the cry, “Not in my back yard”, for we have also made welcome the biggest biological waste disposal plant in Europe and generate from it three hundred megawatts of electricity which is sold to the National Grid.’
‘Your shit is my command,’ muttered a voice behind him. It was picked up by the microphone and could be clearly heard across the Chamber. Members smothered guffaws. Andrew coloured furiously, swallowed hard and decided to ignore the cherubic slob Ferriman sitting behind him who had scored a direct hit.
He had opted to concentrate on the issue dominating the press, the world conference on the environment at Rio de Janeiro. ‘It is thus entirely appropriate that the Member for Hampshire South West should be concerned at the impact of human activity on the environment. On present trends theearth’s surface temperature will rise in each decade of the next century by between nought point two and nought point five degrees Celsius. That rise is faster than any seen in the past ten thousand years and will make the globe warmer than it has been for a hundred thousand years. It behoves us all to take a close interest in the hot air being emitted by mankind.’ Hit back; he smiled sweetly back at Ferriman, who chortled in delight.
‘Success at Rio, and no doubt at summits to come, depends on trust between countries. We British can achieve nothing on our own. The United Kingdom must also make the point that not all the growth in deserts is due to global warming: much is due to simple population pressure in countries which have turned their back on modern contraception. That must change, or all our efforts will be nullified by increasing numbers of mouths to feed. I hope our own government will take a strong line in Rio on this matter.’
Tessa shrank back in her seat. She and her husband had one profound disagreement: her religion. Her heart sank and she uttered a silent prayer that he was not going to start attacking the Pope. She need not have worried. Andrew had said as much as necessary for a maiden and was coming to his peroration.
‘This sovereign House has a role to play in environmental matters, even if we are concerned at encroachments on its influence.’ More ‘hear, hears’, with feeling. The underlying battle of the 1990s causing trouble for MPs would not be the impact of hairsprays on the ozone layer but the steady erosion of their powers by the tides of Brussels.
‘In these ways, Madam Speaker, I believe we can slow down the process of global warming, and hand on to our children and grandchildren an inheritance both worthy and intact. I hope our government can take a world lead in so doing. They have my full support in this important task.’ The clock showed he had been speaking for eight minutes exactly. It seemed to have gone in a trice, yet every second had been elongated, giving him time to observe his neighbours, the Clerk to the Parliament, still bewigged in black robes like an old judge, the gleaming gold mace dubbed a ‘bauble’ by Cromwell, Hansard’s staff upstairs tapping silently on shorthand machines, pausing a fraction after he paused, the press gallery scribbling away, with the new chap Jim Betts from The Globe craning his neck over the balcony and the Times sketch writer Matthew Parris in his corner seat watching the scene pensively, pencil in hand.
God, it was over. Andrew sat down weakly to encouraging murmurs. MPs do not clap, except on extraordinary occasions such as Miss Boothroyd’s elevation; their hallmark is restraint. Few, however, had made as workmanlike a job of their maiden speech as Andrew. He had been cool, well informed, clear-thinking, a little provocative. He had not crawled to his masters, not grovelled, nor had he broken any other conventions by being rude or hostile. He had not fallen over, lost his place, cracked a joke that wasn’t funny, made a fool of himself. And he had had the courage to be first.
Roger Dickson contented himself with one
‘Your shit is my command,’ muttered a voice behind him. It was picked up by the microphone and could be clearly heard across the Chamber. Members smothered guffaws. Andrew coloured furiously, swallowed hard and decided to ignore the cherubic slob Ferriman sitting behind him who had scored a direct hit.
He had opted to concentrate on the issue dominating the press, the world conference on the environment at Rio de Janeiro. ‘It is thus entirely appropriate that the Member for Hampshire South West should be concerned at the impact of human activity on the environment. On present trends theearth’s surface temperature will rise in each decade of the next century by between nought point two and nought point five degrees Celsius. That rise is faster than any seen in the past ten thousand years and will make the globe warmer than it has been for a hundred thousand years. It behoves us all to take a close interest in the hot air being emitted by mankind.’ Hit back; he smiled sweetly back at Ferriman, who chortled in delight.
‘Success at Rio, and no doubt at summits to come, depends on trust between countries. We British can achieve nothing on our own. The United Kingdom must also make the point that not all the growth in deserts is due to global warming: much is due to simple population pressure in countries which have turned their back on modern contraception. That must change, or all our efforts will be nullified by increasing numbers of mouths to feed. I hope our own government will take a strong line in Rio on this matter.’
Tessa shrank back in her seat. She and her husband had one profound disagreement: her religion. Her heart sank and she uttered a silent prayer that he was not going to start attacking the Pope. She need not have worried. Andrew had said as much as necessary for a maiden and was coming to his peroration.
‘This sovereign House has a role to play in environmental matters, even if we are concerned at encroachments on its influence.’ More ‘hear, hears’, with feeling. The underlying battle of the 1990s causing trouble for MPs would not be the impact of hairsprays on the ozone layer but the steady erosion of their powers by the tides of Brussels.
‘In these ways, Madam Speaker, I believe we can slow down the process of global warming, and hand on to our children and grandchildren an inheritance both worthy and intact. I hope our government can take a world lead in so doing. They have my full support in this important task.’ The clock showed he had been speaking for eight minutes exactly. It seemed to have gone in a trice, yet every second had been elongated, giving him time to observe his neighbours, the Clerk to the Parliament, still bewigged in black robes like an old judge, the gleaming gold mace dubbed a ‘bauble’ by Cromwell, Hansard’s staff upstairs tapping silently on shorthand machines, pausing a fraction after he paused, the press gallery scribbling away, with the new chap Jim Betts from The Globe craning his neck over the balcony and the Times sketch writer Matthew Parris in his corner seat watching the scene pensively, pencil in hand.
God, it was over. Andrew sat down weakly to encouraging murmurs. MPs do not clap, except on extraordinary occasions such as Miss Boothroyd’s elevation; their hallmark is restraint. Few, however, had made as workmanlike a job of their maiden speech as Andrew. He had been cool, well informed, clear-thinking, a little provocative. He had not crawled to his masters, not grovelled, nor had he broken any other conventions by being rude or hostile. He had not fallen over, lost his place, cracked a joke that wasn’t funny, made a fool of himself. And he had had the courage to be first.
Roger Dickson contented himself with one
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