Gordon Brown addresses activists Glasgow in March 2014 speech ahead of September's referendum on Scottish independence. Photo: Getty
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Commons Confidential: Gordon Brown to step down as an MP at the 2015 election

Plus: more news from inside the Palace of Shame.

Maggie’s old chancellor Nigel Lawson spends much of his time lounging in the south of France when he isn’t emitting hot air in London, denying the floods were linked to climate change. Fortuitously my spy was in the plush restaurant Roux, a short stroll from parliament, when Baron Lawson of Blaby, as he has grandly become, sauntered in. Lawson was a guest at a right-whinge soirée hosted by the chain-smoking Mark Littlewood, head of the Institute of Economic Affairs, a sort of free-market Taliban. Lord L ordered a glass of claret and revealed a striking disdain for a parliament in which he’s a member for life. Roux, Lawson opined grandly, was the best restaurant “within walking distance of the Palace of Shame”. Unelected lawmakers claiming £300 an appearance bring down the tone of the place, eh, Nige?

Gordon Brown, whispered one of his friends, is to step down as an MP at the 2015 general election. The announcement, when it comes, will be as unexpected as the Sun backing the Tories, but Brown’s departure will still excite headlines. The former PM will have clocked up 32 years in parliament, including three as prime minister and five since he left Downing Street. Thatcher and Major both quit as MPs at the next general election. Heath stayed for the longest sulk in history. I’ve come to the conclusion that Blair made the right call by disappearing immediately. Ex-premiers get in the way. Accused of back-seat driving if they utter a single word out of place in the Commons, they’re also called lazy if they avoid making speeches.

Esther McVey, Cameron’s ruthlessly ambitious pet Scouser, was disappointed to be passed over when Dave the Sexist put Sajid Javid, a male banker, into Maria Miller’s shoes. Newspapers regularly wrongly describe her as state-educated, the FT among the guilty. Javid was, although he sends his own kids to private schools. McVey was privately educated but her alma mater, Belvedere in Liverpool, joined the state sector as an academy long after she’d left. McVey is happy to leave the mistake uncorrected to give Cameron’s toffocracy a northern rough edge.

The next chair of the Labour Party, Ucatt’s follically challenged Jim Kennedy, who will sit in the hot seat during election year, is a dead ringer for the slaphead Harry Hill. Kennedy had difficulty persuading a couple in Cheltenham that he wasn’t the TV Burp presenter. When his profile rises as the Labour chair, I wonder if Hill will be mistaken for Kennedy? Perhaps not.

MPs are unhappy at the continued Disneyfication of the Palace of Shame (copyright Lord Lawson). Tour guides are doing fewer trips for constituents to show more ticket-buying tourists where Charles I was sentenced to death. One veteran MP, 20 years in harness, grumbled he’d have to buy an umbrella to hold aloft and chaperone voters himself, discovering for the first time parts of the building off his usual route: office to chamber to bar.

Kevin Maguire is the associate editor (politics) of the Daily Mirror

Kevin Maguire is Associate Editor (Politics) on the Daily Mirror and author of our Commons Confidential column on the high politics and low life in Westminster. An award-winning journalist, he is in frequent demand on television and radio and co-authored a book on great parliamentary scandals. He was formerly Chief Reporter on the Guardian and Labour Correspondent on the Daily Telegraph.

This article first appeared in the 14 April 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Easter Double

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Why do the words “soup, swoop, loop de loop” come to mind every time I lift a spoon to my lips?

It’s all thanks to Barry and Anita.

A while ago I was lending a friend the keys to our house. We keep spare keys in a ceramic pot I was given years ago by someone who made it while on an art-school pottery course. “That’s er . . . quite challenging,” the friend said of the pot.

“Is it?” I replied. “I’d stopped noticing how ugly it is.”

“Then it’s a grunty,” she said.

“A what?” I asked.

“A grunty. It’s something you have in your house that’s hideous and useless but you’ve stopped noticing it completely, so it’s effectively invisible.”

I was much taken with this idea and realised that as well as “grunties” there are also “gruntyisms”: things you say or do, though the reason why you say or do them has long since been forgotten. For example, every time we drink soup my wife and I say the same thing, uttered in a strange monotone: we say, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop.” How we came to say “soup, swoop, loop de loop” came about like this.

For a married couple, the years between your mid-thirties and your late forties might be seen as the decade of the bad dinner party. You’re no longer looking for a partner, so the hormonal urge to visit crowded bars has receded, but you are still full of energy so you don’t want to stay in at night, either. Instead, you go to dinner parties attended by other couples you don’t necessarily like that much.

One such couple were called Barry and Anita. Every time we ate at their house Barry would make soup, and when serving it he would invariably say, “There we are: soup, swoop, loop de loop.” After the dinner party, as soon as we were in the minicab going home, me and Linda would start drunkenly talking about what an arse Barry was, saying to each other, in a high-pitched, mocking imitation of his voice: “Please do have some more of this delicious soup, swoop, loop de loop.” Then we’d collapse against each other laughing, convincing the Algerian or Bengali taxi driver once again of the impenetrability and corruption of Western society.

Pretty soon whenever we had soup at home, Linda and I would say to each other, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop,” at first still ridiculing Barry, but eventually we forgot why we were saying it and it became part of the private language every couple develop, employed long after we’d gratefully ceased having soupy dinners with Barry and Anita.

In the early Nineties we had an exchange student staying with us for a year, a Maori girl from the Cook Islands in the southern Pacific. When she returned home she took the expression “soup, swoop, loop de loop” with her and spread it among her extended family, until finally the phrase appeared in an anthropological dissertation: “ ‘Soup swoop, loop de loop.’ Shamanistic Incantations in Rarotongan Food Preparation Rituals” – University of Topeka, 2001. 

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt