Simon Carr: The Sketch

I really must apologise for the downhill trend in the tone of this column. Please cover your eyes if you wish to read further.

A Tory spokesperson used the word "bullshit" while seated on the front bench of the House of Commons. Ghastly breach of parliamentary convention. Unprecedented in the Sketch's experience. The Speaker took no action, of course, because he's a useless Speaker. He didn't even recognise the word. He's so defective. At the very least he needs a course in sign language. Did I mention the word was used in sign language?

You can make the sign for this word "bullshit" at home. It goes as follows. Your forearms are held in front of you and placed one on top of the other, a clenched fist at each elbow. The forefinger and little finger of the upper hand are raised (these represent horns). Then the fingers of the other hand, the under-hand, open sharply, straight down. That's what the front bench spokesperson was doing while Clare Short denied criticising America.

But then behaviour is in decline all over the House. Labour benches greet all questioners, but particularly Tories, with derisive laughter, jeers, northern club heckling, groans and animal noises. (Henry Bellingham gets a series of "Pocks!" from the Labour benches, referring to his weakness for pheasant shooting).

James Paice asked somewhat clumsily perhaps: "I wonder if the Prime Minister is aware of a single mother in my constituency who needs a hysterectomy?" The rest of the question was lost in laughter, heartless laughter it seemed to the Sketch.

Someone called Iain Duncan Smith asked about a shareholder in Railtrack. She was called Mrs Loyd, she'd lost everything and was looking after a sick relative. The Labour benches barked with an attempt at laughter. Awful noise. Frightening in its way.

At the end of question time, the Speaker ran into static. A series of Tories stood up. "Michael Martin," they said, "what a useless plonker you are! You're supposed to be the custodian of this House, and you let the Government treat backbenchers with complete contempt. You're a disgrace to democracy!" It's true they phrased the thought somewhat differently ("May we seek your guidance, Sir, as the guardian of the House ...") but their meaning was clear.

By a happy coincidence, Betty Boothroyd, shimmering in royal blue, had taken a seat in the peers' gallery directly in front of the Speaker, and well above him. She listened to half a dozen Tories gang-banging her successor, as they asked him repeatedly to support their right to receive information from the Government.

The Chief Secretary to the Treasury, the talking ape, Andrew Smith, had replied to requests for details about Treasury involvement in Railtrack with a fantastically vacuous formula. Soames, Grayling, Widdecombe, Forth and Jack all received variations on "Not my job" from the chair. There must be technical merit in this answer because the clerk of the House was giving him continual instructions to say it.

But at one confession of impotence Betty Boothroyd gave a sharp jerk to her chin, up and sideways. It was sign language. The Speaker can't understand sign language, and it's probably just as well.