In every direction stretch uncountable kilometres of wires and pipes, fronds of high-voltage cables, a Terry Gilliam cosmos of whistling and buzzing devices, vapour, puddles, stifling heat, gaffer tape, silver foil, warning signs, conduits, refrigerating units and extractor fans, long lengths of tubing that are – literally – rat runs. There are old paint tins to catch more drips, plastic bins full of used coffee cups, cardboard boxes, discarded cable trays, retired office chairs. There is a Victorian, steam-powered sewage ejector. There is asbestos. A ring of handsome cast-iron pillars, nicknamed “the bandstand”, informs me of the presence of something majestic overhead; it helps to support the lofty lanterned octagon of the central lobby of the Houses of Parliament. Around the lobby extend chambers and stairs and corridors as intricate as the mechanical basement, but more refined: fan vaults and tracery, stained glass, frescoes, encaustic tiles, linen-fold panelling, architectural devices copied from chapter houses and cathedrals, medievalising paintings of knights and maidens, scenes of battles on land and sea. It seems scary that Britain’s democracy should be conducted above what resembles a huge and toxic bomb Up in this fairy overworld, somewhere above the electrical-cupboard-and-drip-tray contraption, Boris Johnson and Keir Starmer will, on the day of my visit, face each other at prime minister’s questions. It seems scary that Britain’s democracy should be conducted above what resembles a huge and toxic bomb. A number of people think that the situation is indeed perilous. Andrea Leadsom MP, a former leader of the House, warns that the Palace of Westminster could be “Britain’s Notre Dame”. Like the roof of the cathedral in Paris, it could go up in smoke. Others put the risk a bit lower, but there is almost universal agreement among the politicians, officials and consultants involved in the wellbeing of the building: something must be done. “People are genuinely worried,” says Mark Spencer, the current leader of the House, gesturing outside the Tudor-style window of his office. “You can see the scaffolding out here where a bit of masonry fell off. We must make sure that the House is safe for everyone and we clearly don’t want it all to burn down.” Labour MP Meg Hillier, chair of the public accounts committee, puts it more strongly: “Staff should not be expected to work in a dangerous place – it’s just unconscionable.” ‘Uncountable kilometres of wires and pipes… a Terry Gilliam cosmos of whistling and buzzing devices’: electrical wiring in Westminster in 2014. Photograph: AFP/Getty Images The question is how to fix the building. It is fraught. Some, among them Jacob Rees-Mogg, Spencer and – reportedly – the Speaker, Sir Lindsay Hoyle, dispute what the experts tell them about both cost and the time MPs will have to spend out of the building during the works. In February, it was decided to terminate the Sponsor Body, an organisation separate from parliament, set up to help achieve what’s called the restoration and renewal programme, apparently for bringing bad news about the budget and the relocation. ‘“Politicians lost confidence in the Sponsor Body,” Spencer claims, so it had to go. Many, including Leadsom and Hillier, are appalled by this change of course. “The House authorities,” said the latter last week, “have unilaterally taken this massive, critical project of huge national, historical, cultural and political significance back to the drawing board; reversing decisions by both Houses, with no justification for wrecking the plan that was under way.” The cost is currently estimated in a range from £7bn to £13bn, figures that water the eye and smack the gob. The recently completed Elizabeth line cost £18.9bn. Even allowing for the fact that its construction costs are in the past and parliament’s are in the future, and so inflation has to be taken into account, it is extraordinary that the restoration of a single historic building is in the same ballpark as a piece of infrastructure designed to serve 200 million passengers per year. “Lots of colleagues say, ‘Well, wait a minute,’” says Spencerof the cost. “‘I need this new hospital, I need this new railway line, I need this new roundabout and I cannot justify to my constituents spending billions of quid on what will be presented as an ivory tower.’” Then there’s the question of relocating MPs and lords to temporary accommodation while their workplace is being refurbished, probably for many years. This, for them, is upsetting: imagine enduring all those long days and nights spent climbing greasy poles and eating rubber chicken at constituency events, the collateral damage on family and friendships, the sweat and hazards of elections, only to find that you might spend your parliamentary career in a portable-building version of the Commons chamber. Ordure, ordure! The Victorian sewerage system beneath the Palace of Westminster. Photograph: David Levene/The Guardian And behind the technical issues lies the human plumbing and wiring of parliament, as tangled as the physical kind in the basement, what with the numerous agendas of politicians and officials, the posing and the factions and the serious endeavour. Alexandra Meakin, an expert in politics from Leeds University, who wrote a revealing thesis on the renewal programme, says that parliament suffers from a “complex and opaque governance system that has, in part, enabled the neglect that has imperilled the building”. “Coming from a business background,” Leadsom told her, “the way the House is run just defies any form of logic.” The origins of the current dilemma start with a previous fire. In October 1834, the old Palace of Westminster, an accumulation of buildings going back hundreds of years, burned down. A competition was held to design the replacement. The winning design, by Charles Barry and Augustus Pugin, was in a gothic-Elizabethan style that appealed to patriotic traditions – grand and lavish and full of celebrations of British (especially English) history and power. There were paintings of King Arthur and his round table, victories over the Spanish Armada and Napoleon, grave portraits of great men. In 1852, after delays, rows, political interference, design changes and spectacular cost overruns, MPs could move in, the lords having done so in 1847. It would take until 1876 to complete the building and work on the interiors continued into the 20th century. The palace received a barrage of complaints about its functional shortcomings. Although it was abundant with superfluous space, the debating chamber of the House of Commons was oddly undersized. “The new palace at Westminster was not a house built for business,” said the Tory MP Colonel Charles Sibthorp. The design and making of the building was, the prime minister William Gladstone said in 1869, “totally incompetent”. This, though, is the Palace of Westminster now famous around the world, widely admired, pre-eminent tourist attraction, Unesco world heritage site, grade I-listed building and sacred emblem of British democracy. In time, the view arose that the overcrowded debating chamber created a desirable intimacy and intensity. In 1941, it was destroyed by bombing and there was some discussion whether its replacement should take a new form. Winston Churchill argued passionately that it should be put back in its old shape, which he loved, and it was. St Stephen’s Hall is among the many beautiful features of the grade I-listed building. Photograph: David Levene/The Guardian Postwar reconstruction apart, this venerable building has mostly been subject to a longstanding habit of patching-up and muddling-through, of make do and mend. Barry’s design included an ambitious and not entirely successful ventilation system, involving 98 risers running the height of the building, empty spaces between floors and a basement running from one end of the 980ft-long palace to the other. When new technologies – electricity, air conditioning, CCTV, the internet – demanded new paraphernalia, it was convenient to stuff it in these spaces. The result is the demented steam-punk submarine that is the basement in its current state. Here and throughout the building, new layers are added to outdated and undermaintained equipment. Meanwhile, the building’s sand-coloured limestone crumbles, sometimes creating hazards from falling masonry and requiring ad hoc protective arrangements of scaffolding and sheeting that litter the estate. Leaks cause damage to internal stonework. Hillier says there is “always a stinky smell” in many parts of the building because of the faulty drainage. “I kid you not,” Leadsom tells me of a visit she made to the basement. “There was raw sewage spraying into it.” Last October, 117 people were accidentally exposed to asbestos, which will require them to have regular health checks for 40 years. Since 2016, there have been at least 25 fires in the building, most admittedly minor, but all those voids of the Victorian ventilation system increase the chance that fire could spread rapidly. It would be wrong to suggest that these problems are simply ignored. The Elizabeth Tower, bearer of Big Ben, has been successfully if expensively restored. The palace has an extensive maintenance team continually doing what it can to fix dangers and malfunctions. A sprinkler system, for example, has been installed in the basement. It is pointed out to me that, if it were truly an unsafe working environment, it would be…
