“FURTHER Education has been something of a Cinderella subject,” said Mark Field (C, Cities of London & Westminster), as the House began rehearsing the Christmas Panto with Education Questions.

This was Charles Clarke’s first speaking performance as Education Secretary, and he appeared in the role of The Giant from Jack and the Beanstalk. Splendidly dishevelled, ears akimbo, Mr Clarke slumped in the bench and eyed the dispatch box as if it might be an edible child.

When David Cameron (C, Witney) referred to the tiny creatures at “The Blackditch Bunnies Primary School”, Mr Clarke perked up, and when someone began talking about “breakfast clubs” he licked his lips. Mr Clarke is a founder member of the Three Breakfasts Club.

Beside him sat Schools Minister David Miliband, the Government’s squeaky clean Prince Charming. Never have two ministers offered a greater contrast. Mr Miliband is a child prodigy who looks as if he shaves twice a day without needing to shave at all. Mr Clarke’s face is permanently covered in a strange furry stubble, like the fluff you get out of the tumble dryer. Mr Miliband has lots of papers neatly piled beside him; Mr Clarke doesn’t bother much with notes, and couldn’t put them beside him anyway because that is where his stomach sits.

One has the confidence of youth; the other has the confidence of complete selfconfidence. Mr Miliband gives the impression of being full of vim and vigour. Mr Clarke gives the impression of being full.

The Education Secretary levered himself upright to answer a question about whether Good King Tony is planning to introduce top-up fees.

Oh yes he is, said a lot of Labour MPs.

Oh no he isn’t, (yet), said Mr Clarke.

OH YES HE IS, they bellowed.

Oh do bog off, said Mr Clarke, in so many words. “The suggestion that there is a group of people madly focusing on going for top-up fees against all rationality is not the case,” he said.

Having dismissed the idea of a Top-up Taleban, Mr Clarke sat down looking satisfied, as if he had just consumed a particularly succulent toddler.

Mr Miliband was invited to visit Coventry. “That’s a very tempting suggestion,” he said breathily, utterly, utterly thrilled at the prospect of sending himself to Coventry. Next he was asked “What plans he has for career development.” The true answer to this is, I suspect: “I’d like to be Prime Minister, please.” Instead, as always, he gave the correct answer which, oddly enough, I have completely forgotten.

The final act involved the Ugly Sisters, House Leader Robin Cook and his shadow Eric Forth, who spent a happy half-hour ritually walloping each other. During an aside about the licensing of cathedral choirs, Michael Fabricant (C, Lichfield), or Loopy, the eighth dwarf, asked Mr Cook out on a date. “Can I invite you to spend an evening with me? We could perhaps go to one of our elegant restaurants. After we’ve done that we would then go to Lichfield Cathedral and hear one of the many concerts that are put on,” said Mr Fabricant.

The Widow Twanky came over all sarky. “I am grateful to you for your invitation. I’ll communicate this to my diary secretary with my secret marking to put it at the bottom of the pile.”

Then the show ended and it was time to go home, but I got lost going down an endless corridor and suddenly found myself in a gloomy cavern, with row upon row of sleeping beauties and no one to kiss them awake.

A strange place, the House of Lords.

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