John Bercow at the 2014 State Opening of Parliament. Photo: Getty
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John Bercow is becoming dangerously outflanked over Commons clerk row

The Speaker’s appointment of Carol Mills, the secretary of the department of parliamentary services in Canberra, has caused resistance even from his allies.

John Bercow has always been the marmite man – MPs either love him or hate him, with very few sitting on the fence. It’s been unusual, then, to see him as such a uniting force over the past few days. Unfortunately for the Speaker, the common cause has been the opposition to his proposed appointment of Carol Mills as the House of Commons clerk.

It would be easy to think that the latest furore is part of the usual rough and tumble that comes when you have a Speaker who is disliked personally by a sizeable number of MPs from the governing party. But, in truth, the Mills row has taken Bercow into new and dangerous territory.

Since his election five years ago, Bercow has swiped aside any challenges to his position, notwithstanding the fervent desire of many Tory MPs to unseat him. His saving grace so far has been that, amid all the personal sniping, he had been thought to be doing a pretty decent job, particularly in standing up for backbenchers’ rights. Many MPs also recognised that Bercow seemed to have a genuine love for Parliament, even if it did come second to the sound of his own voice.

That is why his proposed appointment of Mills, who is widely thought to lack the necessary experience to do the job of clerk properly, is so incendiary. This time, the resistance is not coming from the usual suspects. Instead, Sir Malcolm Rifkind, who even went as far as proposing Bercow for re-election as Speaker after the 2010 poll, is one of those speaking out. Margaret Beckett – who initially ran against Bercow as Speaker, but whose supporters flocked to Bercow en masse once she withdrew – is another who has turned against his proposal.

Anyone who thinks that this public resistance is likely to make him change his mind is in for a rude awakening, not least because to back down now would be a humiliating reversal. Bercow's instinct is always to dig in his heels when he faces opposition. Like a cornered animal, he snarls and lashes out – there’s certainly no chance of him rolling over for someone to tickle his tummy.  But this is a real political weakness, because in seeking to punish anyone who disagrees with him, rather than trying to broker a middle way, he only makes the situation worse for himself. From such small acorns of dislike, great enmities grow. No wonder that, having originally fallen out back in 2005, David Cameron still, as one aide told me, “spits blood” at the mention of Bercow’s name.

The Mills episode threatens to highlight the Speaker’s combative side to a whole new audience of MPs, and could well erode significant support amongst members who had been won over. Meanwhile, it will act as a lightning rod for the “anyone but Bercow” camp, who have been waiting for a moment to pounce, and could well make some of their more ambivalent colleagues think that there is a point to what they’re saying. After all, the appointment of Mills comes across as a power grab, which threatens to undermine the institution Bercow is meant to love.

Until now, I’ve always thought that talk of unseating Bercow has been over-hyped, but the Speaker is becoming dangerously outflanked. If MPs think he can’t be trusted to protect the Commons, and with a group of plotters waiting in the wings, he could be vulnerable when the House votes to re-elect him after the 2015 election. He will be particularly worried if the Conservatives win a majority. If they do, David Cameron might be tempted to capitalise on these concerns by taking the marmite man and making him toast.

Bobby Friedman is the author of “Bercow, Mr Speaker: Rowdy Living in the Tory Party

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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood