Mind your language!
There are things you can and cannot say in the House of Commons but many people seem to find the guidelines hard to understand
I wrote an essay recently which explored the sometimes-elaborate courtesies which MPs are required to observe when they’re speaking in the House of Commons. I hope it untangled some of the more opaque traditions and practices which crop up, and my argument, broadly, was that these little niceties are actually an important set of pressure valves for keeping the temper of the House below boiling point without discouraging or impeding a style of debate which is both robust and passionate. I also reflected that, for all viewers may watch the roughhousing of Prime Minister’s Questions and find it alarmingly raucous, we have, by international standards, a fairly pacific parliament: there is almost no physical contact, swearing is extraordinarily rare and even offensive accusations or descriptions are quickly tamped down by the occupant of the chair.
Touching on this is a concept which many people may have heard of but may not fully understand, that of “unparliamentary language.” What is it, how does it work, how is it policed and what are the boundaries? Well, let’s start with something it isn’t. Contrary to quite a common belief, there is no exhaustive list of prohibited terminology, words and phrases which one absolutely cannot use. Some legislatures do take this prescriptive approach: earlier this year the Lok Sabha, India’s lower house, published a booklet of words which were forbidden. It was not received without acrimony: some legislators felt this was an attempt by Narendra Modi’s government to limit debate in the elected chamber.
New Zealand’s parliament—unusual in being unicameral since the Legislative Council was abolished in 1951—takes a middle way, and makes freely available a list of words which have in the past been ruled unparliamentary. However, the parliament’s website sounds a note of caution that “these concepts change over time, and ‘unparliamentary language’ is constantly evolving.” This is to prevent legislators thinking that if a word is not on the list then it must, by process of elimination, be parliamentary and allowed during the course of debate.
These lists can be amusing and even informative, in that they show not only the sorts of words and phrases which have fallen foul of presiding officers around the world but also the attitudes towards terminology over the years. What was shocking an unacceptable in the 1930s might be a commonplace now, but equally one has to remember, in the spirit of autre temps, autre mœurs, that what might have slipped by unnoticed in earlier times might now be regarded as offensive and unacceptable. In the Australian parliament, for example, in 1899 a legislator might casually talk of “all the vices and physical infirmities of the Eastern coolie”, but such a phrase, let alone the thoughts behind it, would be unlikely to be countenanced in 2022.
The House of Commons does not take this approach. Instead the chair will pay attention more to meaning than precise word formation, and language is judged in its context. We start, inevitably, with Erskine May’s Treatise on the Law, Privileges, Proceedings and Usage of Parliament, generally known as “the parliamentary Bible” which is the principal reference source for the procedures of the House.
(Parenthesis: I once went into a shop on the way home from work, clutching, for some reason, my copy of Erskine May under one arm. This was before the current paradise of the text being available online, and each clerk was presented on his or her first day with, among other things, a copy of the most recent edition of the book, in my case the 23rd edition edited by Sir William McKay, Clerk of the House 1998-2002. The shop assistant eyed this heavy and serious-looking tome and said, in a friendly way, “Oh, is that the Bible?” I didn’t quite know how to reply but eventually said “In a way.”)
Erskine May sets the tone by saying:
Good temper and moderation are the characteristics of parliamentary language. Parliamentary language is never more desirable than when a Member is canvassing the opinions and conduct of their opponents in debate.
After this gentlemanly observation, it adds “The Speaker has said in this connection that whether a word should be regarded as unparliamentary depends on the context in which it is used.”
“Good temper and moderation” was a phrase which I quickly memorised as a clerk. It was obvious that I would need it to advise Members, but it also seemed to me a pithy, if somewhat old-fashioned, expression of the overall ambition in terms of the tone of debate. If I was asked whether an MP might say this or that in the chamber, I could always repeat this phrase and ask the Member whether he or she thought their intended remarks fell within its ambit. An additional piece of guidance was added by Mr Speaker Bercow during Points of Order in January 2012, when he observed that Members should also make sure that their remarks were in “good taste”. That was probably a helpful clarification, and it illustrates another avenue, that of crude language and vulgar abuse, down with MPs should not go.
There is one explicit rule in terms of what MPs can say, and that, as many will be aware, is a prohibition on accusing other Members of lying. Erskine May, again, notes that “the imputation of false or unavowed motives” is disorderly, and will always be punished by the speaker. While it stems probably from an outdated emphasis on personal honour, it remains important because it highlights the paramount expectation that Members across the House, but ministers especially, should be truthful and open when speaking in the chamber.
There is a dose of realism. It is accepted that, for all sorts of innocent reasons, MPs may say something in the House which is not in fact true. Perhaps a minister may make a statement and then learn afterwards, on advice from civil servants, that what was said is not in fact supportable on closer examination of the facts. Or a Member may simply misspeak, or incorrectly recollect a fact or statistic and then rely too heavily on their fault recollection during debate. These things happen, and they do not necessarily represent an intention to mislead the House.
This can be done without an excessive degree of drama. If someone has said something which a Member believes to be false, that Member can raise a point of order immediately with the occupant of the chair by rising in his or her place and noting the concern. If there is a more serious or elaborate issue, points of order are also taken after questions in the House every day, and MPs can raise matters with which they are unhappy and seek redress. Members should be aware that it is preferable to inform the Speaker’s Office of your complaint beforehand, so that the chair can be as helpful as possible.
(One observation on points of order, about which I may write a dedicated essay. For as long as I was in the House, there was a growing tendency for Members to raise issues which were not points of order at all, “not,” as the Speaker would intone, “a matter for the chair.” Points of order relate strictly to the proceedings of the House, and do not encompass, for example, points of debate, hypothetical issues or matters which have arisen in one of the House’s committees. I strongly deprecate this practice (if I’m watching alone you should hear my minatory comments shouted at the television). It was made worse under Speaker Bercow, who realised that taking more points of order gave him more of a platform to perform.)
So lying is—supposedly—the cardinal Commons sin, though one must note that Boris Johnson is currently under investigation by the House’s Committee of Privileges for allegedly having lied about his behaviour during the Covid-19 lockdown, the issue having been referred to it by the Commons in April. There is no set date for the committee to report, but, if it finds that Johnson did mislead the House, it may decide to suspend him as an MP; if that suspension is for 10 sitting days or more, it would trigger a “recall”, essentially a by-election in his constituency of Uxbridge and West Ruislip in which he would have to submit himself to the judgement of his electorate. (There is a useful explanation of the investigation by the Institute for Government here.)
What other terms and words might draw the disapproval of the Speaker if used in the House? As related above, it is almost entirely contextual. In 2016, for example, Dennis Skinner, the veteran Labour MP for Bolsover whose rudeness was too often mistaken for wit, described the then prime minister, David Cameron, as “Dodgy Dave.” Mr Speaker Bercow, deciding that this admittedly mild slur offended good temper, moderation and good taste, required Skinner to retract the remark. Skinner, no stranger to the publicity stunt and knowing full well what would happen, stood by his remark, and was therefore suspended from the Commons for the rest of the day, having to leave the chamber.
Skinner was a repeat offender. In 2005, following newspaper allegations that the shadow chancellor, George Osborne had as a younger man taken cocaine at party, made reference to this drug use. Mr Speaker Martin did not tolerate this and asked Skinner to withdraw the remark, which, predictably, he refused to do. As was often the case, Skinner wanted the publicity of being suspended to emphasise the accusation. Martin expelled him for the rest of the day.
Last year, the issue of lying led a Member to be suspended. Dawn Butler, the Labour MP for Brent Central, speaking in a backbench debate on the last sitting day before the summer recess, asserted repeatedly that Boris Johnson had lied about various aspects of the pandemic. “The Prime Minister,” she said, “has lied to this House time and time again.” The temporary deputy speaker, Judith Cummins, standing in for Rosie Winterton who, ironically, was absent with the coronavirus, asked Butler to “reflect on her remarks,” but the Labour MP was adamant that it was true and she would not withdraw the accusation. Again, inevitably, she was asked to leave the chamber for the few remaining hours of the term.
There is a pattern here which is worth noting. It is very difficult to be expelled for unparliamentary language against one’s will. If an MP says something that the chair finds unacceptable, he or she will be given the opportunity either to withdraw the words or else rephrase them in a way that does not infringe the rules. There will be a second opportunity if the Member is recalcitrant. MPs are only expelled if they are completely unwilling to modify their words. The result of this is that suspension tends to be used by Members as a way of drawing attention to themselves and a point of debate. It is a calculated equation: there is mild inconvenience in having to leave for the rest of the sitting day (and being expelled from the chamber means having to stay away from the Parliamentary Estate as a whole). But forward planning means that should be only a small problem. On the other hand, suspensions are sufficiently rare that, barring a declaration of war or the death of the monarch, the offender and his or her plight are almost guaranteed high billing on the news, drawing attention to the cause he or she was championing. You may decide it is a price worth paying.
Not all infringements of parliamentary language are so clear-cut, and the Speaker may not be able to decide so quickly on an appropriate course of action. The epitome of this took place in 1990 during a debate on the arts. Terry Dicks, the unashamedly populist Conservative MP for Hayes and Harlington had questioned why some more abstruse arts projects received public funding. Dicks was a man of simple tastes and trenchant opinions: after EastEnders had screened British television’s first male homosexual kiss, he argued for the programme to be moved to 11.00 pm or later in the schedules.
On this occasion, he criticised the Royal Shakespeare Company sharply for financial mismanagement. He then aired his doubts about this use of public money, adding of his constituents, “Their quality of life is not enhanced by seeing some man prance about in a box or by listening to the different range of an opera singer.”
The Opposition spokesman responding to the debate was the swashbuckling, sharp-tongued Labour MP for Newham North-West, Tony Banks. He was man with an eye for the neatly targeted insult, and found Dicks an irresistible target. Noting that Dicks was no longer in the chamber, he affected to regret this.
I am sorry that the hon. Member for Hayes and Harlington is not in his place, because listening to him opining on the arts is rather like listening to Vlad the Impaler presenting Blue Peter. The hon. Gentleman is undoubtedly living proof that a pig's bladder on a stick can be elected as a Member of Parliament.
The government benches erupted with wounded pride. Dicks might be outspoken but this was strong stuff and Banks clearly meant to offend. Several Conservative MPs rose to catch the Speaker’s eye and register the blow to their collective amour propre.
It was the adorable Mr Speaker Weatherill who was presiding. Although he was a former deputy chief whip, he had an amiable and conciliatory style in the chair, which he had occupied since 1983 (the last speaker, incidentally, habitually to wear the full traditional costume of court dress with bands, black gown and full-bottomed horsehair wig). There was clearly considerable upset, even if much of it was likely synthetic, and he clearly needed to make a ruling. Was it “unparliamentary” to describe an honourable Member as a “pig’s bladder on a stick”? Insults are often traded on the floor of the House without interrupting the flow of debate; Denis Healey, that intellectual bruiser of the Labour front bench, had in the past described Margaret Thatcher as “Attila the Hen” and “La Pasionaria of privilege” (a reference to a left-wing female politician of the Spanish Civil War). Healey was formidably intelligent and learned, but unapologetically rude and combative: these insults (which were admittedly amusing) had not led to his expulsion.
What was Weatherill to do? He sometimes defused or avoided arguments by affecting not to have heard remarks because his wig covered his ears, but there was no such escape here. He stood, and the indecision and plaintive distress was audible in his voice. He didn’t seem to think the “pig’s bladder on a stick” jibe met the unparliamentary threshold but he clearly didn’t care for it.
“Oh, I know,” he sighed, “it’s not unparliamentary. It’s just not very nice.” (Hansard, which is not, as many people think, an exactly verbatim record of proceedings, produced a rather less heartfelt version of his words: “Order. I know—but although the hon. Gentleman's comments may not be very pleasant, they are not unparliamentary.”
Banks, generally genial through his barbs, was willing to defuse the issue. “They were artistic, Mr. Speaker,” he explained with a smile. “They were artistic. I am just sorry that the hon. Member for Hayes and Harlington was not in his place to hear them. Still, I do not wish to offend you, Mr. Speaker.”
So the incident passed without the need for any formal sanctions. It was a good example of rudeness being allowed to stand—it is all still extant in Hansard—but, with a reasonable and respected speaker of whom the House was very fond, and a little quick-witted levity on the part of the potential offender, some sort of reparation was made, and the debate continued.
These incidents shed some light, I hope, on what unparliamentary language is, why it is generally to be avoided, and the ways in which it can be (mis)used for media effect. Banks, unlike Skinner and Butler, had no interest in being thrown out of the chamber—he went on to speak for just under 10 minutes, still sharply but not offensively—and he had had his fun with Dicks, whose politics he disliked. But Weatherill had fired the gentlest of warning shots and kept Members in line.
The House of Commons operates, I think, a flexible and moderate policy on what MPs can and cannot say. Courtesy, a rather declining virtue in our polarised political landscape, is important and its gentle enforcement stops Members of all parties from falling out badly. (It sometimes surprises the public how warm cross-party friendships can be, but politicians are often able to suspend partisan feeling when “off-duty”.) If there is vigorous debate in the cockpit of our democracy, we do well to impose some boundaries. Free speech is a fundamental part of democracy, but we need to ensure it does not come at too high a price.