Ah, dear readers of The PalArse of Westminster, gather round the flickering glow of your screens, for I bring you a tale as old as folly itself, yet fresh as yesterday's parliamentary pratfall. It is the story of a certain high officeholder – let us call him the Grand Vizier of Justice, or, as the tabloids fondly dub him, David "Calamity" Lammy – who, in a fit of vanity, sought attire so splendid that it would cloak his every misstep in the robes of unassailable authority. But lo, as in the ancient Danish yarn of The Emperor's New Clothes, what was paraded as finery turned out to be the emperor's – or in this case, the deputy's – barefaced embarrassment.
Picture the scene, if you will, in the hallowed (and hollered) chamber of the House of Commons on the fifth of November, 2025. Bonfire Night outside, with its crackles and bangs, but inside? A fireworks display of a far more explosive kind, courtesy of our stand-in Prime Minister, Mr Lammy himself. Sir Keir Starmer, off gallivanting in Brazil (one imagines him samba-ing through summits), had left the dispatch box in the care of his deputy. And what did this trusted lieutenant prioritise in the hours before facing the Tory pack? Not poring over briefing notes on errant Algerian migrants or the latest prison blunders. Oh no. He popped out for a new suit. A snazzy number, no doubt, tailored to impress the ghosts of Gladstone and Disraeli. Or so he thought.
In the grand tradition of Hans Christian Andersen's swindling weavers, imagine the bespoke barrow-boy in Savile Row whispering sweet nothings to the cloth: "This suit, sir, is woven from the finest threads of gravitas. Invisible to the eye of the incompetent, it will make you appear not just dressed for success, but positively armoured in it. Only the truly wise – or the wholly deluded – will see its splendour." Lammy, bless his cotton socks (or lack thereof), bit the hook. "Sold!" cried he, handing over a king's ransom that could have funded a think-tank or two. Little did he know, the tailors were giggling all the way to the till – for the suit was naught but a shimmering illusion, a paean to peacocking over preparation.
Come the hour of PMQs, and there he stands, our hero in his hypothetical haberdashery, facing the baying hounds. The questions fly like Guy Fawkes' failed gunpowder: What of the second migrant prisoner sprung loose on your watch? Why the devil has another asylum-seeker scarpered from your custody? And – oh, the humanity – wherefore art thou without thy poppy, man? A Remembrance slight that had even the most battle-hardened backbenchers clutching their lapels in horror. Lammy fumbles, he flusters, he filibusters with all the finesse of a bull in a china shop – or, more aptly, a deputy in a disaster zone. "I... er... the suit... no, the substance!" he stammers, as the chamber erupts in that peculiar mix of guffaws and gasps that only Westminster can muster.
But here's the rub, my sceptical chums: not a soul dares call it out. The courtiers – sorry, the whips and spin doctors – nod sagely from the wings. "What a fine figure he cuts!" murmurs one apparatchik, eyes glued to his phone for the next deflection tweet. "The very epitome of executive elegance," chimes another, scribbling notes for the evening's lobby fodder. The opposition jeers, of course, but even they play along, too busy hurling their own barbs to strip away the myth. And the gallery? The fourth estate, those scribbling sentinels? They tut-tut over the tailoring but tiptoe around the truth: the suit ain't the problem, lads – it's the man inside, or rather, the emperor with nowt but his ego on show.
For this is the modern morality: in the court of King Keir, we all pretend the king's new clobber covers a multitude of sins. A calamitous Commons clash? Blame the bespoke. A poppy-less podium? The dry cleaner's fault, surely. And as for those wandering wards of the state – well, pass the port and pretend it's all part of the pattern-weave. Yet, whisper it softly, for fear of the thought police: what if the whole ensemble is as transparent as a Lib Dem promise? What if Lammy's lurch from law lecturer to Labour's lame duck is laid bare, not by scissors, but by simple scrutiny?
Ah, but enough moralising from this old cynic. If Andersen were alive today, he'd pen a sequel: The Tailor's Triumph – How to Sell Snake Oil to Snakes. And you'd find it on your shelf, no doubt, alongside a primer on parliamentary pitfalls. Speaking of which, if you're minded to kit yourself out without the calamity – or just fancy a chuckle over political porkies – might I humbly direct you to my Amazon favourites? Pop over to this cracking collection of satirical tomes, including The Emperor's New Clothes illustrated for the digitally dazed generation. Or, for the fashion-forward foolhardy, snag a budget-friendly suit that won't bankrupt your briefing time – because, let's face it, in politics, it's the preparation that parades, not the pants.
There you have it, fellow farce-watchers: a fable for our fractured Commons, where the naked truth is the hardest thread to weave. Do share your own Westminster wardrobe malfunctions in the comments below – and remember, at The PalArse, we salute the swindled, not the swindlers. Until next time, keep your powder dry and your poppies pinned.
Ken Frost is the bard behind kenfrost.net, where liberty licks its wounds and laughs at the lords. Follow the frolics on Twitter @ken_frost, or subscribe for more PalArse pearls. All opinions strictly my own – and probably wrong.
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