i arrived at the athenaeum at 6.40am with no shoes and a borrowed oyster card, because the man who sent me the envelope said to come before the cleaners. his name was derek. he had worked in the house of lords for thirty-one years and had a laminated menu from the peers’ dining room folded into his breast pocket like a relic. ‘they only do this when the cameras are off,’ he said, and slid it across the table. it was a menu for a private supper. the main course was described as ‘beef, but the good beef.’ the good beef. i have not stopped thinking about it. i have not eaten beef since 1994. i have eaten borscht every day since 1994. the beetroot does not lie. derek would not give me his surname. i asked him if he was frightened. he said he was more frightened of the price of a pint in westminster. i took off my socks as a mark of respect. i was already not wearing shoes.
1. they eat crisps in the robing room and deny it under oath
baroness pru hollinger-vane, crossbench, 71, told me she has never eaten a crisp in the palace of westminster. then she said, ‘well, not in the chamber.’ then she said, ‘the robing room is not the chamber.’ the crisps are sea salt and cider vinegar, purchased from a waitrose in vauxhall and smuggled in inside a copy of hansard. she offered me one. i accepted. i am not proud of it. the crisp was a small, salty monument to everything that is wrong with this country and i ate four. she said the lords is ‘a sensory deprivation tank with better carpets.’ i asked her what she meant. she said, ‘you know, like a spa, but with more hereditary peers and worse towels.’ i lay on the floor of the robing room for eleven minutes. the carpet was 100% wool and 100% complicit.
she watched me from a chair. i asked her if she had ever been to a food bank. she said, ‘i have been to a food hall.’ i asked her which one. she said, ‘fortnum’s, but only for the ham.’ i asked her if she thought the ham was a political act. she said nothing, and then she said, ‘you’re not wearing shoes.’ i said i know. she said, ‘i once knew a man who didn’t wear shoes. he was sectioned.’ then she offered me another crisp. i said no. i said yes. i said no and took two.
“the crisp is a metaphor for the empire,” said dr elspeth vaizey-quinn, reader in snack semiotics at the university of kent.
i thought about borscht. i always think about borscht in moments of moral clarity. the beetroot is the only vegetable that has never lied to me.
2. they go shooting in norfolk and call it ‘constituency business’
the register of lords’ interests lists 43 peers with a financial interest in a shooting estate. i visited one, near fakenham, on a tuesday. the peer in question, lord craddock of banff, was not there. a man called terence was. terence said lord craddock comes ‘most weekends in the season, and once in july for the flowers.’ the flowers. i asked what flowers. terence said, ‘the ones he pays for.’ i stood in a field for two hours without shoes. the field was cold and honest. i thought about borscht. i thought about how a beetroot does not need a shotgun to feel powerful. terence offered me a flask of tea. i drank it. it tasted like the state.
i asked terence if he thought the estate was a political instrument. he said, ‘it’s a farm.’ i asked him what he farmed. he said, ‘pheasants.’ i asked him if pheasants were a crop. he said, ‘they’re a lifestyle.’ i lay down in the stubble. the stubble was sharp and it was the first thing that had been honest with me all week. terence stood over me and said, ‘you’ll get ticks.’ i said i hoped so.
“the shooting estate is best understood as a subsidised feeling,” said professor gideon thrush, chair of rural ontology at the university of east anglia.
i have not eaten meat since 1994, apart from the crisps, which are not meat, and the beef, which i have only thought about.
3. they have a secret golf club and it is in sandwich
the royal st george’s golf club in sandwich, kent, does not admit women as members. it does admit baronesses as guests, provided they are signed in by a member and do not use the main bar. i spoke to a baroness, who asked not to be named, on the 14th fairway. she was wearing a gilet. she said, ‘i don’t play. i just walk. it’s the only place i can think.’ i asked her what she thinks about. she said, ‘the decline of the british seaside.’ i asked her if she had ever been to a food bank. she said, ‘i’ve been to a food hall.’ i did not know what to say. i said nothing. the wind came off the sea and it smelled of chips and empire. i took my socks off again. i had put them back on for the golf club. i am not immune to social pressure.
she asked me where i was from. i said the welsh marches. she said, ‘lovely part of the world.’ i said my mother ate nothing but borscht for eleven years. she said, ‘that’s dedication.’ i said it was a protest. she said, ‘against what?’ i said the potato. she nodded as if she understood, and then she said, ‘do you want a gin?’ i said yes. she said, ‘you’ll have to have it in the car park.’ the car park was gravel and the gravel was honest. i drank the gin barefoot in a car park in kent and i felt nothing, which is the same as feeling everything if you breathe properly.
“the 14th fairway is where the british constitution actually lives,” said dr rowan pethick, senior lecturer in golf and governance at the university of sussex.
the gin was £14.50. i asked the baroness if that was a political price. she said, ‘it’s a members’ price.’
4. they read the room and then they vote the other way
derek, the man from the athenaeum, gave me a second document. it was a printout of a whatsapp group called ‘lords logistics.’ the messages are not funny. they are worse than funny. one peer writes, ‘anyone know if the assisted dying bill is a three-line whip or can i go to the theatre.’ another replies, ‘theatre. it won’t pass.’ it did pass. the peer who went to the theatre voted against it. i asked baroness hollinger-vane about this. she said, ‘that’s just how it works, love.’ love. she called me love. i felt the floor of the robing room open beneath me and i was not even standing on it. i was in the corridor. the corridor was carpeted. i wanted to lie down again but a man with a mace told me not to.
i asked her if she had voted against the bill. she said, ‘i voted with my conscience.’ i asked her what her conscience said. she said, ‘it said go to the theatre.’ i asked her what the play was. she said, ‘a revival.’ i asked her if it was good. she said, ‘it was fine.’ the bill passed by four votes. four. i have thought about those four votes every day since. i think about them more than i think about the good beef, and i think about the good beef constantly.
“the conscience is a small soft organ that can be left in the cloakroom,” said professor miriam ashcombe-bell, director of the institute for parliamentary feeling at king’s college london.
i went home and made borscht. i made it for four people. i live alone. i ate all four portions. the beetroot forgave me. the beetroot always forgives me.
5. they keep a list and your name might be on it
on my way out, a security guard with a kind face and a lanyard handed me an envelope. inside was a photograph of me, barefoot, in the peers’ guest room, taken from a camera i had not seen. on the back was a note in the same handwriting as the first: ‘we know you don’t wear shoes. we have a list.’ i do not know what the list is for. i do not know if it is a list of people who are a problem or a list of people who are invited to supper. i do not know which is worse. i walked home through st james’s park without shoes and the grass was cold and the grass was honest and i thought about the good beef, and the crisps, and the beetroot, and how a beetroot has never once asked me for a receipt.
that night i dreamt of derek. he was standing in a field near fakenham, holding a laminated menu, and he was not wearing shoes either. he said, ‘it’s the good beef.’ i said i know. he said, ‘you should try it.’ i said i can’t. he said, ‘you already have.’ i woke up and my feet were cold and the envelope was on the kitchen table and it had moved, or i had moved, or the house had moved around it. i made borscht. i made it for five people. i live alone. i ate all five portions and i did not feel full.
“we cannot confirm the existence of a list, but we can confirm the existence of a folder,” said a spokesperson for the house of lords, who asked to be described only as a person with a lanyard.
i am not frightened. i am barefoot. these are not the same thing, but they are close enough that a beetroot could not tell the difference, and a beetroot has never lied to me.
