Posted tagged ‘Dennis Skinner’s seat’

The evil that chairs do

June 3, 2015

There was a war within a war at Prime Minister’s Questions (PMQs) today at Westminster. While the leading heavyweight figures sluggishly went through the motions- ducking, swaying, evading, holding- the sideshow or you could call it the undercard had more bite. The hacks were billing it The Immovable Object meets The Irresistible Force.

The SNP (Scottish National Party), the third biggest in parliament, have demanded to sit on the front seats to the left of the opposition front bench. Unfortunately, in the red corner this is the domain of the Bolshoi balletmeister socialist supreme, Dennis Skinner. Skinner has sat here since Lenin was a boy. A new Cold War was blowing in and something had to give. Realising they were ready salted, the nationalists lost their nerve and Skinner won a technical knockout by retaining his privileged place. Like a good old pug he showed his disdain for the irn-bruiserlosers by ignoring them.


Dennis isn’t listening

The Skinner saga exists in plenty of establishments around the world. In my area the local public houses have their regulars with regular seating arrangements. Be careful where you park your behind. On the home front my father had a favourite chair in the house that no one else was allowed to sit on. This would be the chair next to the coal fire. Yes, I’m going back a bit to when the coalfields were burning. The glory days of Dennis. 

Over the years the seat had taken on the contours of my father’s body so much so that when any of us tried to have a fly nest on it when he wasn’t in the house, the experience was uncomfortable. We didn’t fit. The chair was rejecting us as if we were foreigners. Yet when dad sat on it or stood up it let off a satisfied swooshing noise. The chair was inanimate but definitely inhuman. A diabolically badness emanated from it.

Thankfully, when we upgraded the seating it was out with the old. Dad was distraught. He pleaded for it to be retained in one of the rooms. Mum relented and it survived the cull much to me and my sisters’ horror. We had reached Tales of the Unexpected territory as we vowed never to enter the room that housed the chair of doom. Inevitably, fate stepped in. One day Mum asked one of us to fetch a towel that was in the haunted room’s window ledge. I lost the round robin game of paper, scissors and rock.

With goosebumps on my goosebumps, that’s horripilation by 2 for you, I opened the room door slowly. There was no creak; that was  a good start. I stuck a hand round the corner and put the light on. The chair was situated at the window. Not a coal fire in sight. Don’t look so tough now, do you, I said to the chair. It never answered. I approached the silent, sinister seat and lifted the towel from the window ledge. Then I put the towel on the seat, sat down on it and heard a comforting swoosh. That’s when I knew I was turning into my dad.