by Ed Balls
PORK LOIN WITH SWEET & SOUR BBQ SAUCE
This rich, spicy and tangy tomato-based BBQ sauce is great with pork tenderloin, but you can also use it for sausages. It works equally well if you finish it on a BBQ or inside on a griddle pan.
INGREDIENTS
1 tbsp olive oil
2 garlic cloves, peeled and finely chopped
½ onion, peeled and finely chopped
400ml can peeled plum tomatoes
1 tbsp tomato purée
3 tbsp brown sugar
2 tbsp balsamic vinegar
1 tbsp Cajun spice mix
2 pork tenderloins
500ml chicken stock
250ml water
Heat the olive oil in a saucepan, add the garlic and onions and cook for 5 minutes. Add the tomatoes and chop them up in the pan. Add the tomato puree, brown sugar, balsamic vinegar and Cajun spice. Bring to the boil and simmer for 15 minutes to thicken the BBQ sauce. Cool.
Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/gas mark 4.
Smear the pork tenderloins all over with half the BBQ sauce, reserving the rest. Put in a casserole dish and pour the chicken stock and water around. Cover and put in the oven for 1 hour.
Heat a griddle pan until hot, then take the pork loins out of the casserole dish and reduce the cooking liquid on the stove by half. Transfer the pork to the griddle pan and cook for 5 minutes, smearing liberally with the remaining BBQ sauce. Chop up the pork tenderloins and pour the reduced liquid over to serve.
RAPID BBQ SAUCE
When you have to BBQ in a hurry, the sauce has an extra role to fulfil: to add flavour but also to provide a protective coating around the sausages and burgers while they cook so that, rather than the skin burning, you get a tasty, dark and caramelised outer crust. When I’m doing this kind of rapid BBQ, there is no time to make a complex BBQ sauce. So if I’ve not got a bottle of shop-bought sauce in the fridge, I’ll just throw this one together based on tomato ketchup plus some other key ingredients. Better than a burnt sausage any time.
INGREDIENTS
½ mug tomato ketchup
2 tbsp brown sauce
2 tbsp Dijon mustard
2 tbsp brown sugar
1 tbsp soy sauce
1 tsp liquid smoke (or a squirt of a branded smoky BBQ sauce – no worries if you don’t have any though!)
Salt and pepper
METHOD
Mix all the ingredients together in the mug with the tomato ketchup and smear over the sausages on the BBQ or grill. Cook for 15 minutes until cooked through. You can always pre-cook the sausages for 15 minutes in the oven first, too, which also works particularly well for chicken joints. Otherwise, just keep everything turning and all will be fine.
10 EMBARRASSING DAD SYNDROME
My life turned upside down on 7 May 2015. After twenty years in full-time politics – as chief economic adviser, Cabinet minister and shadow chancellor – I was turfed out of Parliament and found myself suddenly unemployed. Fighting a marginal Yorkshire constituency, I always knew this was a possibility, but until the day of the election itself, I didn’t think it was likely. After all, David Cameron himself didn’t expect to win a majority, let alone have my seat as the icing on his cake.
The next morning, I spoke to my thirteen-year-old son to discover he’d sat up all night with his grandpa to end up seeing me lose live on TV at 8.15 a.m. Only then did it begin to sink in quite what an earthquake this was going to be for our family. My kids were upset. My dad was dismayed. Yvette was a bit shell-shocked. And for me, it felt very final and abrupt, like that moment of helpless resignation when you’ve rushed to catch a train and see it pulling away without you.
I was disappointed, of course, but also relieved. At least I wouldn’t have to put up with five more years of soul-destroying opposition, and that was even without knowing how wild and divisive those next five years of politics would be: three different prime ministers; two more elections; the surprising rise and inevitable fall of Jeremy Corbyn; the country torn apart by Brexit; and then the pandemic. For all my experience in politics, I didn’t see any of that coming in 2015; I just thought, well, that’s that – what next? And the answer, most immediately and unexpectedly, was becoming a full-time, stay-at-home dad.
While Yvette worked long hours that summer in the race to succeed Ed Miliband for the Labour leadership, powerless in the path of the Corbyn juggernaut, I was at home for our three teenage kids in a way that I hadn’t been for the previous sixteen years, engaging them in daily chats about school, homework, friends and life in general. Much like coming to terms with my stammer, a huge weight had been lifted. No more deep stress knotting the back of my neck in a tangle of tension. No more waking up at 4 a.m. worrying about a morning interview. I decided to be proud of what I’d achieved and move on – a lighter, happier and hopefully more thoughtful me.
And, of course, I was there to cook, and took to the task as though I’d never seen food before. It was like running a café at home – ‘Here’s the menu, what do you fancy today?’ – I was so happy to please that I often ended up making three different dinners every evening. For me it was fabulous – and for our teenage kids, at least it was a relief to have one of their parents out of the spotlight. After a brief media fascination with me not just being unemployed but having the temerity to go out to the shops in the middle of the working day not wearing a suit, even the paparazzi got bored and moved on. Part of what had become my regular life – journalists and cameramen lurking on the doorstep vying for a comment; photographers waiting to catch me off guard in the street or snapping me looking silly at public appearances – all became a thing of the past in a matter of days. No more embarrassing pictures in the papers; no more segments on Have I Got News For You? or Mock the Week; I was officially a former person of interest, and the kids were even ready to let me go to the school parents’ evening, so long as I promised not to attract attention. At last, I was just an ordinary dad.
While I didn’t realise it immediately, I count myself very lucky that my departure from politics – and the time I suddenly had on my hands – coincided with my teenage kids discovering the interests they were most passionate about pursuing in their own spare time. I was able to get involved alongside them just as enthusiastically and enjoy marvelling at what naturals they were. That was certainly true of watching them perform on stage in musicals – something I’d always dreamed of doing but never had the talent or the confidence to attempt. And, when watching our two older kids try sailing lessons after school, I was struck that the skill I’d always wanted to learn since reading the Swallows and Amazons books as a child, and had even taken a few lessons and courses in over the years, was something that came so naturally to our kids. I started out thinking I could – literally – teach my son the ropes, but I’ve ended up watching in wonderment as he has – literally – sped past me.
And then there is the piano. Our children were having piano lessons and it dawned upon me that I had wanted to play the piano all my life so if our kids could learn from scratch, surely I could as well. I signed up with their piano teacher, Lola Perrin, when I was shadow chancellor and, eight years later, and with more time to practice, I’m now working on Grade 7 playing Bach, Handel, Parry and some modern jazz. Although, while I have always just managed to pass my piano exams, the kids always did better than me.
So I’ve been happily eclipsed by our children when it comes to music and sailing. Not quite yet with the cooking, although they still have plenty of time. However, when it comes to embarrassing the family, the kids are happy to concede I am the undefeated champion. Personally, I think this is somewhat unfair. I always maintain that it’s not my behaviour that’s changed; it’s just the extent to which my kids find it embarrassing, which is much more in their control than in mine. And this is itself just part of the natural progression of parenthood. Kids go from total dependency when they are very young to the seven to nine age range, when they are less vulnerable but continually need to be k
ept entertained. As they get a little older, into the ‘tweeny’ phase, they like to have us around, but preferably not too intrusive or visible. And by the time they become teenagers, we parents are generally expected to have the same utility as cashpoints and vending machines in terms of providing instant money and food, with minimum complication or comment.
Those teenage years are a tough period of transition for any self-respecting dad. Activities, phrases, clothing and pretty much every aspect of your persona, which you’ve up to now thought were normal and inoffensive, suddenly become excruciatingly embarrassing to a thirteen-year-old. This change, in my experience, is heralded by the introduction of the phrase ‘Can you not?’ into family discourse.
In 2012, I ran the London Marathon for the first time for Whizz-Kidz and Action for Stammering Children. Preparing for it involved months of training through the winter, often in the bitter cold and rain, followed by carb-loading in the fortnight before the race, which, of course, I loved. Shorts just wouldn’t keep me warm enough on a three-hour training run and every other runner I saw in the park was wearing Lycra jogging leggings – so I bought a pair too. My purchases were bland, dark and discreet, but I faced a firm ‘Can you not?’ every time I pulled them on and strode down the stairs to the front door. My surprising solution was to make myself even more conspicuous – but less identifiable – by wearing a fluorescent yellow running hat and gloves. By distracting attention from my face, I looked just like any other crazy runner out in the cold. It was only when I took off the hat and gloves that I tended to be recognised and – thanks to my leggings and less-than-peak condition – mocked. From then on, fluorescent clothes became de rigeur.
Another ‘Can you not?’ activity was live tweeting while watching Saturday night television. I was what economists would call an early mover where Twitter was concerned and, despite a minor misuse of the search function in the spring of 2011, which I was sure people would forget in a hurry, I thought I was pretty good at it. I certainly found it fun, watching Eurovision or Britain’s Got Talent, to shoot the odd, opinionated endorsement or denunciation out into the ether. While I generally displayed rather ropey Eurovision judgement, regularly slamming the eventual winners for being unable to hold whatever terrible tune they were singing, I had more luck championing underdog contestants in successive series of X Factor. It was all harmless fun until one Saturday in 2012, when Dermot O’Leary read out one of my endorsement tweets live on the show, and Nicole Scherzinger reacted with a ringing endorsement of her own: ‘Vote for Balls!’ I was quite pleased, but as my kids’ phones started to explode with messages from schoolfriends, their own smiles on the sofa turned to mortification – could I please go one week without embarrassing them in front of all their mates?
And then I agreed to go on Strictly Come Dancing.
I had barely danced before I was on Strictly, but the fact that I wasn’t a total novice was largely down to Yvette. She did ballet lessons as a child, and was always trying to drag me to dance lessons. We once spent a painful three hours in a cruise ship ballroom, well over a decade before I did Strictly, trying to learn the cha-cha-cha. And in that strange summer of 2015 when I was suddenly unemployed, we spent another three hours attempting to master the tango. We had arrived at a house we were renting in Italy with Yvette’s extended family and the caretakers told us they could arrange both a tango class and an Italian cooking lesson. With Strictly not a twinkle in my eye – or a sequin on my shirt – at that point, I was far more interested in the cooking lesson. As Yvette and I lumbered back and forth across the courtyard to the strains of a flamenco guitar, our kids rolled their eyes and looked away.
Given my lack of experience and these acute teenage sensitivities, 2016 might not have been the best time for me to sign up for Britain’s biggest live television programme, not least one with a rich history of making its ‘stars’ go way out of their comfort zone for the public’s amusement and entertainment. At the start, though, the person most embarrassed by my efforts on the show was definitely me. Standing listening to the introductory video before our first dance, I heard the announcer say, ‘Dancing the waltz, Ed Balls and his partner Katya Jones’, and I had one of those out-of-body moments, looking down at the scene and asking myself: ‘What is happening? What on earth are you doing? You do realise ten million people are watching?’ I learned that week that if I looked and felt embarrassed and uncomfortable, everyone else would feel the same. Whereas if I threw caution to the wind, got into character and just went for it – whether it was a banjo-playing cowboy or a green-faced Mask – people were more likely to have fun alongside me, and enjoy what they were watching. As with my stammer, I learned I just had to be open and be myself.
Our two older kids were able to come to the show a few times, carefully positioned a couple of seats away from Yvette so that they would never be seen when the cameras cut away to her shocked laughter at the end of my routines. I know they enjoyed it too, up to a point. After all, dancing dads are intrinsically embarrassing, so I was only living up to type. But my youngest daughter was hugely relieved when it was all over, and I was immediately banned from attending any more of her parents’ evenings, lest the combination of a shiny-floored school hall and a loud PA system lead to a clamour from the other parents and teachers for a quick reprise of ‘Gangnam Style’.
The best thing about Strictly was that it took away any nerves, inhibitions or embarrassment I might have felt about taking on other challenges. So, even when making serious documentaries about the rise of populism in America and across Europe, I didn’t mind when the producers somehow thought it essential to my political analysis to dress in a Union Jack-style leotard to do Saturday-night wrestling in Alabama, take a Taser shot to the buttocks while training with the Louisiana police, or have the same area rather invasively massaged alongside a reality TV star in Milan.
And of course, performing in front of a live audience held fewer fears after Strictly, even when I joined Frank Skinner, Harry Hill and the George Formby Society to perform ‘When I’m Cleaning Windows’ live in the Royal Albert Hall and on BBC1 to celebrate the Queen’s ninety-second birthday. Goodness knows why the BBC asked me of all people to perform this particular role; and learning to play the banjo in a fortnight was very tough. But I’ve always enjoyed a challenge; my younger brother was a big Formby fan so I’d seen all his films many times; and, it goes without saying, it was an honour to play for the Queen.
At the end of the whole event, all the performers were due to go back on stage to hear Prince Charles make a short speech and lead three cheers for his mother, and Frank, Harry and I ended up standing with the royal party in the wings as we got ready to go out. In my old role as secretary of state for education, I had met Her Majesty and the Prince of Wales many times, but obviously not very often while clutching a banjo. Prince Charles turned to me, chuckled in bemusement, and said, ‘What on earth are you up to now?’ The Queen was smiling too, telling me how our Formby tribute had triggered vivid childhood memories for her, when we got our cue to move forward onto the big stage. Poor Frank hadn’t noticed and got the shock of his life when Her Majesty turned and loudly shouted at him: ‘Come on Frank!’ I’ve never seen anyone move so fast.
But Prince Charles had asked me the right question: What was I doing? I guess after twenty years in politics, I wanted to do something totally different. And I was certainly doing that. Even so, when I was asked to climb to the summit of Kilimanjaro for Comic Relief in 2019, I had nerves for a different reason, wondering if I was physically up to it. I was going to be one of the oldest of the group, which also included Little Mix’s Jade Thirlwall and Leigh-Anne Pinnock, Love Island’s Dani Dyer, Strictly Come Dancing head judge Shirley Ballas, NFL star Osi Umenyiora, broadcaster Anita Rani, BBC Breakfast’s Dan Walker and Pointless host Alexander Armstrong.
Three weeks before we were due to travel to Tanzania, I met up with Dani Dyer – not the ‘EastEnders guy’, as my daughter called him, but as far as she was co
ncerned, the Dani Dyer from Love Island. We went with the BBC cameras to a gym in central London with a sports science expert, Professor Greg White, and climbed onto exercise bikes with masks on our faces to try out breathing in the thin air we would experience at altitude. The level of oxygen dropped steadily and, while I thought I was fit, it was proving to be increasingly hard work. We stopped after ten minutes to take an oxygen reading and I was clearly struggling.
While Dani got the thumbs up from Professor Greg, he looked at my reading and immediately turned white. He told me my oxygen absorption had plummeted and, in normal life, if I had turned up at A&E with a reading like that, I would have been transferred straight into intensive care to prevent my imminent demise. Our doorbell rang the next morning at 7 a.m. – Professor Greg had driven over himself to deliver a special oxygen machine. He told me I needed to spend three hours wearing the mask every day for the next three weeks to acclimatise myself and get ready for the mountain. ‘Otherwise’, he said, ‘I don’t think you’ll make it.’ I didn’t know if he meant ‘make it to the top’ or ‘make it back to Britain’, but either way, I did as I was told.
I did well for the first four days of the trek as we steadily climbed above 4,000 metres, already more than four times higher than anywhere in the UK. The nights were freezing cold and the days long and arduous. We were up at 6 a.m. and walked for eight to ten hours, fuelled by three hearty and very tasty meals a day cooked by two Tanzanian chefs kneeling in the mouth of a tent with just two gas burners to feed all the climbers, film crew, guides and porters. The air was thin and we all found we were hungry, tired and sometimes unexpectedly tearful. Early on it was Jade, Anita and particularly Dan who struggled with the altitude sickness. We were determined that all nine of us would make the summit together, but at one point it looked inevitable that Dan might have to turn back. He recovered, however, and we were all in decent shape as we prepared for the final push.