The pantomime season has well and truly arrived at the House of Comedy. Oh yes it has! Oh no it hasn't! At a very specific point during yesterday's blistering, boiling and overheating row in Westminster Towers we reached the lowest common denominator when one of the scruffy kids in the school corridor told their teacher that they were saying naughty things about something they were alleged to have said.
Then the headmaster or headmistress came into the room and told everybody that if they didn't sit down and behave themselves they'd all have to come back after school and just sit there for an hour or so and just cool off. Maybe if you'll just simmer down, stop fighting and listen to the voices of commonsense then perhaps we'll think about giving you the benefit of the doubt. But if you can't behave yourself then we'll have to re-consider that trip to the British Museum in the New Year.
Yesterday though Theresa May, the British Prime Minister and Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn squared up to each other like feuding neighbours over the garden fence. They eyeballed each other fiercely and ferociously, barely holding back for any longer than was necessary. There was the most pungent smell of blood and explosive cordite in the air, passions raging, shirt buttons bursting with hatred, shirt collars oozing poisonous bile and vitriol. It was rather like watching the most ludicrous wrestling match in a political ring.
With the Christmas break just a day away now, May and Corbyn were shouting at each other, hollering, heckling and haranguing, needling and provoking each other as if determined to humiliate one another without quite knowing why. The whole Brexit debate has now become such a nonsensical charade that none of us can quite believe what we're witnessing.
On the last few days before the festive feasting, the eminent and not so eminent politicians of the so called British parliament will kick off their shoes for the tinsel and glitter of the Christmas holiday and try to relax. But what we saw yesterday can only reinforce the growing conviction that some of our cabinet ministers and shadow cabinet flowery orators may have lost the plot. In fact, some of them, you feel sure, should be condemned to a dark room and only let out when we tell you to come out.
The accusation was- and this seemed to be the central bone of contention- that Jeremy Corbyn made an openly sexist comment about Theresa May and was deeply unapologetic about it all. Corbyn apparently mumbled something outrageously insulting about women. It was horribly offensive and definitely derogatory so take that Prime Minister. Corbyn thought that May was just a stupid woman who hadn't a clue what she was talking about. You've never heard anything quite so preposterous.
Then May got out her own verbal toy gun, poked out her playful tongue at Corbyn and memorably dismissed him as some sham figure of fun, a loose cannon, a no good for nothing maverick, that wicked character in the Christmas pantomime who the children boo and hiss incessantly. May ordered Corbyn to look behind him suggesting all the while that the man with the appropriate white beard should just take himself off to some remote island in the middle of nowhere where nobody can see or hear him.
By now the House of Comedy had descended into thigh slapping territory where Dick Whittington meets Window Twankey and, quite literally, bumps into those sinister, narrow eyed villains who are just obnoxious and scandalously silly. Theresa May leaned forward urgently, glaring and glowering at her opponent, eyes now blazing, nostrils flaring, incensed with that typical man who only believes that a woman's place is in the home, cooking, cleaning, preparing meals for the family and scrubbing the floor vigorously.
But May hadn't finished yet because she knew with some certainty that lines had been crossed, disciplinary measures should be imposed immediately and Corbyn should just leave the building pronto, packing up his belongings and just keeping his misogynistic feelings to himself. Around her, hundreds of Tories roundly bellowed their approval of the Prime Minister, otherwise slightly sceptical backbenchers cheering like the Tories at a triumphant party political conference. This almost felt like some gospel gathering where a vast majority of the congregation gets slightly carried away.
At the heart of it all was what at first could have been rightly described as an innocent argument over the cheese and pineapple sticks which eventually turned into a muddled and desperately complicated disagreement over who pays the bill in a restaurant. Suddenly, it seems to be getting very personal and before you know it, somebody will simply storm out into the late night cold with none of us the wiser as to why it had to happen like this in the first place.
Still, as yesterday's last Westminster dust up drew closer to the end, May and Corbyn were still at each other's throats and you half expected a law abiding police force to sensibly intervene and clip both around the ear with a firm warning never to step out of line again. Because if you do we'll have to take you back to your parents where the only punishment would be a strict command to get straight to bed.
And so it was that everybody packed up for the festive knees up, bottles of finest Scotch whisky in tow, a box of chocolates waiting for them on an expectant coffee table and just a nostalgic tear or two for Christmases past. You remembered the words of a certain Harold MacMillan, a Conservative Prime Minister who insisted that Britain had never had it so good. In many ways the Tories have always believed this to be the case but as the two main political parties put down their elastic bands for a while you longed for a cessation of hostilities and just let bygones be bygones. Besides, it is Christmas and Brexit has just turned absurd. It's time to join hands and just make up.
Then the headmaster or headmistress came into the room and told everybody that if they didn't sit down and behave themselves they'd all have to come back after school and just sit there for an hour or so and just cool off. Maybe if you'll just simmer down, stop fighting and listen to the voices of commonsense then perhaps we'll think about giving you the benefit of the doubt. But if you can't behave yourself then we'll have to re-consider that trip to the British Museum in the New Year.
Yesterday though Theresa May, the British Prime Minister and Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn squared up to each other like feuding neighbours over the garden fence. They eyeballed each other fiercely and ferociously, barely holding back for any longer than was necessary. There was the most pungent smell of blood and explosive cordite in the air, passions raging, shirt buttons bursting with hatred, shirt collars oozing poisonous bile and vitriol. It was rather like watching the most ludicrous wrestling match in a political ring.
With the Christmas break just a day away now, May and Corbyn were shouting at each other, hollering, heckling and haranguing, needling and provoking each other as if determined to humiliate one another without quite knowing why. The whole Brexit debate has now become such a nonsensical charade that none of us can quite believe what we're witnessing.
On the last few days before the festive feasting, the eminent and not so eminent politicians of the so called British parliament will kick off their shoes for the tinsel and glitter of the Christmas holiday and try to relax. But what we saw yesterday can only reinforce the growing conviction that some of our cabinet ministers and shadow cabinet flowery orators may have lost the plot. In fact, some of them, you feel sure, should be condemned to a dark room and only let out when we tell you to come out.
The accusation was- and this seemed to be the central bone of contention- that Jeremy Corbyn made an openly sexist comment about Theresa May and was deeply unapologetic about it all. Corbyn apparently mumbled something outrageously insulting about women. It was horribly offensive and definitely derogatory so take that Prime Minister. Corbyn thought that May was just a stupid woman who hadn't a clue what she was talking about. You've never heard anything quite so preposterous.
Then May got out her own verbal toy gun, poked out her playful tongue at Corbyn and memorably dismissed him as some sham figure of fun, a loose cannon, a no good for nothing maverick, that wicked character in the Christmas pantomime who the children boo and hiss incessantly. May ordered Corbyn to look behind him suggesting all the while that the man with the appropriate white beard should just take himself off to some remote island in the middle of nowhere where nobody can see or hear him.
By now the House of Comedy had descended into thigh slapping territory where Dick Whittington meets Window Twankey and, quite literally, bumps into those sinister, narrow eyed villains who are just obnoxious and scandalously silly. Theresa May leaned forward urgently, glaring and glowering at her opponent, eyes now blazing, nostrils flaring, incensed with that typical man who only believes that a woman's place is in the home, cooking, cleaning, preparing meals for the family and scrubbing the floor vigorously.
But May hadn't finished yet because she knew with some certainty that lines had been crossed, disciplinary measures should be imposed immediately and Corbyn should just leave the building pronto, packing up his belongings and just keeping his misogynistic feelings to himself. Around her, hundreds of Tories roundly bellowed their approval of the Prime Minister, otherwise slightly sceptical backbenchers cheering like the Tories at a triumphant party political conference. This almost felt like some gospel gathering where a vast majority of the congregation gets slightly carried away.
At the heart of it all was what at first could have been rightly described as an innocent argument over the cheese and pineapple sticks which eventually turned into a muddled and desperately complicated disagreement over who pays the bill in a restaurant. Suddenly, it seems to be getting very personal and before you know it, somebody will simply storm out into the late night cold with none of us the wiser as to why it had to happen like this in the first place.
Still, as yesterday's last Westminster dust up drew closer to the end, May and Corbyn were still at each other's throats and you half expected a law abiding police force to sensibly intervene and clip both around the ear with a firm warning never to step out of line again. Because if you do we'll have to take you back to your parents where the only punishment would be a strict command to get straight to bed.
And so it was that everybody packed up for the festive knees up, bottles of finest Scotch whisky in tow, a box of chocolates waiting for them on an expectant coffee table and just a nostalgic tear or two for Christmases past. You remembered the words of a certain Harold MacMillan, a Conservative Prime Minister who insisted that Britain had never had it so good. In many ways the Tories have always believed this to be the case but as the two main political parties put down their elastic bands for a while you longed for a cessation of hostilities and just let bygones be bygones. Besides, it is Christmas and Brexit has just turned absurd. It's time to join hands and just make up.
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