I DON’T do wars. I’m a bloke in a suit who stands outside buildings. At least that is what I used to say before the Battle of Westminster. It was shame which shook me from my comfy seat in the Commons. Just yards away blood was being spilt in the name of democracy and freedom — or so said those fighting on both sides. I could not just watch it on television. I had to be there.
So, I strode fearlessly to the front line or, to be a little more precise, a few yards behind the cordon of police and their vans. I was standing at the fragile barrier between free expression and anarchy. One coin, two bottles and a hail of firecrackers later I remembered why I had never even dreamt of being one of those reporters in khakis and a button-down shirt.
I beat a hasty retreat and joined the Speaker who was wisely watching the battle unfold from behind the safety of Parliament’s imposing Carriage Gates. Minutes later the invasion of the chamber forced us both to run back inside. What a day. Scoff if you like, but at least now I can answer the question — “What did you do in the war, Daddy?”