Lord Tonypandy

Some long years ago, I interviewed one man about his job, recalls Shirley Tart.

And this is what he said: “When I was a young teacher I used to walk from Whitechapel to the House of Commons and sit in the public gallery most evenings.

“Sometimes I was so tired that I would put my head on a pillar and watch the members at work.

“I used to think in particular what an important and privileged role the Speaker had. How could I ever have thought that one day I would also be there? I never could.”

But he was. And generations on from that early experience, this delightful man was talking to me one morning about his current job.

He himself was the Speaker of the House of Commons.

George Thomas was as Welsh as they came, a lad from the by then bleeding coal mines of the South Wales valleys, small in height but a man of such stature.

Who will ever forget that wonderful sing-song voice urging the House of Commons to “Order, order.”

But more than just saying it, he believed in order and respect, he lived it.

He had so much humility, such beautiful manners along with a gentle humour, an awesome respect for Parliament and his place in it. He was truly one of the greats. 

The day before we met at Speaker’s House high up above Westminster, an MP had been suspended from the Commons after being named by Mr Speaker for unacceptable behaviour.

I remember asking what that did to him, how it affected him.

He said: “Respect and order is imperative. But I do understand the passions which sometimes drives men and women when they care so much about other people and I try to give them every opportunity to express that. But you must also keep order.”

For a couple of hours we talked about topics ranging from the industrial decimation of his beloved homeland, the Methodist faith which was a cornerstone of his life (he was a local preacher) and his hilarious account of a visit he made with Margaret Thatcher and Jim Callaghan to see the Queen Mother.

George Thomas – later Lord Tonypandy – fitted in anywhere and was widely loved and respected.

As Secretary of State for Wales he presided at the investiture of the Prince of Wales, he was first on the scene when Aberfan coal heaps claimed a generation of young lives.

Meeting him was a career highlight and a privilege and it was such irony that his melodious tones were finally silenced by the throat cancer which claimed his life.

That was one Speaker.

Then there was the first woman, Betty Boothroyd. What a star she was.

I made a point of being in Parliament to see her in stately action on her first day. A former dancer, a Tiller Girl no less, she was magnificent. She didn’t (probably still doesn’t) suffer fools gladly but she was fair if forthright and another who not only grew into the role but respected the office and enhanced the Mother of Parliaments.

I met the Baroness (as she is now) on many occasions while she was Speaker and since. She was knowledgeable, well informed, spoke her mind and cared about the issues which most people care about and which, like George, had nurtured her Labour roots.

She was also great fun and entertaining company.

Then there is Mr Michael Martin.

He has held the position of Speaker since 2000 and sadly can’t be sacked.

Mr Martin has tested not just Parliament but interested watchers throughout what he seems to have seen as his reign. But never more so than this week with his angry, red-faced ranting at any who didn’t even disagree so much as ask a question.

Former Sport Minister Kate Hoey simply asked what most of us thought – was calling in the police to find the expenses whistle blower the right message to a country furious about the excessive claims of MPs – and won his boiling wrath.

As did mild mannered David Winnick who spoke in her defence. And both of them come from the same political stable as Gorbals Mick – heaven help a member the Speaker really takes against.

I feel privileged to have met his predecessors who truly enhanced the ancient office. I remain absolutely amazed that Michael Martin ever got, let alone kept, his job.

Now he is out of order. Well out – and sadly, fit more for the roll of shame than the roll of fame.