As far back as I can remember I have wanted to be a Member of Parliament. At Betteshanger, in 1959, I was the Liberal candidate (age eleven). At Bedales, in 1964, I came out for Sir Alec.43 In 1970, the election that brought Ted Heath to power was held on the last day of my Finals.44 I took the train to London to vote, went back to Oxford to party, and returned to London again to be on call overnight at Television Centre as the ‘Conservative Voice of Youth’ (!), alongside Jack Straw45 for Labour. In the mid ’70s I toyed with getting myself onto the candidates list (but didn’t follow it through) and I’ve kept in touch (sort of) with Oxford contemporaries who are in there now, but until this year, this summer really, these past few weeks, I haven’t sensed that I was going to go for it, to make it happen. Well, now I am.
It’s really rather funny to be forty-two, to be aspiring to be a Member of Parliament, and to have not the least idea how to set about it. I probably appear as cocky and confident as they come: in truth, I’m as diffident and as uncertain as all get-out. Anyway, the point is: this morning I took my courage in my hands and called Jeffrey Archer.46 I began dialling (only Jeffrey’s number could contain the digits 007) and then – suddenly – lost my nerve and hung up. I sat looking at the telephone, staring at it stupidly, and then, saying to myself, out loud, ‘Don’t be such an idiot, pull yourself together man’, I picked up the receiver and dialled again. Jeffrey was there, and easy and helpful and kind.
‘Yes,’ he barked, ‘It’s about time. As I said to your mother, “If only he’d got on with it when I first told him to, he’d be in the Cabinet by now.”’
I don’t know quite how or where or when Jeffrey can have met my mother, but never mind. He explained that I’ll only get a seat if I’m on the official candidates’ list (which I knew) and that the man I need to see (which I didn’t know) is one Tom Arnold, son of the impresario, MP for Hazel Grove47 and vice-chairman of the party in charge of candidates.
I call Central Office right away. Tom Arnold isn’t there. I speak to a terrifying young woman with a triple-barrelled surname and marshmallows in her mouth. I don’t say who I am or why I’m calling – I mutter, ‘It’s not urgent, I’ll call back’ and hang up. But this afternoon (having discovered from Who’s Who that Tom Arnold also went to Bedales!) I write to him, saying here I am, this is who I am, and can I come and see you? So the deed is done.
FRIDAY 7 SEPTEMBER 1990
A letter arrives from Mrs Camilla Barnett Legh, Candidates Department, Conservative Central Office: ‘Sir Thomas Arnold has asked me to thank you for your letter of 30 August. Perhaps you would be good enough to telephone this office in order to make an appointment to see Sir Thomas at your convenience.’ We’re on our way! … Or so I think until I telephone Mrs Barnett Legh who tells me (from a great height) that the earliest, ‘absolutely the earliest’, Sir Thomas can fit me in is Monday 5 November at 3.20 p.m. An appointment two months down the road at twenty past the hour does not suggest an urgent desire to see me nor the prospect of an extended interview, but what can I do? Be grateful I suppose – and hope the election isn’t called meanwhile.
I still haven’t told Michèle what I’m up to.
SUNDAY 9 SEPTEMBER 1990
Mrs T. is on Frost saying she expects to be around for a good few years yet, certainly till she’s seventy. ‘Some people started their administrations at seventy.’ She’s ridiculous, but wonderful.
SUNDAY 26 SEPTEMBER 1990
The news is not good. The World Health Organization is predicting that thirty million people will have Aids by the year 2000. The Chancellor of the Exchequer48 is forecasting ‘the most difficult few months of the cycle’. And Michèle is saying, ‘The recession is coming. We’ve got to batten down the hatches.’
SATURDAY 6 OCTOBER 1990
Hot news: Britain is to join the European exchange rate mechanism on Monday when interest rates will be cut by 1 per cent to 14 per cent. Everyone agrees it’s a brilliant move: Major, Hurd,49 Kinnock, the Bank of England and the TUC. Nigel Lawson50 is euphoric: ‘I warmly welcome this historic decision which I have long advocated.’ Mrs T. is giving a press conference outside No. 10. ‘Rejoice! Rejoice!’ Naturally there’s heated speculation about ‘a dash to the polls’ – and I haven’t even had my frigging first interview yet!
Jill Bennett51 has died. I last saw her not long ago, very drunk at the Caprice. We embraced like long-lost lovers, but she hadn’t a clue who I was. I doubt any of the obituaries will feature one of my favourite filthy Coral Browne52 stories. As a girl Jill had had a passionate affair with a much older actor, Godfrey Tearle I think. Said Coral, ‘I never could understand what Godfrey Tearle got out of his relationship with Jill Bennett – until one night I saw her eating corn-on-the-cob at the Caprice.’
TUESDAY 16 OCTOBER 1990
These charity lunches are quite a burden. Making it happen, making it work, making it all seem effortless. Anyway, I put Joanna [Lumley] next to HRH at lunch today and it solved everything. She’s perfect and he’s charming and they looked as if they were actually having quite a jolly time. Small talk with royalty isn’t easy. Being normal with royalty is impossible.
There’s that great line of Joyce Grenfell’s mother: ‘When royalty leaves the room, it’s like getting a seed out of your tooth.’
FRIDAY 19 OCTOBER 1990
The Lib Dems have won Eastbourne with a 20 per cent swing from the Tories, Howe53 and Major are at loggerheads, the rift on monetary union is rocking the party, and this is the moment I choose to enter the fray! Maybe it won’t happen. Maybe I’m right not to have told Michèle. Maybe my destiny is to be the high priest of trivia. Today I had sessions on Puzzle World, the Butlin’s project, and the TV Joke Book. Tomorrow I’m in Stratford leading the Pudsey Bear Parade. And on Monday I’m at Merchant Taylor’s Hall hosting ‘The Barbie Summit’. Apparently, I’ll get to meet the original Ken and Barbie – ‘in person’.
So this is it…
‘Gyles Brandreth – who was he?’
‘Oh, you know – the poor man’s Jeremy Beadle.’
FRIDAY 2 NOVEMBER 1990
Geoffrey Howe has resigned in protest over Mrs T.’s attitude to Europe. ‘I can no longer serve your government with honour.’ There’s a wonderful picture in The Times of the Thatcher Cabinet in 1979. Eleven years later and there’s not one of them left. She’s eaten every single one … By way of tribute at the Caprice at lunch I chose steak tartare and was delighted Colin Moynihan hadn’t cried off. He’s fun, puck-like, and friendly. He seemed very sanguine about Mrs T.’s own prospects – rather less so about his own. He’s got a majority of 5,000 but on current form reckons that won’t be enough. I didn’t ask him about Tom Arnold. I’m not sure why. I think it’s partly awkwardness, shyness even, partly self-protection. If I don’t tell anyone I’ve put up for something, if I don’t get it nobody knows and I can pretend (even to myself) it never happened.
MONDAY 5 NOVEMBER 1990
‘Thatcher moves to fight off Heseltine54 threat’ was today’s headline. This I did not discuss this afternoon when I had my brief encounter with Sir Thomas Arnold MP. I reached St James’ station at three o’clock and contrived a roundabout route (via Victoria Station!) so that I walked into 32 Smith Square on the dot of 3.15. I was expected. A girl emerged, easy, friendly, and ushered me past a mighty free-standing portrait of Mrs T. in all her glory towards a little side door that led to what felt very much like the back stairs. Up we went, round bends, along narrow corridors, on and on, until we reached the great man’s door. She knocked. A grunt, ‘Come!’ She opened the door and in I went. The office was tiny, more a vestibule than a room, and Sir Tom, my sort of age but looking older, sat behind his small, sparsely covered desk peering over half-moon specs and effortlessly exuding the discreet charm of the seasoned Tory MP. We exchanged pleasantries (it turned out he was only at Bedales for about ten minutes) and then I came to the point. Could I join the candidates list? Sir Tom was cordial but non-committal. Then he turned to gaze o
ut of the window, narrowed his eyes a moment, touched his mouth with a finger and said, as if thinking out loud, hardly above a whisper, ‘Officially, the list is closed. It’s all done and dusted. But … you never know.’ He turned back to the desk and flashed a crinkly smile. He opened a buff folder.
‘Here are the forms. If you care to fill them in and let me have them back, we’ll take it from there.’ He opened his diary. ‘Let’s meet again on, say, 19 December at 6.30 p.m. Will that suit?’
It won’t suit at all, but I said, ‘Yes, yes, of course, thank you, thank you so much.’
I was out by three-thirty, the conversation was brief and straightforward, but the combination of Sir Tom’s manner – the hushed tone, a certain urgency of delivery, a face with a touch of sadness in repose transformed by sudden brilliant smiles – and the smallness of the room itself gave the meeting an oddly conspiratorial quality. At Oxford I always felt a little hurt that no one had approached me about the possibility of joining MI6. I imagine the initial interview would have felt something like this afternoon’s encounter.
TUESDAY 6 NOVEMBER 1990
At noon I was at Buckingham Palace, standing outside the Chinese Drawing Room (or is it the Yellow Drawing Room and I think it’s Chinese because of the vases and the chinoiserie on the walls?), awaiting the arrival of HRH. As the clock struck he emerged from a door at the far, far end of the long corridor and I watched him walk towards me. He was alone and came quite slowly. It’s an odd thing to say, but he seemed almost vulnerable and for the first time made me think of my father. Anyway, we went through the ceremony – handing over certificates to worthies in the playing fields movement – and he laughed because I had arranged the group differently from the last couple of times – ‘Can’t leave anything alone, can you?’ – and he did his stuff with the usual aplomb and then wandered off to the next engagement (horologists I think he said).
I went on to meet up with Peter Marsh.55 From Greek prince to Greek god. Peter is decking himself out as a portly Adonis these days: gold at the wrist, gold around the neck, I swear there’s a gold rinse in the hair – and why not? He’s being fantastic with the appeal and he said something that struck home: ‘If you can’t convey the essence of your message in fewer than eight words, you’re not clear about your message. Slogans and catchphrases shouldn’t be glib; they should go to the heart of the matter.’ He’s certainly delivered for us. HRH and I burble on about playing fields and playgrounds, and the value of sport and recreation, and the threats and the dangers and the needs and whatnot, and Peter has summed it up in seven words: ‘Every child deserves a place to play.’
WEDNESDAY 7 NOVEMBER 1990
‘Hurd says Heseltine is “glamour without substance”.’
‘Heseltine says he won’t stand against Thatcher this month.’
Just as I need the Conservative Party to start thinking about me the buggers seem to have other things on their minds … Undaunted (quite daunted actually) I have now written to my three potential sponsors. The form requires ‘Names and addresses of three responsible persons who will support your candidature. These should include, if possible, one MP and a constituency chairman. At least one of your referees should have known you for ten years or more.’ I don’t know any constituency chairmen, so I’ve gone for my local MP (Jeremy Hanley)56 and two Cabinet ministers: one a former party chairman, John Gummer (whom I first met twenty years ago at one of Johnnie and Fanny Cradock’s parties when he was squiring Arianna Stassinopoulos) and William Waldegrave,57 since Saturday the Secretary of State for Health.
SATURDAY 10 NOVEMBER 1990
‘By-election disasters in Bradford and Bootle.’ ‘Heseltine steps up the challenge.’ ‘The recession will last until Spring.’ Very cheery. Yet there is better news in Barnes: I’ve signed to do my first commercial (should total £20,000) and I’ve told Michèle what I’m up to on the political front. Sweetened by the former, she seems fairly relaxed about the latter. I think she thinks it won’t happen. I think she’s right.
MONDAY 12 NOVEMBER 1990
My back has gone again. I cannot move at all. At all. I can’t get to the osteopath and until the spasm subsides apparently there’s nothing she can do here. I hate this when it happens, not just because I hate being trapped like this, but also because I know it happens when I’m tired and tense and anxious – and I don’t like to admit I’m ever tired or tense or anxious! Michèle says, ‘Oh God, not another mid-life crisis – spare us’, but in fact she’s being wonderful (as ever) and she’s cancelled everything for the next three days. I need to be up by Thursday for the Coopers Lybrand speech in Sutton Coldfield.
WEDNESDAY 14 NOVEMBER 1990
‘Howe attack leaves MPs gasping.’ I watched it on the box and it didn’t seem that devastating. Damaging certainly, but fatal? I wonder.
THURSDAY 15 NOVEMBER 1990
‘Heseltine flings down gauntlet for leadership’ – and proposes an early Poll Tax review, which has to make sense.
I’m on my feet again and off to see the osteopath at ten. I’ve used the three days in bed to draft and redraft my application form. ‘Why do you wish to become a Member of Parliament?’ ‘What makes you think you would be a good candidate?’ ‘What aspects of campaigning do you most favour?’ ‘What do you feel are your major strengths and attributes?’ The easiest page was the last one: ‘Is there any serious incident in your life or aspect of your character, either personal or business, which might cause you and the party embarrassment if they were disclosed subsequent to your selection?’ No. ‘Have you ever been convicted of a criminal offence?’ No. ‘In a typical year, how many days do you have off work because of illness?’ None. 1990 just isn’t typical…
William Waldegrave’s reply is in: ‘Thank you so much for your kind words about my new appointment. It was very thoughtful of you to write. I need all the encouragement and support I can get in what is obviously an enormous job – though a very interesting and challenging one. I would be delighted to be one of your sponsors. Please use my name freely.’ Hooray.
FRIDAY 16 NOVEMBER 1990
Gummer says yes. Two down, one to go. Meanwhile, on the main stage the Thatcher camp say they expect her to win on the first ballot, but one of the opinion polls says Heseltine as leader would give us a 10 point lead.
On the train to Sutton Coldfield I read the Muggeridge58 obituaries. He was a desiccated old tortoise, self-opinionated, self-righteous and when I fell out with the rest of the Longford Committee and published that diary of our antics in Copenhagen he tore me off a strip (‘and to think you have enjoyed nut rissoles at my table’). As a performer he had a certain style, but for all his professional piety and late avowal of the ascetic life, he was a dirty old man. I’m trying to remember who told us about having to break his thumb when he tried to jump her when she was making a phone call in the bedroom at somebody’s party. It wasn’t that long ago.
TUESDAY 20 NOVEMBER 1990
Letter from Jeremy Hanley:
I would willingly sponsor you for the candidates list although I think you have far more to offer the world than to waste your time traipsing through the lobbies of the House of Commons late into the night when you could be giving brilliant after dinner speeches. Personally I think you would be a superb Member of Parliament, but the life involves very little free time to pursue other careers, quite contrary to the popular view of MPs with their ‘noses in the trough’ or being very ‘part time’ members. Frankly I would send you straight to the House of Lords!
WEDNESDAY 21 NOVEMBER 1990
Last night’s vote: Thatcher 204; Heseltine 132. She was four short of the 56-vote lead she needed to secure an outright win. I watched it live and the way she swept towards the camera – ‘I fight on, I fight to win’ – was wonderful to behold. But the feeling seems to be it’s all over.
FRIDAY 23 NOVEMBER 1990
There’s a magnificent lead letter in The Times today. It runs to five words. Peter Marsh would approve. ‘Donkeys led by a
lion.’
Apparently she began yesterday’s Cabinet meeting with tears in her eyes and a written statement in her hand: ‘I have concluded that the unity of the party and the prospects of victory would be better served if I stood down to enable Cabinet colleagues to enter the ballot.’ I watched her bravura performance later in the Commons. She was quite magnificent. ‘I’m enjoying this! I’m enjoying this!’ It was so impressive – whatever you thought of her – and rather moving, ditto.
SATURDAY 24 NOVEMBER 1990
A pleasantly late and liquid night with Jo and Stevie and Simon followed by an unpleasantly early start to get to King’s Cross by 8.50. I’m touring the New for Knitting shops.59 Yesterday, Ilkeston. Today, York. Another train journey, another good obituary. Roald Dahl60 has died. He was a genius, but odd to look at and really quite creepy to be with.
TUESDAY 27 NOVEMBER 1990
I spent a long day at Shepperton making the Birdseye Waffle commercial: eight hours to shoot thirty seconds. In the real world Mrs Thatcher is now backing John Major. I’m backing Douglas Hurd. In the world of Birdseye Waffles no one seems the least bit interested in who our next Prime Minister is going to be.
LATER
The result is in. Major, 185; Heseltine, 131; Hurd, 56. John Major becomes the youngest Prime Minister since Lord Rosebery in 1894 and Michèle tells me that my man coming in last is a useful indication of the reliability of my political instincts.
Breaking the Code Page 3