Boris and Sir Keir read the riot act.

 Boris and Sir Keir read the riot act. 

This is probably the most difficult time for any British politician worth their salt. After the most tempestuous year of all time for all concerned, you might have thought  they'd show a little more tact and understanding. But show them a TV camera and give them as much latitude as you can and they'll grab the microphone, pose inanely and then wallow in the adulation. We should have known that, given half the chance, British politicians will always play to the gallery and then brazenly flaunt their speechmaking talents. 

Yesterday, Prime Minister Boris Johnson facing his Labour adversary and shadow leader Sir Keir Starmer quite literally got stuck into Johnson with all manner of colourful accusations that brought nothing but disrepute and discredit upon the House of Commons or as it should be more affectionately referred to as the House of Comedy. 

It may have not escaped your notice but both Johnson and Starmer behaved despicably and appallingly, men deeply at odds with each other as you'd expect them to be but this was just an ugly, unsavoury slanging match that almost descended into a bloodthirsty heavyweight boxing scrap. At any moment you felt sure that eventually the towel would be flung into this fiery pit of oratory and babbling rhetoric. There are times when politicians really do need to remember where they are and the constituencies they profess to represent. 

Here's the story so far. In the middle of a pandemic- which does feel as though it must be approaching its end now, surely- Boris Johnson has been accused of selling the country down the river, ducking and diving, stealing money from the taxpayers pocket, exploiting the system for all its worth and spending the dirty lucre on fixtures, fittings and furnishings on his well appointed home. The mud was promptly chucked at Johnson's face by an exasperated and impassioned Starmer and once again all hell broke loose and not for the first time. 

When Starmer stood up to launch his virulent attack on the Prime Minister, you knew this was not going to be a clean fight. And so it was the gloves were ripped off, teeth were bared, fingers were pointed, inflammatory gestures were made and both men adopted their familiar side on position, backs turning to face a mass of empty green benches and both men's faces beginning to turn a bright crimson red. It could have been any chapter from an Anthony Trollope novel and you suspect that Trollope would probably have had a field day with these two characters. 

Starmer called Johnson a dodgy dealer, a sly, secretive, deceitful and totally dishonest cad who has unforgivably misled the country and dragged the United Kingdom through another sleazy episode in the life and times of Boris Johnson. Starmer could have referred to Johnson as the most incompetent and inept Mayor of London, the worst Foreign Secretary of all time but discretion proved the better part of valour. Instead the Labour leader gave the Prime Minister both barrels but then thought better of it since he'd already indulged in character assassination and besides this was just another day in the office in the House of Commons. 

At this point Boris Johnson, normally quite restrained and mild mannered, exploded in a way that the Mother of Parliament had rarely seen before. Johnson just started yelling loudly at his Labour counterpart, blasting away at Starmer in quite the most explosive fashion, attacking Starmer, peppering his words and sentences with memorable fury. boiling over at times like a seething volcano and then hollering, shouting, desperately humiliating Starmer with the kind of language we didn't know he had. It was shocking, stunning, Churchillian in its force, intensity and sheer volume. 

All around were acres of green benches with ghosts sitting next to both Johnson and Starmer. There was not a soul in sight apart from a small gaggle of politicians who didn't quite know whether to hide or cower away from these brutish bruisers. Of course they were wearing masks because we knew they would and always have done. But the blustering and bellowing continued unabated as Johnson landed punch after verbal punch on Starmer's exposed chin.

Johnson was a  man possessed, releasing powerful and damaging blows on Starmer's crumbling defence. There was a sense of the poisoned pen letter in everything both men could find to undermine each other. The vicious hostility and personal vitriol showed no signs of letting up. By now Johnson was on the warpath, face blazing with wild passions, rattling Starmer, cheeks reddening all the while, blood pressure soaring into the ether and then crashing back onto the ground like a meteorite from outer space. 

At the end of the afternoon session you could almost imagine the metaphorical blood flowing across the floor of the House of Commons, flooding the lobbies and corridors outside with an almost relentless flow. Both Johnson and Starmer laid down their gloves, slouched out of the door while doing their utmost to avoid eye contact. They were not sworn enemies because for the foreseeable future this is how it's going to be in Westminster. They'll reluctantly acknowledge that both had made their point but will continue bickering like feuding neighbours over the garden fence, questioning each other's moral compass, perhaps threatening to snatch each other's lawnmower during the night and then simmering down with a cup of Latte coffee or a mug of Ginseng tea.

Eventually both Johnson and Starmer will achieve some peace of mind because the realisation will dawn on them that a vast majority of India is now suffering with another bout of coronavirus, people are dying in their hundreds of thousands and a good, old fashioned argument in some London debating chamber resounds to the noise of their voices only. You really couldn't make this one up, could you? Shame and disgust are the predominant emotions here. When will British politics get its priorities in the right order. Possibly never. Oh how we despair.