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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Rarely has it mattered so little if Manchester United won; rarely has it been so special they did

Team's Europa League victory offers chance for sorely needed celebration of a city's spirit.

Carlo Ancelotti, the Bayern Munich manager, memorably once said that football is “the most important of the least important things”, but he was only partly right. While it is absolutely the case that a bunch of people chasing around a field is insignificant, a bunch of people chasing around a field is not really what football is about.

At a football match can you set aside the strictures that govern real life and freely scream, shout and cuddle strangers. Football tracks life with such unfailing omnipresence, garnishing the mundane with regular doses of drama and suspense; football is amazing, and even when it isn’t there’s always the possibility that it’s about to be.

Football bestows primal paroxysms of intense, transcendent ecstasy, shared both with people who mean everything and people who mean nothing. Football carves out time for people it's important to see and delivers people it becomes important to see. Football is a structure with folklore, mythology, language and symbols; being part of football is being part of something big, special, and eternal. Football is the best thing in the world when things go well, and still the best thing in the world when they don’t. There is nothing remotely like it. Nothing.

Football is about community and identity, friends and family; football is about expression and abandon, laughter and song; football is about love and pride. Football is about all the beauty in the world.

And the world is a beautiful place, even though it doesn’t always seem that way – now especially. But in the horror of terror we’ve seen amazing kindness, uplifting unity and awesome dignity which is the absolute point of everything.

In Stockholm last night, 50,000 or so people gathered for a football match, trying to find a way of celebrating all of these things. Around town before the game the atmosphere was not as boisterous as usual, but in the ground the old conviction gradually returned. The PA played Bob Marley’s Three Little Birds, an Ajax staple with lyrics not entirely appropriate: there is plenty about which to worry, and for some every little thing is never going to be alright.

But somehow the sentiment felt right and the Mancunian contingent joined in with gusto, following it up with “We’ll never die,” – a song of defiance born from the ashes of the Munich air disaster and generally aired at the end of games, often when defeat is imminent. Last night it was needed from the outset, though this time its final line – “we’ll keep the red flag flying high, coz Man United will never die" – was not about a football team but a city, a spirit, and a way of life. 

Over the course of the night, every burst of song and even the minute's silence chorused with that theme: “Manchester, Manchester, Manchester”; “Manchester la la la”; “Oh Manchester is wonderful”. Sparse and simple words, layered and complex meanings.

The match itself was a curious affair. Rarely has it mattered so little whether or not United won; rarely has it been so special that they did. Manchester United do not represent or appeal to everyone in Manchester but they epitomise a similar brilliance to Manchester, brilliance which they take to the world. Brilliance like youthfulness, toughness, swagger and zest; brilliance which has been to the fore these last three days, despite it all.

Last night they drew upon their most prosaic aspects, outfighting and outrunning a willing but callow opponent to win the only trophy to have eluded them. They did not make things better, but they did bring happiness and positivity at a time when happiness and positivity needed to be brought; football is not “the most important of the least important things,” it is the least important of the most important things.

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