The Dancing Bear by Edward MacKinnon, with image above by Martin Gollan Back in his constituencyenjoying a beer with his own people,unshackled from the courtesies of debate,he fed them insider snippets, confessed that at first he’d been baffled by parliamentary rules and ritualsbut now felt thoroughly at homewith the Honourable Member and My Right Honourable Friendtold them how he’d scrupulously obeyed three-line whips and honoured the convention of avoiding controversy in his maiden speechhow he’d been nothing less than awed by the State Opening of Parliamentthe pageantry, the ushers, courtiers, heralds and peers in ermine robesand Black Rod knocking at the door three timeshow he’d studied the prerogatives of the Crownand dutifully noted that everything the monarch didwas done graciously. He was like the dancing bearwho escaped back to the forestand found the other bears unimpressedby his so-called art, the dancinghe was inordinately proud of. For them it was a testament to his base and servile character.