Prime Minister’s Question Time, the weekly event which transforms the House of Commons into a blazing cauldron of raw political fury, was 50 years old yesterday.
The ritual Tweedledum-Tweedledee clash between the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition invariably generates mud-slinging and general rowdiness from the back-benches.
It is the only time of the week when one can be pretty certain that Parliament will take off the gloves and indulge in bare-knuckle verbal brawling.
Some MPs hate it, regarding this 30-minute session as no more than low knockabout comedy which has nothing to do with serious politics. And the Speaker John Bercow regularly has to call the House to order, usually adding the words: “The public hate it.”
But he is wrong. They love it. At a time when the main political parties are accused of morphing together, making them indistinguishable one from another, this is one of the few occasions when the snarling takes over from the smarming and the great gulf separating political opponents is exposed for all to see.
It is true: It is hugely entertaining. Some people have said that they prefer witnessing Prime Minister’s Question Time to a visit to the London Palladium.
For many years, MPs had been able to table Commons questions to the Prime Minister, but the parliamentary timetable meant that they were rarely “reached”.
This was unsatisfactory and MPs demanded an arrangement which made it possible to hold the Prime Minister to account at regular intervals. A report in 1959 recommended that two 15-minute slots, one on a Tuesday and the other on a Thursday, be set aside for questions to the Prime Minister.
A successful pilot experiment took place on July 18, 1961, and as a result the recommendations were put into practice on October 24, 1961.
The jousting had begun. The first two combatants were Prime Minister Harold Macmillan and the Leader of the Labour Opposition Hugh Gaitskell. In those days: the sessions were lively, but not so frenetic and raucous as they are today.
On one occasion, Macmillan was indulging in a long and bibulous lunch with some friends. Suddenly, a panic-stricken Downing Street official burst in on the scene. “Prime Minister,” he cried, “you are due to answer questions in the House of Commons in an hour’s time.”
Supermac was unperturbed. “Get Rab Butler to do it,” he said, waving his hand airily. “And on your way down send up another bottle of port.”
The nature of question time changed radically with the arrival of sound broadcasting to Westminster in the 1970s and television later on. Opponents of television warned that it would give free rein to show-offs to flaunt themselves in front of the cameras. And to an extent this has proved to be the case.