Parliament shapes Britain’s political agenda in more ways than the public ever sees. Government bills dominate the headlines, but beneath the big set pieces sits a quieter machinery that allows backbench MPs to raise concerns, float new ideas and introduce proposals of their own.

One of the most curious — and competitive — of these is the little-known Ten Minute Rule Bill.

Most legislation at Westminster begins with the Government. That is logical: departments have the resources, mandate and majority to draft and deliver major reforms. Yet a healthy democracy also needs space for MPs outside government to challenge assumptions and bring neglected issues to the fore. Kim Leadbeater’s recent Assisted Dying Bill is a case in point. Introduced as a Private Member’s Bill, it passed both Second and Third Reading by narrow margins and forced a national conversation on an issue many thought Parliament was unwilling to confront.

Ten Minute Rule Bills offer another route for backbench MPs to put ideas onto the parliamentary agenda. As the name suggests, the sponsoring MP is given up to 10 minutes — placed helpfully in the middle of the parliamentary day — to make their case. There is no forensic line-by-line scrutiny. Instead, the member delivers an uninterrupted pitch, another MP may offer an uninterrupted rebuttal, and the House then decides whether to allow the bill’s formal introduction. They rarely become law, but they do what they are intended to: elevate a debate and place an idea firmly on the parliamentary record.

What the public does not see is the battle to secure one of these scarce slots. Each party manages its own selection. In the Liberal Democrats, the process is democratic but brisk: a short hustings, competitive and not guaranteed. In the most recent round, I was selected to bring forward a bill calling on the Government to negotiate a new, bespoke UK–EU Customs Union — a practical step to cut red tape and support economic growth.

Winning the internal vote, however, is only the beginning. Westminster’s arcane procedures have a habit of introducing complexity — and occasional farce. Even after securing party backing, MPs must personally “collect” their slot from the House of Commons Table Office. And this is quite literally first-come, first-served.

Such is the demand for Ten Minute Rule slots that it is not unheard-of for MPs to try to beat a colleague to the door. Some have even camped out overnight in the corridors to ensure they reach the desk first. It is possible — even after winning the right to introduce a bill — to be gazumped by someone willing to queue earlier.

On the appointed morning, MPs gather outside the Table Office ahead of its 10am opening. There is no reservation system, no marker of intent; the first person through the door writes their bill’s title on the slip and secures the slot. Convention usually dictates respect for the next party in line, but as a recent dispute over Calum Miller’s attempt at a Ten Minute Rule Bill showed, convention is not always observed when politics intervenes.

That is why, on November 18, I arrived early and waited in the corridor for nearly an hour before the doors opened. No theatrics were required in the end — no one tried to claim the slot — and the bill was registered without incident.

I will now introduce my Ten Minute Rule Bill on December 9. Ten minutes on the floor of the House may seem a footnote in a crowded parliamentary calendar, but these opportunities matter. They allow backbench MPs to probe government thinking, test public sentiment and shine light on issues that might otherwise be drowned out by the churn of daily politics.

In a system heavily weighted towards government business, the Ten Minute Rule Bill remains a small but meaningful way for individual MPs to shape the national agenda — and in a place where even queuing is political, 10 minutes can go a surprisingly long way.