When the editor of this magazine invited me to look into the House of Lords, my first thought, I confess, was of its comic potential, like something out of Monty Python. It’s hard to overlook the absurdity of a parliamentary body in which no one is popularly elected, lifetime sinecures are awarded to the (literally) entitled and 26 seats are reserved for bishops of the Church of England, who sit together wearing vestments that resemble penguin costumes. From the press gallery high up in the neo-Gothic arches, you look down on a room that resembles a cross between a cathedral and a bordello: opulent red leather benches, a gilded throne, allegorical frescoes on the walls, and the lord speaker presiding from an immense red pillow stuffed with samples from all the wool-producing states of the Commonwealth. Members show off their scarlet ermine cloaks for the opening of parliament, wear their aristocratic titles and honours like bling, and address one another in deferential third-person as “my noble friend”, “the noble and learned lord” or (in the case of the bishops) “the right reverend prelate”. When John Cleese turned down an offer of appointment to the House of Lords in 1999, the California-based Python pleaded an aversion to English winter weather, but I suspect that he feared being unable to keep a straight face. So caricature is tempting.
But this is not that.
For one thing, as a (mostly) proud American, I feel a little sheepish about my own country’s satire-worthy democracy. Our Congress has been commandeered by a gang of right-wing Visigoths whose party standard-bearer is running for president, again, while under indictment on 91 felony counts, including conspiring to overthrow the election that he lost. And don’t get me started on George Santos, the congressman expelled for fabricating pretty much his entire life history and diverting campaign funds to pay for designer clothes, casino visits and Botox.