Maybe he’d been infected by the nearby dreaming spires of academia, because by the time he reached the West Ham youth squad, he was turning to the latest Westminster scandals before the sports pages. A cause of much ribbing in the boot room. Damian didn’t care. He found the personalities and mechanics of politics fascinating. So when he came to be laid up after that attack from Ivory Coast, he started asking himself where his allegiance lay. With Tory? Labour? Lib Dem, UKIP, Greens?
He quickly eliminated the smaller parties, not on account of their policies, which might have been admirable, but because they had no prospect of putting their ideas into practice. Nigel Farage may have been able to engineer Brexit from outside the Westminster village, but that had been an aberration, unlikely to be repeated. Usually first-past-the-post elections kept fringe parties, like UKIP, firmly in their place.
Damian’s view was practical: you went into politics to get things done. Which whittled the choices down to two: Labour or Conservative.
On this point the dreaming spires of academia did not speak to him. The intellectual hotbed up the road was overwhelmingly left wing. It dealt in ideas, often abstruse ones, rarely related to the real world. Damian was a pragmatist. If the current fad or ‘ism’ worked, you did it; if not, you tried something else. That made him a Tory. Not that he agreed with all their views, even most of their views. But there was no alternative.
Damian was not stupid, so when he presented himself at Conservative central office to begin the process of getting his name on the candidates list, he exhibited no doubts. He supported every syllable of their manifesto, heart and soul. The powers-that-be were impressed. Not with his words; every interviewee told similar fibs. But they liked what they saw: a man that was popular, presentable and black. Every political party had the same image problem: too white, too male. People outside these parameters were especially welcome.
That he was also well known was a bonus. Anyone not a recluse would at least have heard of him. Millions would have seen him on the box. Familiarity could be counted on to translate into at least some votes.
Damian White was duly registered on the Conservative list of candidates allowed to contest general elections. He got himself onto the local District Council, which kept him moderately busy. But it revealed a disconcerting fact about himself; although in love with politics as a game, he found the practice of it tedious: endless committee meetings with people over fond of their own voices, wittering on unchecked. Strong chairmen were conspicuous by their absence.
Whenever a parliamentary by-election came up, Damian had a go. With little hope of being selected. But it made a change. So when the sitting member for a famously nationalistic Glasgow constituency died, Damian headed north. At one time the Conservatives had been almost wiped out north of the border. Then the 2015 election had seen previously all-powerful Labour hammered and the Lib Dems decimated, leaving the Scottish Nats reigning supreme, everyone else mere stage extras. Although 2017 had redressed the balance, Tories remained little loved in Scotland’s biggest city.
It was a surprise to find that the local Conservative party even had an organisation. At the last general election their candidate had managed a derisory 8% of the poll, about average for a Tory in urban Scotland. All of six local party members had turned out to select their candidate for the coming massacre.
The location was a dreary hall somewhere in the sprawl of suburban Glasgow. Damian had arrived in a taxi, but if asked to find it again, would not have had a clue. However, the atmosphere was surprisingly up-beat, even festive. All five victims were offered a slug of the ‘peaty stuff’ to calm their nerves, before being invited to say their piece.
Last on the list, Damian listened attentively to his rivals; attentively, but without the faintest notion what they were talking about; accents and subject matter were impenetrable. All were local, all were earnest. They could have been discussing the Siberian grain harvest: in Russian.
So when it came to his turn, he had nothing to lose. As a Sassenach - a black Sassenach, his chances had to be below zero. The peaty concoction from Islay no doubt assisted his recklessness.
“I have no local knowledge,” he began. “But don’t write me off as just another import from the auld enemy. Because, as you can see, my folks came from the auld empire. And Glasgow was the second city of that empire. Which was largely created by Glaswegians. We all know that whoever you choose today doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning this seat. What we do have - because it’s a by-election with the whole country watching - is an opportunity to show off. Wave the blue rosettes. Put Glasgow back on the map for a day. If you choose me, I’ll do that. Have some fun.”
The five candidates spent an eternity sitting in a bleak anteroom, while the six local Tories mulled over their choice. When finally called back, the chairman apologised for the delay and continued:
“As you’ll have gathered, it’s been difficult coming to a decision. Some of us felt that loyal service should be rewarded. Come the next general election, we expect to do just that. But a slim majority has been swayed by the words of Mr. White, who pointed out that in a by-election, with media attention from around the country, we should consider which candidate would most benefit the Conservative party as a whole. With his background as a football and TV star, there’s no doubt who will be best placed to provide that, so it is with pleasure that we have selected Mr. White as the Conservative candidate.”
With the promise that one of the locals would get the nod next time around, the other hopefuls were magnanimous in defeat and Damian set about the business of ‘having fun’. West Ham footballers and TV dancers are no more than entertainers, so he was on familiar ground. With no pressure to win, no Ivory Coast to break his leg, no partner to wreck his marriage, he had a ball; knocked on a million doors and spoke at packed meetings. Always with a ready repartee and smile on his face. Up here football was either Rangers or Celtic, but most people had at least heard of West Ham. And, like south of the border, everyone had been hooked on Strictly.
When the votes had been counted, the Returning Officer announced that the Scottish National Party had, as expected, won by a handsome margin, with Labour a poor second. The Conservatives, in the shape of Damian White, had managed a creditable third, with 16% of the vote. A triumph!
He returned from Glasgow on a high, hoping for a winnable seat at the next general election.
4
Such naivety!
Under Britain’s archaic electoral system at least half the constituencies were considered ‘safe’ for one of the major parties. You could tie a rosette, red or blue as the case might be, to a donkey and that animal would be duly elected. In these cases the fight to enter the hallowed halls of Westminster took place not during an election campaign, but long before, when the dominant party selected its Prospective Parliamentary Candidate - its PPC.
Although there were a large number of these safe seats, most had sitting members, political leeches, who would do anything to hang onto their cosy jobs for life. However, a few were always up for grabs. Of these, some would see established stars parachuted in; in 2015 London’s mayor, Boris Johnson, offered himself to the Tories of Uxbridge, who duly obliged.
For the rest, the competition to be selected a PPC was ferocious. Even a minor star, like Damian, found that his ‘success’ in Glasgow - if one can call coming third a success - counted for little in the scramble for winnable seats. There were an awful lot of rivals, most with better CVs than his. A friend in central office hinted that his Glasgow campaign had not won universal approval. Yes, it had been fine for a by-election in a no-hope constituency, but it carried warnings about his suitability for mainstream politics. He was seen as being a mite too frivolous: not ‘sound’ enough.
During the next three years Damian toured Britain from north to south, east to west, seeking the holy grail of selection as PPC for anywhere with the remotest chance of success. When a sitting member died or indicated that he/she would not
stand again, the local party was always keen to get a new candidate in place as quickly as possible. Time and again he had to listen to someone else being congratulated. All most depressing.
With nominations for the next general election closing in a few days, he had given up all hope of finding a constituency. He would spend the campaign helping Len Jenkins retain Mid Oxon for the Conservatives. A busy and exciting time. He was in the flat he had bought in Wheatley after Mandy had left him, when the phone rang.
It was Alec Warbeck, the Tory election agent. He came straight to the point:
“Bad news, I’m afraid, Damian. Len’s just died.”
“What! How?”
“Looks like a heart attack. We’ll know after the post mortem. No time to grieve, though. Len wouldn’t have wanted that. Point is, we have to get our skates on to find another candidate.”
“Of course. So when.....?”
“Right now I’m sending emails and letters to all party members advising of hustings in two days time. That’ll give the successful candidate twenty four hours to get his papers in. A tight schedule, but it should be possible. I’m ringing you with advance notice, because I know you’ll be interested.”
As a local lad and District Councillor, Damian knew everyone there was to know in the Mid Oxon party, including Alec Warbeck, their election agent.
“Kind of you, Alec. Don’t know what to say...” Damian was in shock.
“Don’t say anything, just start thinking about that hustings speech,” said Alec. “And remember Tony Blair.”
“Blair was Labour.” Damian didn’t know what Alec was driving at.
“Clever boy. What’s less well known is that Blair was the last person selected for any party when he first stood for Sedgefield in eighty three. There’d been boundary changes and it was a new constituency. There was confusion: a bit like here, if for a different reason.” Alec’s knowledge of elections was encyclopaedic.
“So....?”
“So nothing. Except whoever gets in here will probably also be the last one to be selected. With Blair, it turned out that ‘The last shall be first’, as the Good Book says. Maybe that’ll be an omen for whoever makes it in Mid Oxon.”
“I’ll be happy to just win in two days time. Never mind the top job.”
There was a pause at the other end. Damian thought he’d been cut off. Then he heard: “You’d make an interesting prime minister.”
“Yea, yea....”
“And you’ll get in here.”
“You reckon?”
“I’ve made soundings, as they say. Just don’t go overboard with the funny stuff. Be a little serious, if you can manage that.”
“No repeat of Glasgow?”
“Exactly.”
Alec’s advice was spot on. At the hustings Damian started by describing his early days in Blackbird Leys; a local lad, but one from the wrong side of the tracks. On to West Ham, sporting success always good for a few votes. Then came his broken leg; end of career, sob, sob. Sympathy votes in the bag. Strictly Come Dancing had been watched by just about everyone in the kingdom, so mentioning that did no harm either. As a coda, he took Alec’s advice and became serious. Reminded his audience how he had doubled their vote in that harshest of Tory environments, Scotland. The party faithful took barely twenty minutes to make up their minds. They selected Damian White as their candidate at the next election.
Mid Oxon being one of the safest seats in the country, all they then had to do was tie a blue rosette on their donkey - correction, Damian - and he’d be off to Westminster.
5
MARCH 12th.
Japan planned its attack on Pearl Harbour for a Sunday morning in the expectation that the Americans would be half asleep. Which they were. It’s rare for the day of the week to make any difference, but had the coming events occurred on a different day and time, the outcome, as at Pearl, might have been different. We should therefore record where the major players were and what they were doing during the preceding hours.
Starting on Tuesday, when McGregor and his crew began their return flight to London.
The captain had not done the landing into San Francisco, after all. They had arrived to find the Pacific sea fog in fine form, the Runway Visual Range down to 100 metres. In the bad old days this would have meant a diversion to Oakland, but nowadays just about every aircraft has autoland, which can get you down in zero/zero conditions. With one proviso: a human pilot is not allowed to touch the controls. So they had sat and watched, fingers poised over the disconnect, while the autopilot did its usual faultless job: much more reliable than its human counterpart.
It had been MacGregor’s sector, so nothing had changed for the return leg. First Officer Hardaker would still be taking the 747 back to London.
The flight plan said ten hours twelve minutes, again over Canada and Greenland, but on a more southerly track than outbound to take advantage of a helpful jetstream. No CAT, so hopefully smooth all the way. With a depression in the Irish sea, Heathrow was forecasting an eight hundred foot cloud base, with a blustery south-westerly. Reasonable conditions for First Officer Hardaker to earn his spurs.
Still Tuesday, but in Africa, Captain Benjamin Osajefo was preparing to take an Airbus 330 of AfroAir to Heathrow. Osajefo - the name meant ‘Redeemer’ - was the first son of a local chief and head pilot of AfroAir. He was usually to be found flying a desk, but as this was their inaugural service to London, someone of stature needed to be in charge.
For the occasion, the passengers included the country’s president, Lionel Zumweski, and a host of lesser dignitaries. The hand-picked crew were nervous. Those in the cabin because their politicians were a notoriously volatile bunch; the two first officers because Captain Osajefo was a domineering personality, who did not suffer fools. At all.
Osajefo was six foot five in his socks and big boned. He sported a straggly beard, which was jet black, like his skin. His four-times-great grandfather was said to have eaten one of the first missionaries to have brought Christ to the dark continent. However, the missionary’s spirit had had the last laugh, because Osajefo’s tribe was now fervently Christian, so much so that they enjoyed going off on unofficial crusades against those not of their persuasion.
First Officer Nkrane, thankful to be only the relief pilot, was merely nervous: he aimed to keep well out of the way until called upon for his stint, when the boss went off to sleep. First Officer Johnson, the copilot, was rather more than nervous. Although a mature man in his thirties, with over five thousand flying hours to his credit, he had flown with Osajefo before and had not enjoyed the experience. The problem was not just the captain’s abrasive personality, he was also a poor pilot. Flying an Airbus was more demanding than operating a desk.
All might have been well had not one of President Zumweski’s mistresses discovered she was pregnant. This was a common enough situation, where ritual demanded a sort of post-courtship dance. The mother-to-be yelled and screamed, insisting on an absurd pension to bring up the president’s bastard. On his side, the father-to-be stomped around in a fury, telling his beloved she was a whore, the amount she was demanding out of the question. Then, aflame with lust, he hurled himself on his lady, whose howls now became those of pleasure not protest. They made love twice more before reluctantly parting, having made another assignation.
All this took time. AfroAir’s scheduled departure had been for 2100, but it was nearly midnight before President Zumweski appeared, invigorated by his recent battle and smiling broadly. By now Captan Osajefo, who came from a rival tribe, was in a foul mood. And everyone was tired. Not the best start for a long flight. Another butterfly had flapped its wings.
Over now to London, again Tuesday, but earlier in the day. Damian White, into his fourth year as Conservative member for Mid Oxon, was enjoying a rare day pleading a case in the Mother of Parliaments.
Affairs of state passed him by. He voted for his party when he felt their cause was just. When not, he didn’t. At first this had
infuriated Bessie Robotham, the Tory Chief Whip, but she had eventually given up in disgust. Bessie was a big Rochdale girl, who had migrated to the bluer fields of Cheshire when discovering that her home town was not the best place for right wing views.
On this Tuesday Bessie couldn’t have cared less. That little twerp White could sound off as much as he liked. It wouldn’t make the slightest difference. The debate was about how much Britain should give in foreign aid, a subject that usually scaled the heights of apathy. Back in 1970, the United Nations had suggested that developed countries should give 0.7% of their GDP to those less fortunate. Conscientious Scandinavians were actually exceeding this target, but the big beasts had put up the proverbial two fingers, the USA with less than 0.2%, Russia less than 0.1%. David Cameron had pledged the UK to the full 0.7%, a figure his successors had been reluctant to change. It remained a bone of contention.
A bone of contention maybe, but by now everyone was bored silly by it. How this current debate had ever got onto the parliamentary agenda was unclear; probably the ‘seen to be doing something’ syndrome. Most people were in favour of foreign aid, but nit picking about the level of that aid was not something to stir the loins. A mere fifteen souls - a Rugby team - from across the political spectrum had gathered on those green benches to do battle.
The debate droned on and on, in mind-numbing lethargy, until Speaker Jeremy Cauldwell, almost asleep himself, gave the nod to the member for Mid Oxon. That should liven things up. Cauldwell was old and traditional, White young and irreverent, poles apart, but the Speaker had a soft spot for the former West Ham striker, partly because he usually spoke without notes. This had once been the only way to address the house, but nowadays members were more like those shambolic TV detectives, who couldn’t solve a case without consulting dog-eared scraps of paper. Damian was also concise, an almost extinct virtue in a profession where verbal diarrhoea was the norm.
NIGHT WATCHMAN Page 2