There's something about little men with little hands that makes them a pain in the arse. Bercow. That NZ mass murderer. Yaxley-Lemon. All little men with little hands. The rest of us just get on with life but these littluns can't leave it alone; unless they're poking, aggravating, baiting, trolling and seeking attention they can't stay still.
It doesn't actually matter that on this issue the sanctimonious little Bercow may have been right. It was the way the revolting little narcissist rolled in his moment of global notoriety like a pig in a pool of fresh shit. He's simply such an objectionable arse that nothing good can come out of the speaker's chair whilst his undersized buttock cheeks perch on the edge of it.
Like the bent Gorbals Mick he will live in infamy as one of the worst speakers in modern history.
I've been listening on the radio to Parliament for many years, since Margaret Thatcher flung that challenge to Callaghan "He's frit! He's frit!", at that time with George Thomas in the Chair, a voice of authenticity and passion. Then came Bernard Wetherhill, the exquisitely polite ex-tailor, and after him Betty Boothroyd, who brought a touch of gaiety to the Chair that never detracted from her authority. Then it went downhill. For the past eighteen years we've been served by a bent blunderer and a narcissistic destroyer. Please God the next Parliament will bring us a speaker worthy of the Chair.
(The title is not original; as the DT reports:- Bercow’s
love affair with the use of his larynx has always been warmly received,
of course. In 2010, one interruption provoked health minister Simon
Burns to call the diminutive speaker a “stupid, sanctimonious dwarf”.)