Those who seek to reform our democracy should learn from one particular example

Boris Johnson’s shocking move to suspend parliament at a time when, putting it mildly, MPs have pressing matters to discuss, affirms afresh the urgency of modernising Britain’s creaking democracy. Capricious rulers can play all sorts of games unchecked and unbalanced, and the case for reining them in by rationalising the half-forgotten precedents and far-flung bits of vellum in which our constitution consists seems unarguable.

But those who—like Prospect—believe in reform must be clear-eyed about the many ways this can go wrong. One recent case study is instructive. Not long ago, fixed parliamentary terms were a demand of the concerned, “progressive” citizen: I once ran a survey of Guardian readers that registered 80 per cent backing. Today, however, no law is more despised than the 2011 statute that (supposedly) sets the next election for 2022.

The myriad—and not always consistent—charges against it include claims that it stopped Theresa May getting Brexit done, that it has entrenched zombie governance, and that it might soon drag the Queen into party politics. It certainly failed on its own terms: if there is an autumn election, it will be the third in the eight years that fixed five-year terms have been on the statute book. The electoral rhythm has actually become less predictable than before.

So where did the idea come from, and how did it go so wrong? It was the awesome centralisation of power in Margaret Thatcher’s hands that first fuelled progressive interest in clipping her wings by—in the words of the 1987 SDP/Liberal Alliance manifesto—removing “the right of the prime minister to determine the date of general elections.”

Little thought, though, was given to whether this particular “right” actually afforded unfair advantage. While administrations that ran through to the maximum five years were often defeated—as in 1964, 1997 and 2010—these were governments that had held on because they were already running from defeat. The expected term was generally four years, and prime ministers who veered (or toyed with veering) away from that mostly damaged themselves: Ted Heath went a touch early in 1970, James Callaghan wobbled before holding on beyond 1978, and Brown had an anguished wrestle with a snap poll in 2007. All lived to regret it. Then, of course, Theresa May unfixed the supposedly fixed term she had inherited—and lost her majority.

If the fad for fixed-terms had been accompanied by any real thought, then we would have debated whether it could actually be more damaging if, rather than politicians fixing the electoral cycle to fit in with the economic one, they instead attempted the reverse. We might have discussed, too, why the constitutionally separated branches of the American government make the fixed terms of the US Congress a misleading comparator. And we would have taken the time to discover how notionally fixed terms in more comparable countries, such as Germany, could be and had been short-circuited—something nobody outside of political science departments knew anything about.

When the idea was finally embraced by the main parties, the driver was blind panic. Amid the 2009 expenses crisis, both fumbled around for a “something” that “must be done.” Labour put fixed terms in its manifesto (although, tellingly, without explaining how they’d work), and David Cameron signalled they were worth looking at. His government then converted this hazily mooted “reform” into reality at dizzying speed, for reasons of pure expediency: its Lib Dem and Tory wings both wanted to stop each other pulling the plug on the coalition early.

There was controversy when the law went through—but on entirely the wrong question. Labour MPs howled that under the original plan, where 55 per cent of MPs could force early dissolution, the Lib Dems and Tories could short-circuit the Act alone. The objection turned on the passing arithmetic of the 2010 House, and the eventual concession—increasing the super-majority to two-thirds—proved meaningless when Labour nodded through May’s snap poll in 2017. Oppositions feel duty-bound to cheer on elections.

The battle over irrelevant detail was matched by silence over the baffling implications for no-confidence votes. Since our constitution’s fundamental principle is that British governments can govern only while they retain the confidence of the Commons, spelling out what happens when that confidence disappears should have grabbed political minds. Somehow, it didn’t.

By dictating narrow wording for relevant no-confidence motions, the Act closed off a traditional option that May might have used to force her deal through—threatening her MPs with an election if they didn’t back it, by writing it into a motion of confidence. It also requires a fortnight in which new efforts to win the House’s confidence can be made before an election is called, but says nothing about who gets to make these attempts. Does the PM have a chance to revise his or her policy or attract new support? Does initiative pass to the opposition leader? Or is the onus on MPs somehow to identify a consensual figure, and let them have a go?

In the resulting haze, we saw a stand-off between Jeremy Corbyn and Jo Swinson, who suggested Ken Clarke or Harriet Harman should get a go before the Queen called on Labour’s leader. The nonagenarian in the Palace, who has kept clear of the fray for so long, really could be cornered into making a controversial call. Meanwhile, the cynic in No 10 who exercises another—unreformed—prerogative in her name suspends parliament for nakedly self-serving reasons.

The lesson for reformers? Identify the executive powers that really are subject to abuse and concentrate there. Expect unexpected consequences. Above all, take the time to think your changes through. Overhaul in haste; repent at leisure.