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Lord Mackay of Clashfern stood up. A former Tory Lord Chancellor, occasionally touted as “one of the finest legal minds of his generation” (albeit possibly by people who don’t have to listen to him), he was concerned by the government’s apparent disdain for the independence of the judiciary.
He tried to express, as clearly and correctly as he knew how, the damage that would be done to that independence if the government were able to get their bill made law. Long, graceful sentences that kept their thread; carefully chosen phrases woven into linguistic chain mail—no danger of his words being ripped apart by future slings and arrows. Certainly his speech would appear dull to the layman, the casual reader—but whoever read parliamentary proceedings casually? What was important was that his words were directed at the minister on the front bench opposite. She would be forced to respond to his coruscating and—in its own dry, legal way—passionate oratory. After all, the whole issue cut to the heart of her party’s quandary: independent judges, but independent in the way we want.
He realised that time was short, so he finished abruptly, mid-sentence, covered with a polite flourish, and sat down.
The minister, Baroness Ashton of Upholland, stood up and leant on the dispatch box.
“Well, I’m sorry if I mis-spoke, my Lords,” she began, “but I’m not a lawyer, so I don’t always use the correct legal jargon. Lord Mackay will just have to forgive me for that.” And she went on to talk about something else.
Lord Mackay sat, dumbfounded. Not only had she not answered his finely-honed question, she hadn’t actually understood a syllable of it. She thought he had been criticising her choice of vocabulary. The troublesome section of the legislation would plough on, unchallenged, and his—admittedly awkward—question would probably continue to echo round the chamber, unanswered, long after his own death. He might as well have stood up and sung “Hello Dolly” for three minutes. At least that would have got him a bit of exposure as the cute item at the end of the news.
Baroness Ashton continued footlingly on, saying all the words that were in front of her, but not necessarily in the right order.
I watched this fruitless exchange tonight, and nearly started throwing blunt objects.
He tried to express, as clearly and correctly as he knew how, the damage that would be done to that independence if the government were able to get their bill made law. Long, graceful sentences that kept their thread; carefully chosen phrases woven into linguistic chain mail—no danger of his words being ripped apart by future slings and arrows. Certainly his speech would appear dull to the layman, the casual reader—but whoever read parliamentary proceedings casually? What was important was that his words were directed at the minister on the front bench opposite. She would be forced to respond to his coruscating and—in its own dry, legal way—passionate oratory. After all, the whole issue cut to the heart of her party’s quandary: independent judges, but independent in the way we want.
He realised that time was short, so he finished abruptly, mid-sentence, covered with a polite flourish, and sat down.
The minister, Baroness Ashton of Upholland, stood up and leant on the dispatch box.
“Well, I’m sorry if I mis-spoke, my Lords,” she began, “but I’m not a lawyer, so I don’t always use the correct legal jargon. Lord Mackay will just have to forgive me for that.” And she went on to talk about something else.
Lord Mackay sat, dumbfounded. Not only had she not answered his finely-honed question, she hadn’t actually understood a syllable of it. She thought he had been criticising her choice of vocabulary. The troublesome section of the legislation would plough on, unchallenged, and his—admittedly awkward—question would probably continue to echo round the chamber, unanswered, long after his own death. He might as well have stood up and sung “Hello Dolly” for three minutes. At least that would have got him a bit of exposure as the cute item at the end of the news.
Baroness Ashton continued footlingly on, saying all the words that were in front of her, but not necessarily in the right order.
I watched this fruitless exchange tonight, and nearly started throwing blunt objects.
