matters are sufficiently elevated that he disapproves, aye he burgeons with displeasure at the truly lamentable standards of this Parliament which will take its place with the Rump Parliament or the Long Parliament made notorious in history by its nomenclature. I declare it the Scruffy Parliament; it is a sartorial disgrace.
Only another Pride's Purge, when the gentlemen of Savile Row surround the Palace of Westminster and exclude the slovens, the eccentrics, the kilted, the duffle jackets, the monstrous tweeds, polo neck sweaters (I jest not), sports coats, and Mr Leo Abse, can save the very fabric of the Constitution being rent.
Puzzle does not ask for miracles. With the sad departure of dear Sir Gerald, the echoes of whose splendid voice are only now dying down, we have probably seen the last black tile hat on Budget Day, although it seems like only yesterday when that great figure Sir William Darling Bt enhanced the Chamber in spats, cravat, and wing collar. True Mr Norman St John-Stevas knows a peacock-green lining when he sees one but the effect is totally lost by the way he scuffs along as if his legs were pinned to the tail of his shirt.
As ever in these matters of morale and discipline the rot starts at the top. It is, of course, patiently obvious to anyone, not excluding the lowliest cutter in Hector Powe, that Mr Heath presents insuperable difficulties which would baffle even the genius who covers the epicene frame of Master Haseltine. The immense strain placed upon any garment by the skipper's heaving shoulders necessitates such powerful bracing in the back that he is unable to bend at the elbow. That was no reason for him to purchase his clothing from the nearest ship's chandlers, who clearly bought the material from a linoleum manufacturer in Kirkcaldy.
The effect on the lower ranks is totally demoralising. Take for example that curious partnership between Mr John Gorst, the Conservative member for Hendon, and Mr Brian Walden, the Birmingham Labour backbencher. We are reliably informed in the news sheets that Mr Walden works for Mr Gort's public relations firm as a parliamentary adviser. Mr Walden explains that the task is to explain Parliament to business and not vice versa. But how does Mr Gorst explain Mr Walden to his clients?
For Mr Gorst is the hour glass of fashion and tends to light suitings to bring out his grey coiffure and honest blue eyes which stare you straight in the face like all the best PR men. Mr Walden, on the other hand, is every half-inch the man from Birmingham. On normal occasions he is usually clad in garments which might adorn an extra in a provincial production of Love on the Dole, his scrawny neck rattling around inside a curly collar held in place by a strip of diseased cloth which passes for a necktie.
Should Mr Walden, by some inscrutable process, decide that the occasion is more festive, thereby requiring greater sartorial elegance, he then effects IPC electric-blue suiting with padded shoulders and the coat brushing the knees. (One suspects braces and a belt, but the waist is never on public view for confirmation.) Clearly Messrs Walden and Gorst can discount any possibility of obtaining the account of the Tailor and Cutter until a Royal Commission has sat on Mr Walden.
However the Birmingham business man is not the only offender. Mr English stalks the corridors trailing couds of dandruff as he comes whilst Mr Merlyn Rees always seems to have emerged, not from the Irish Office but from some Irish bog. Mr Shore, of course, looks as if he fell in trying to help Mr Rees out, and in charge of party discipline is Mr Robert Mellish who has never been wised out of his demob suit. No space for the multitude of other offenders but Puzzle will return to the topic. Damned Scruffy Parliament.
Tom Puzzle
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