Canada's Speaker of the House is ceremonially dragged to the chair by the Prime Minister and Opposition leader, a tradition rooted in British Parliament where seven Speakers were executed between the 14th and 16th centuries for delivering unwelcome royal messages. The ritual evolved into a symbolic reminder that the Speaker answers to the House, not to any party or monarch.
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Why is this man being dragged against his will to the front of the Canadian House of Commons while everyone claps and he laughs? This is what happens every time MPs in Parliament elect a new Speaker of the House. No handshake, no speech, no gold watch. Instead, immediately after the election, the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition grabs them out of their seat and drags them across the floor like a teenager being told to apologize to your sibling. None of it's real, of course. The guy being dragged isn't really being dragged, and everyone's having fun. But it did not start out that way. This tradition dates back to British Parliament eons ago, at a time when being Speaker was not a cushy gig with a fancy office. See, the Speaker's job back then was to deliver Parliament's decisions to the monarch. And if the king or queen did not like the message, well— Bad luck, buddy. You're the royal scapegoat. 7 Speakers were executed between the 14th and 16th centuries. You didn't get dragged to the chair because it was funny. You got dragged because you genuinely were in fear of your life. Nobody wanted the job. It wasn't until 1642 that Speaker William Lenthall told King Charles I to pound sand, politely of course, and declared that he spoke only for the House, not for the Crown. That moment was huge. That was the moment the Speaker stopped being the royal messenger and started being the guardian of parliamentary independence. These days, of course, the only political death comes at the hands of a bad Twitter ratio or a grumpy CBC panel, but the ceremony remains. And not just here either. In Australia, in provincial legislatures, in the UK, it's meant to remind everyone in the room that the Speaker's loyalty isn't to the King or the Prime Minister or even their own party, because they are all MPs. It's to the House. To fairness. To order. It's why the second they take the chair, the Speaker becomes an impartial referee. No more partisan digs, no more campaign buttons, just some robes, some serious side-eye, and the patience of a kindergarten teacher during juice time. So next time you see this bizarre bit of theatre theater, don't dismiss it. Revel in it. Because in a world where democracies are falling apart faster than a cheap IKEA cabinet, the fact that we still respect the idea that power should be reluctant, impartial, and accountable— that's worth dragging out.
