Last orders at the bar, please

One of my closest friends at university who now, and for reasons entirely unrelated to the following anecdote lives on the other side of the world, had a form of what I used to call "Cassandra syndrome." It was an inadequate description but it was the best I could come up with and, anyway, this was Magdalene College, Cambridge in the early noughties and I have a vague recollection of being a nauseatingly pretentious undergraduate.

Matt (not his real name; I've changed it to protect the guilty) had this amazing gift. After a few beers and a few minutes of conversation with someone he'd never met, he was able to see deep into the darkest recesses of his companion's soul. He'd see the scars left by past loves, and insecurities - legacies of ancient parental spite - flourishing years later as crippling neuroses. Anybody else have "rugby girls" at University? You know, the ones who had a single mission in life to date the captain of the rugby team and whose main job as the self-appointed First Lady of College was to look hot at all times and be studiously and gratifyingly oblivious to the fact her seventeen-stone boyfriend was bending one in to half the female freshers who didn't know any better? Matt was AWESOME when sat on a table of this sort of embryonic it-girl, because his powers as an Oracle were supplemented with a horrific side-effect.

After a couple of beers, Matt would feel the irresistible need to tell everybody in hearing range about his discoveries.

He didn't mean to, and it was done without malice. In fact, after a large night out, Matt would spend the day apologising to anybody he may have met the night before and vowing to stay off the demon drink forever.

This rather long lead-in is by way of saying that I know how Matt feels, blogospherically speaking: I get the distinct impression that, after the next election, there will be little room for a tongue-in-cheek writing. I've met the future and it seems to comprise of grimly delivering leaflets with the word "PROGRESSIVE" in them in the pouring rain whilst wearing a hairshirt made out Fabian pamphlets and calling for "national debates" about stuff of interest only to the New Statesman editorial team and the dullest of policy wonks. Like Matt, I can see the blogospheric future and I have no wish to be part of if it. And truth be told, I'm not a good blogger - I don't blog regularly enough on the "correct" issues, and when I do it is with too much levity.

As well as this, I think it's time I concentrated on my career. I worked hard at school, straight A student, went to University, and slogged unglamorously for a number of MPs for eight years. Yet I see stories of people fresh out of college who, by the apparent virtue of nepotism, are inserted into researcher jobs on higher salaries than me. If this sort of thing makes me, and remember I've been here all of my adult life, despondent about politics, God only knows what message it sends out to the rest of the population. As I've lamented on the Tavern before, why-o-why did I lack the foresight to be born to senior courtiers? I could be living the sweet life by now!

So, no thanks. Like Cassandra and Matt I can see what's coming, but unlike them I'm quitting whilst I'm ahead. People, it's been a blast. Thanks to all who have commented and everybody - left and right - I've crossed swords (or, in the case of any posting on my part about how racism is bad even if it's against the Jews, chemical weapons) with. Cheers also to PooterGeek, Paulie and @molesworth_1 who have, in particular, made it fun.

My last action before I nail bits of crooked wood over the door to Sadie's Tavern is to plug the new blog of my old friend and all round legend, Mark D'Arcy of Today in Parliament fame. Anyone who actually cares about what goes on in Westminster in terms of legislation and committees and the business of Government and the House (as opposed to what dress Mrs Cameron is wearing and whether Nick Clegg dunks his Rich Teas) should check it out here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/markdarcy/

And with that, it's time at the bar please.

AFTERTHOUGHT: My recent dalliance with death (according to more excitable members of my family) has also made me think twice about my commitments, and has certainly had a bearing on the closure of t'pub.

Oh, shut up Henry

Once again that tedious old high-Tory proponent of negative liberty, Henry Porter, heartens all would-be journalists by demonstrating that an inability to undertake the most basic research and a propensity to wilfully distort the facts through the medium of a writing style which would have a Key Stage 3 teacher weeping with horror, need not be a barrier to a lucrative column in a Sunday newspaper.

This week, the scourge of the Police State (est 1997, proprietor: Anthony Charles Lynton Blair) turns his forensic eye on the goings on at a Watford playgroup. At this facility, parents have been banned from watching their kids play by a Stalinist group of - and you can hear Henry's jowls quivering with rage as he types this phrase - "play rangers". This Gestapo of vetted council staff has cattle-prodded these concerned parents out of eyeshot of their kids on the spurious grounds that they might be paedophiles. It's PEECEE GAWN MAAAAAAD! I ask you: did the Magna Carta die in vain? What about the Human Rights Act? George appalled it's like turning grave Orwell Nineteen Eighty-Four all over again (re-arrange to assemble cliche of choice)?

"If parents want to watch their children they should damned well be allowed to do so. No officially sanctioned "play ranger" should have supervisory rights over a child in a public "open access" playground that in any way tops the child's parents' rights," trumpets Henry, indignantly.

There's just one problem with this story. It's bollocks.

The Liberal Democrat Voice and the Liberal Conspiracy have comprehensively debunked the original Metro article that gave rise to Henry's latest bout of apoplexy over ainshunt libertees which you should read in full. In summary: they are not "open access" playgrounds, they are supervised facilities in which the children undertake activities that could be dangerous if they are concentrating on making sure that their parents are watching them rather than watching what they are doing. And, in spite of the fevered imaginings of both Porter and the Daily Mail, there's not a mention of a paedophile in sight.

The response of the Mayor, "evidently a simple minded woman" according to Henry Porter, in response to the allegations is robust:

"What has happened is that at Harwoods a handful of parents have been staying on, not just dropping their kids off. After a number of incidents, staff that run the facility felt that the presence of these parents was hampering their ability to supervise the kids properly - who remember are engaging in risky play and do need to be given full attention. They've now brought the site in line with Harebreaks, where parents don't stay on and they have no problems.

"Quotes attributed to me have been taken out of context - I'm not saying adults shouldn't be allowed on playgrounds - I'd go and shoot myself if this was the case - only on these specialised play facilities! We have 40 other playgrounds elsewhere in the Borough where parents are welcome to stay."

The Metro made it up, then? Who'd a thunk it?

So, some might read St Henry of Magna Carta's reference to Mayor Dorothy Thornhill and think that he owes her an apology for smearing her as an "evidently ... simple minded woman". The more unkind of us might also think that "people in glasshouses shouldn't..." And some might also contend that those who pass judgement on a case without giving it a fair trial might be happier in a police state than a democracy. Personally, I think the latter is a somewhat fatuous response to the complexities of modern life, often deployed by those who respond to any subtlety by howling "police state" like a banshee until the Comment is Free lynch mob arrives to save them from their intellectual inadequacy.

But I'm not Henry Porter.

On how whipping can be good for you

I really like the Liberal Conspiracy, but in every basket of premium truffles there's the occasional wild boar poo, and today this analogy manifests itself in a piece about how Parliament can be successfully reformed by abolishing the three line whip.

The reasoning behind this, the theory runs, is that MPs are vacuous (although ambitious) sheep who are herded through the lobby by the whips. These shadowy Machiavellian, Francis Urquhart types operate at the behest of The Party Leader. The Party Leader is the King Jong Il of British politics who directs the entire operation according to his or her personal whims, which are always at variance to the unheard cries of the people and the principles of democracy as set out in the Magna Carta ... etc etc ad Henry Porterum.

Naturally, if this evil system were abolished all walls would fall, all voices would shout for joy, and the political "Golden Age" of an engaged electorate that never existed - this is a kinda left-wing version of the Daily Mail's periodic jisms about how life was better in the 1950s when a chap could beat his wife - will come to pass.

Great idea, huh? Well, actually no.

Under normal circumstances I would feel embarrassed at presenting Tavern regulars with a version of Representative Politics for Dummies, but having read the author of the article's explanation of how the whipping system works, it seems that we have to go back to basics here.

Here comes the patronising bit: concentrate!

Imagine I am a floating voter, and reasonably engaged in the political process. In the period running up to the general election I study manifestos, watch the debates, and decide that - by and large - the Labour Party is broadly right for me. Although I'm not sure about some of the stuff they advocate (hey, you can't please everyone, eh?), I do agree with what they say on extra investment in the NHS, tax credits, and welfare reform.

The Labour candidate in my constituency is duly elected and returned to Parliament, whereupon he promptly votes against extra investment in the NHS, refers to tax credits as "throwing money at a class of people who are only interested in rutting in their own filth" on Sky News, and fails to vote at all on Welfare Reform because he's addressing a meeting at the Policy Exchange entitled, "The Labour Party: Are All Of Them Scumbags?" He's first speaker for the proposition.

Well, if I was that imaginary floating voter, I'd be a little pissed off. I voted for a party primarily, and I might think that if Mr Nobody McRandom MP felt that strongly about key policies he should have got his ass elected under a different banner instead of wilfully misleading the electorate about what he stood for and what he subsequently planned to deliver. I'd feel a little bit deceived.

People do vote for individual MPs but primarily they vote for parties. Don't believe me? Why do you think opinion polls cause such joy and desolation in variously CCHQ, Victoria Street, and wherever the Liberal Democrats hang out these days? It isn't unreasonable that, having returned a party to Government, they deliver upon their policy promises.

In addition, although it sounds nice that MPs make a personal and principled decision on every piece of legislation, the entire system would grind to a halt if everyone had to head down the library to work out whether progressive politics is best served by an aye or no vote on the Thickness of Bog Paper in HM Treasury (No.2) Bill. Either that, or progress would be severely compromised if people simply didn't bother turning up for votes on dull sounding stuff like *cough* the Marine Bill because it didn't personally interest them and it didn't carry much weight with the voters at home. Sod the long term future of the fishing industry, an East Midlands MP might declare, my area's landlocked and my time can be better spent in my constituency opening gymkhanas and kissing babies. Equally, the compensation for miners suffering from industrial diseases may be of limited interest to Members representing fishing ports, but that doesn't mean that it isn't important that the miners get the money they are entitled to.

And it's worth noting that MPs can choose to vote against the whip. The tales of ball-squeezing recalcitrant Members into the correct lobby are largely past and the most one can expect these days is a strongly worded letter of disapproval, somewhat glassy looks from the whips, and a dent on the ol' promotion prospects. And this is not to say that there aren't times where rebellion is justified. But people who vote against the Government do still get promoted; Parmjit Dhanda - and this is off the top of my head - received a junior ministerial position in spite of voting against the Iraq War. It's not in the interests of the whips office or the executive to create a permanently excluded "awkward squad" who reckon that as they aren't going to advance, they might as well milk the unhelpful media appearances for Rebel Points back home.

As Phil Cowley of (the newly relaunched) Revolts site once said at a meeting I was at a few years ago, it's worth remembering that whilst many MPs vote against the whip for the best possible reasons, so do MPs vote with it for the best possible reasons. Not unreasonably, if you are elected as - say - a Conservative MP, you are likely to support Conservative policies and you actually have a duty to your electorate, who voted for you on the basis that you are the Conservative candidate, to go with those policies. Well, most of the time. Sometimes you may feel they've got it all wrong and interpreted their mandate incorrectly - in which case it is then your duty to rebel and explain your actions afterwards to your party and your constituents.

In any case, if you abolish the whip, you effectively abolish the collectivist party system and we'd end up like the American legislature: wonderfully democratic whilst totally stagnant.

Back online, at least two litres lighter

Once again, apologies.

It appears I was more unwell than I thought: tonsillitis turned into a chest infection which turned into pneumonia, and I was hospitalised on Monday. I needed to have my left lung drained as the sea level had risen considerably since last week. Apparently, I was a classic case of "pneumonia with complications", a diagnosis which manifested itself in swarms of students all wanting to take turns to tap me on the back and make me say "ninety nine" a lot.

Luckily the sample showed that fluid was clear (well, an attractive urine colour, actually) as opposed to nasty green infected pus (YUMMERS!) which meant that I'll probably be okay now it's drained. I've still got pneumonia - that is, my lung is still infected - but hopefully the course of targetted antibiotics I'm on will fix it and the fluid won't come back.

If you're interested:-

(a) I had over two litres taken off my left lung;

(b) the sound a needle makes when it's puncturing your lung wall is quite special: like a drawing pin going through reasonably thick cardboard;

(c) young, bright-eyed medical students are easily scared by mad looking women, whose hair has become blonde dreadlocks, waving bags of lung juice at them and roaring, "what d'you reckon on the vintage of THIS, junior?"

(d) there's something immensely enjoyable about being transported at high speed in a wheelchair;

(e) having your lung drained is exceedingly painful - like someone sucking all the air out of you like they would suck helium out of a balloon - so you are gasping for breath whilst experiencing the full horror of a lung that feels that it's contracted to the size of a walnut.

Just for future reference, y'know?

NOTE TO ALL MEMBERS OF THE PRESS GALLERY

[in response to "Another pointless week in the Commons?"]

We are aware from your coverage of complex political issues passim that you are labouring under the misapprehension that which biscuit which party leader prefers to dunk in their Earl Grey is more important than the business of governing the country, mediating between differing policy positions, and undertaking the form of complex dispute resolution that comprises representative democracy. However, in spite of your attempts to persuade the electorate to the contrary, politicians are there to govern the country rather than to provide you with up-to-date information on what sort of conditioner Mr Cameron uses to keep his hair so soft and shiny, and speculation on what size Jo Swinson's jugs are.

With this in mind, it may be worth considering that whilst the Marine Bill may appear dull to those of you who are more concerned with the cut and thrust of which MP spent an unusually large amount on bog-roll during the 2004/05 financial year, its measures are of actual importance to environmentalists, recreational anglers, and - by extension and dull as it may sound - all of us. Its provisions include the introduction of new Marine Conservation Zones (MCZs) which will help guard against unauthorised commercial exploitation, larger fines for unauthorised fish removal, and measures that will assist in reversing the rapid decline of sea fish stocks the UK has witnessed over the last 50 years.

Some of this might be of interest to anyone who enjoys the odd slice of cod, not to mention the UK angling industry which is worth an estimated £3.5bn.

This, and myriad other "pointless" - that is, political stories that do not lend themselves to headlines involving the terms "gaffe" or "leak" or "split" or "Caroline Flint: phwooooar!" - is what all this election and polling and debate stuff is all about in the end. The fun stuff beloved of political journalists and bloggers alike is merely the journey; the dull (but not "pointless") legislation and statutory instruments and amendments and so forth are the destination.

In summary, we realise we might be, to coin a phrase, widdling in the wind to suggest that dull ol' politics is what Parliament is there for, but it's worth - occasionally - remembering that this is the House of Commons, not Westminster's Got Talent.

Thank you for your attention.

[with apologies to my old friend Sam Coates]

Revolts is back!

Rejoice, o politics geeks!

Still feeling a bit rubbish

The worst thing apart from having a potentially serious illness is dealing with other people's reactions to your fragile state.

The family - bless 'em - mean well, but it's not particularly heartening when elderly relatives phone up to tell you, "oooh, my brother had that. He died." In addition, I'm getting frequent wiggings off everyone saying that my attempts at "upbeat" are misplaced, and I must take the ol' pneumonia thing "seriously". Well, I am. I am sat here, bored off my ass, dryer than a [insert tasteless joke here], attempting to keep my spirits up via the odd gag in the face of people ringing me up detailing stories of Death By Pneumonia and telling me that I am seriously ill.

Highlights of my weekend include buying two new hats as a means of keeping my head warm. Apparently you lose a load of your body heat through your bonce, and seeing as I've inherited my dad's massively large one, I thought it was best to keep the blighter warm - especially as my beloved woolly hat, that makes me look like a novelty condom and cost me a mere £5 at Worksop Matalan, has been shrunk beyond all usefulness. I also had a skinny latte in the Hoover Building Tesco today. Rock on.

Basically I feel fine apart from being chronically short of breath to the extent that walking anywhere is a problem, and stairs are the work of the Beelzebub himself. The pain in my lung has subsided a little (apart from first thing in the morning and last thing at night) but I'm wheezing like a blowfish. Actually, it's given me an insight into what it's like to be old in London. Greenford Road is like an abattoir at all times, but especially during rush hour, and I needed to cross it the other day to buy some bin bags. Spotting a small break in the traffic, I began shuffling and coughing my way across when an amoured tank, driven by some inadequate piece of pondscum, purposefully sped up so he could slam down the breaks and beep angrily at me as I was halfway to the traffic island. Well, I may be ill, but I'm not dead: he got treated to a hand signal that's emphatically not featured in the Highway Code and, had I been in possession of more breath, this would have been supplemented by a stream of fruity language and some theories about his paternity. Tosser.

Anyway, hopefully I should be back in the land of the living by the middle of the week. If, however, it hasn't cleared by then, we're in rhino-antibiotics-and-steroids territory apparently, which I'm quite keen to avoid.

Not least because I really need a gin and tonic.