Lord Rennard has more time on his hands than he would like right now, having jumped before he was pushed from the Liberal Democrats’ federal executive for a second time earlier this month. On the plus side, he has had a chance to use the gaps that have opened up in his diary to fit in a few more meals out. Possibly even at Pizza Express. At least that was one inference to be drawn from his sudden interest in the delicate nature of tipping restaurant staff.
Dissatisfied with the answers he had received from his own party – “Our tip is to keep your hands to yourself and don’t try to chat them up” – Rennard took his concerns to the House of Lords. “This Christmas, some of us might be feeling particularly generous,” he said, an observation that was met with near total silence: austerity is clearly getting to their lordships as well as the rest of us. “How can we ensure all gratuities go to the waiting staff? Are my noble friends aware that all credit card payments are the legal property of the restaurant owners?”
Answering for the government was James Patrick Montagu Burgoyne Winthrop Stopford, 9th Earl of Courtown, who seemed to be under the impression the question was more one of etiquette than legality or fairness.
“If you have a pleasing experience, you should reward that person with tips and gratuities,” he confirmed in a voice so posh it required simultaneous translation. Though these matters were extraordinarily difficult to get right, he continued, especially if one wasn’t used to dealing with the lower orders. Whenever he was invited to stay at a friend’s country pile for the weekend, he had always found that much the best thing to do was to follow the house rules.
“Pooled tips should be shared,” insisted Lady Hussein-Ece, as the archbishop of Canterbury momentarily awoke from the sweetest of dreams in which the clergy across the country were showered with tips for laying on especially good weddings and funerals.
“My noble friend, hmmmm I mean my right hmmmm honourable friend, hmmmm I mean my hmmmm right honourable noble friend, I mean ... ” Earl Courtown didn’t know quite what he hmmmm meant, his struggle to find the right nomenclature mirroring his inner angst-ridden dialogue on manners. Where was a copy of Debrett’s when you needed it? Sharing was all very well in principle, but how would a butler feel if he only received the same amount as a chambermaid?
And what of the ontology of tipping? Should the money – crisp, new notes only, from Coutts of course – be left out brazenly or should they be slipped into an envelope with a handwritten note of thanks? Given Rennard’s history, it was probably best not to raise the third option of pressing the notes discreetly into a servant’s hand; these things can be misconstrued.
“What’s all this got to do with us?” interrupted an irate Lord Cormack. At his gentleman’s club, tipping is strictly forbidden and elsewhere all other gratuities are best left to the little woman.
Quite right, the rest of the Lords agreed, as they moved quickly on to less important issues. Nothing matters more than manners in the Lords. Without them, they would be no better than the Commons. As if on cue, the speaker of the house and his arch-enemy, Conservative Simon Burns, got stuck into each other in a most unseemly and disorderly manner.
“You’re stupid,” said Burns.
“No, you’re stupid,” replied John Bercow.
“Your mum.”
“No. Your mum.”
The Earl of Courtown shook his head, more in sadness than anger. “It’s not ‘your mum’,” he muttered. “It’s ‘your mother’.”
