Breaking the Code

by Gyles Brandreth

  SATURDAY 1 DECEMBER 1990

  There are now no women in the Cabinet (a mistake I would not have made) but Ann Widdecombe61 joins the government for the first time. The paper describes her as ‘a doughty fighter’. At Oxford she was a funny little thing. But mock not, Brandreth. She’s in the government. You aren’t.

  SUNDAY 9 DECEMBER 1990

  This weekend we went to see Benet’s Twelfth Night (I love that play), put up the Christmas tree (our best ever – I know I always say that, but I think this time it’s true) and, with champagne from Ros and Mart,62 toasted the house of Thatcher. The Queen has given Mrs T. the Order of Merit and Denis gets a baronetcy. (In due course it’ll be ‘Arise Sir Mark…’ That’s the irony.) Tomorrow at 10 a.m. I’ll be at the Dance Attic in Putney Bridge Road with a lordly title of mine own. It’s Day One of the Cinderella rehearsals and I’m reviving my Baron Hardup. Bonnie Langford is Cinders, Brian Conley (whom I don’t know at all) is Buttons, and Barbara Windsor (whom I know and like a lot) is the Fairy Queen. I’ve got third billing, above Barbara, which is all wrong, of course, shaming really, but there we are.63

  WEDNESDAY 12 DECEMBER 1990

  Tonight we are not going to Jeffrey [Archer]’s party. I wanted to go, but Michèle can’t face it. ‘All that nonsense of “Krug and shepherd’s pie”, and there are always too many people, and nobody wants to talk to the wives – ever. It’s just self-regarding men preening themselves, looking over your shoulder all the time for someone more interesting, more famous, more like them. Ghastly. Never again.’

  We didn’t cry off from drinks with the Queen last night however. Perhaps it would have been better if we had. Neither of us was in tiptop form. When Her Majesty arrived, Michèle forgot to curtsey – and then remembered forty seconds into the small talk and suddenly, unexpectedly, without warning, bobbed right down and semi-toppled into the royal bosom. My performance was hardly more impressive. As the canapés came round I found myself in an isolated corner, stranded with Her Majesty, frantic for food (I hadn’t eaten since breakfast) but obliged to pass up on every tasty morsel that came past because the Queen wasn’t partaking and I somehow felt it would be lèse-majesté for me to be eating when she wasn’t. All I could think about was how hungry I was. My desultory attempt at conversation can best be described as jejune.

  GB: Had a busy day, Ma’am?

  HM: Yes. Very.

  GB: At the Palace?

  HM: Yes.

  GB: A lot of visitors?

  HM: Yes.

  (Pause)

  GB: The Prime Minister?

  HM: Yes.

  (Pause)

  GB: He’s very nice.

  HM: Yes. Very.

  GB: The recession’s bad.

  HM (looking grave): Yes.

  GB: Set to get worse, apparently.

  HM (slight sigh): Yes.

  GB (trying to jolly it along): I think this must be my third. Recession, that is.

  HM: Yes. We do seem to get them every few years – (tinkly laugh) and none of my governments seems to know what to do about them!

  GB (uproarious laughter): Yes. Absolutely. Very good.

  (Long pause. Trays of canapés come and go.)

  GB: I’ve been to Wimbledon today.

  HM (brightening): Oh, yes?

  GB (brightening too): Yes.

  HM (We’re both trying hard now): I’ve been to Wimbledon too.

  GB (Exhilarated): Today?

  HM: No.

  GB (Well, we tried): No, of course not. (Pause) I wasn’t at the tennis.

  HM: No?

  GB: No. I was at the theatre. (Long pause) Have you been to the theatre in Wimbledon?

  (Pause)

  HM: I imagine so.

  (Interminable pause)

  GB: You know, Ma’am, my wife’s a vegetarian.

  HM: That must be very dull.

  GB: And my daughter’s a vegetarian too.

  HM: Oh dear.

  Well, I had had a long day, and she has had a long reign.

  THURSDAY 20 DECEMBER 1990

  I had my second encounter with Tom Arnold last night. I had been worrying about the logistics of it since he first proposed the date. I think it may well have been what brought on the bad back. Seriously. I knew I had to be – had to be – in two places at the same time: on the stage of the Wimbledon Theatre for the technical run-through of Cinderella and in Sir Tom’s office at 32 Smith Square, SW1. Happily the gods smiled on me and a moment or two before six, as my stomach churned and my back twinged, Michael Hurll (our director), bless him, announced the supper-break: ‘Back at seven, sharp.’ I had warned him that I had to ‘slip out for half an hour’ and I’d booked a black cab and had it waiting at the stage-door. I tore off my Baron Hardup costume, threw on my charcoal-grey suit, leapt into the cab and reached Smith Square at just gone 6.20.

  I was ushered past a splendid portrait of John Major in the foyer (a month is a long time in politics) and led up the back stairs to the Arnold closet. I stepped into his room on the dot of six-thirty. A moment of banter, no more – ‘There seem to have been some changes since I was last here,’ I burbled: he laughed softly and gave nothing away – then I handed over my completed forms. He turned the pages. ‘Mmm … mmm … very good … Gummer, Waldegrave, Hanley … mmm … Hanley.’

  ‘I went for the local MP rather than the association chairman because I know the MP so much better,’ I said, as casually as I could. (I don’t know the local chairman at all, of course, but I have tried, consciously, not to lie outright at any stage in the process to date. This is Michèle’s influence.) He patted his lips with his fingers and half-closed his eyes. ‘Mmm … mmm.’ I had decided what I wanted to say before the meeting and I said it: ‘I appreciate I’m not on the list, but, while you’re processing this, if a possibility crops up, would it be okay for me to throw my hat in the ring?’ His face crinkled into a sudden smile. His eyes narrowed. He glanced furtively to left and right and then leant forward and in a voice barely above a whisper said, ‘I don’t see why not.’ He tapped the side of his nose and smiled again, and then opened up his diary.

  ‘Let’s see. We’ll next meet on Wednesday 23 January. Yes?’

  ‘In the morning?’ I said, as lightly as I could (I didn’t mention the matinee at two).

  ‘11.00 a.m.?’

  ‘Fine.’

  At 7.03 p.m., on the stage of the Wimbledon Theatre the Lord Chamberlain (Ed ‘Stewpot’ Stewart) announced ‘His Excellency the Baron Hardup of Hardup Hall’ and I made my entrance – on cue, but in a charcoal-grey suit. The Ugly Sisters had a lot of fun with that.

  1 GB has had a long involvement with the National Playing Fields Association: Appeals Chairman 1983–8; Chairman 1988–93; Vice-President since 1993.

  2 Chief of the Defence Staff 1982–5; Lord Lieutenant of Greater London 1986–98; President of the London Playing Fields Society from 1990. (The Duke of Gloucester is patron.)

  3 Hon Colin Moynihan, MP for Lewisham East 1983–92, former Oxford rowing and boxing blue, Minister for Sport 1987–90; 4th Baron Moynihan from 1997 and chairman of the British Olympic Association from 2005.

  4 GB was a presenter with TV-am, the ITV breakfast station, 1983–90.

  5 Broadcaster and cricket commentator, 1912–94.

  6 Journalist, daughter of the Prime Minister

  7 Theatrical agent and producer, father of comedian Jack Whitehall, friend of GB.

  8 Simon Cadell, 1950–96, actor, GB’s oldest friend.

  9 American singer.

  10 An exhibition on the history of British royalty, conceived by GB, which opened at the Barbican in London in 1988 but failed to attract sufficient visitors to succeed.

  11 President of the National Playing Fields Association from 1948 to 2012.

  12 Colin Sanders CBE, 1947–98, inventor and entrepreneur, friend of GB.

  13 Financier and insurance salesman, soon to fall from grace.

  14 Contemporary of GB’s at Oxford. Daughter of Robert Max
well, Labour MP for Buckingham 1964–70, publisher, soon to fall from boat.

  15 Richard, 7th Earl of Bradford, chairman of the Royal Britain Company, Unicorn Heritage plc, friend of GB.

  16 FitzRoy, 5th Baron Raglan, of Usk, Gwent; independent peer particularly associated with the housing association movement in Wales.

  17 Frank, 7th Earl of Longford, minister in Labour governments 1946–51 and 1964–6. In 1971 Lord Longford set up an independent inquiry into pornography and invited Malcolm Muggeridge, Cliff Richard and GB, among others, to be part of the team. During the group’s fact-finding trip to Copenhagen Lord Longford met assorted strippers and GB stood on his head.

  18 Member of the construction family, vice-chairman of NPFA, friend of GB.

  19 GB’s son, then aged fifteen.

  20 Art critic of the London Evening Standard.

  21 Novelist and critic, 1917–93.

  22 Journalist and biographer, friend of GB.

  23 GB’s wife, writer and publisher Michèle Brown. They met at university and married in 1973.

  24 GB and his wife were making a television series about West Country gardens.

  25 MP for Lewisham West 1970–74, Eye Suffolk 1979–83, Suffolk Coastal since 1983; Minister of Agriculture 1989–93; Secretary of State for the Environment 1993–7; Baron Deben from 2010.

  26 In 1988 GB and his wife opened the Teddy Bear Museum in a Tudor house in the centre of Stratford-upon-Avon.

  27 Irish actor, 1930–2002.

  28 British dancer.

  29 Joanna Lumley, actress, and her husband Stephen Barlow, conductor, friends of GB.

  30 MP for Derbyshire South 1983–97, Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for Health 1986–8, friend of GB since university, was one of a team of parliamentary observers at Romania’s elections.

  31 1929–2012; MP for Chelmsford 1964–87; Lord St John of Fawsley from 1987.

  32 Actor.

  33 MP for Plymouth Sutton 1966–74, Plymouth Devonport 1974–92; Labour Foreign Secretary, 1977–9; one of the founders of the Social Democrat Party, 1981, and its leader, 1983–7, 1988–90.

  34 Writer, broadcaster, cook, 1924–2009; Liberal MP for Isle of Ely 1973–83.

  35 Actor, 1908–90.

  36 In 1987 the bulk of the SDP membership merged with the Liberals to form the Liberal Democrats. At the 1992 general election the rump of SDP MPs disappeared: David Owen did not stand, and Rosie Barnes and John Cartwright, standing as independent Social Democrats, lost their seats.

  37 1925–2013; MP for Finchley 1959–92; Prime Minister 1979–90; later Baroness Thatcher LG, OM, FRS.

  38 MP for Bedwellty 1970–83, Islwyn 1983–95; Leader of the Labour Party, 1983–92; later Baron Kinnock.

  39 Gerald Kaufman, MP for Manchester Ardwick 1970–83, Manchester Gorton since 1983; shadow Foreign Secretary, 1987–92.

  40 Denis Healey, MP for Leeds South East 1952–5, Leeds East 1955–92; Chancellor of the Exchequer 1974–9; shadow Foreign Secretary 1981–7; later Baron Healey CH.

  41 A generous funder of the SDP whose wife, Susie, was at school with GB.

  42 1929–1993; Secretary of State for the Environment; MP for Cirencester & Tewksbury 1959–92.

  43 Sir Alec Douglas-Home, Prime Minister 1963–4, later Lord Home of Hirsel.

  44 GB went to Betteshanger, a prep school in Kent, 1958–61; Bedales, a coeducational boarding school in Hampshire, 1961–6; and was a Scholar at New College, Oxford, 1967–70. Edward Heath, 1916–2005, MP for Bexley 1950–74, Bexley Sidcup 1974–83, Old Bexley & Sidcup since 1983, Leader of the Conservative Party 1965–75, Prime Minister 1970–74, was President of the Oxford Union in 1939. Thirty years later GB was President of the Union and, on one of the Leader of the Opposition’s visits to Oxford, GB was presented to him. Unfortunately GB was unwell and, on shaking Heath’s hand for the first time, threw up.

  45 President of the National Union of Students in 1970; Labour MP for Blackburn since 1979.

  46 Novelist; MP for Louth 1969–74; deputy chairman of the Conservative Party 1985–6; Lord Archer of Weston-super-Mare from 1992; a friend of GB since the early ’70s.

  47 1974–92.

  48 John Major, MP for Huntingdonshire 1979–83, Huntingdon from 1983; Chancellor of the Exchequer 1989–90; Prime Minister 1990–97; later Sir John Major KG, CH.

  49 Douglas Hurd, MP for Mid-Oxon 1974–83, Witney 1983–97; Foreign Secretary 1989–95; later Baron Hurd of Westwell CH.

  50 MP for Blaby 1974–92; Chancellor of the Exchequer 1983–9; later Baron Lawson of Blaby.

  51 Actress, 1931–90.

  52 Australian actress, 1913–91.

  53 Geoffrey Howe, Deputy Prime Minister, Leader of the Commons and Lord President of the Council, 1989–90; MP for Bebington 1964–6, Reigate 1970–74, Surrey East 1974–92; Chancellor of the Exchequer 1979–83; Foreign Secretary 1983–9; later Baron Howe of Aberavon CH. John Major replaced him as Foreign Secretary in July 1989. Major became Chancellor in October 1989 when Lawson resigned.

  54 Michael Heseltine, MP for Tavistock 1966–74, Henley since 1974; Secretary of State for the Environment 1990–92; President of the Board of Trade 1992–5; Deputy Prime Minister 1995–7. He resigned as Defence Secretary in 1986 over the Westland affair.

  55 Founder of the advertising agency Allen, Brady and Marsh, he was helping market the NPFA’s fund-raising appeal. GB and Michèle bought their house in Barnes from him in 1986.

  56 MP for Richmond & Barnes 1983–97.

  57 MP for Bristol West 1979–97, a contemporary of GB at university. He was promoted to the Cabinet in the reshuffle that followed Geoffrey Howe’s resignation. Later Baron Waldegrave of North Hill and Provost of Eton since 2009.

  58 Malcolm Muggeridge, writer and broadcaster, 1903–90.

  59 GB was a director of a chain of specialist knitting wool retail shops.

  60 Children’s writer, 1916–90.

  61 MP for Maidstone, 1987–2010; a contemporary of GB at university.

  62 Rosalind Ayres and Martin Jarvis, actors, friends of GB.

  63 This was before her television renaissance in the BBC’s EastEnders.

  CHAPTER II

  1991

  WEDNESDAY 2 JANUARY 1991

  New Year headlines: ‘Prospect of early election recedes.’ ‘Gulf war could mean tax rise, Lamont64 hints.’ ‘Visit by Major to Ulster will revive hope on initiative.’ ‘Marlene Dietrich has briefly emerged from years of seclusion to help save the studios outside Berlin where she made The Blue Angel.’

  One of my proudest memories is of holding Marlene’s left thigh. Outside the stage door of the Golders Green Hippodrome, one night in 1964, Simon [Cadell] and I helped her off the roof of her limousine. Precariously, on spindly heels she teetered about on the roof of the car, blowing little kisses and distributing signed photos to the fans. She was wearing a black mini-skirt slashed to the waist (or so it seemed) and, as we helped ease her to the ground, Simon got the right leg and I got the left.

  WEDNESDAY 16 JANUARY 1991

  Iraq rejects last-ditch peace moves as UN Gulf deadline expires. Major wins cross-party support in Commons – though fifty-five Labour people abstained or voted against (quite useful in the longer term). Saddam is promising that ‘the mother of all wars will be waged’. Heath wants time for sanctions to work. Naturally. ‘No choice but war’ says The Times leader. No choice but Cinderella at 2.30 and 7.30 says GB. Actually, I’m rather enjoying it. It’s a good show, glossy, doesn’t hang around, and three grand a week. Bonnie, Barbara, Brian, Ray Alan (even Lord Charles, especially Lord Charles),65 they’re all troupers, doing it now just as their forebears would have done it a century ago. It’s a cosy company, a nice old theatre – we’re cocooned backstage, out there there’s the distant rumble of war – it could all have been scripted by J. B. Priestley. He’d have enjoyed a moment with me last night. There’s a small corner in the wings where I do several of my quick changes. There’s a makeshift screen and behind it propp
ed on a wooden chair a long mirror lit by a single bare bulb. Just before the ghost scene I was standing ready in my knitted nightshirt when one of the dancers popped her head around the screen.

  ‘May I?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She came round and pulled off her top and stood naked for a moment shaking her hair loose in front of the mirror. She looked at me and smiled. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Not at all.’ I tried to look at her face.

  ‘They’re small, aren’t they?’ she said, pulling on her top again.

  ‘No. Yes. I mean they’re charming.’

  And she’d gone. I can’t help feeling a proper leading man would have handled the situation with rather more panache.

  THURSDAY 17 JANUARY 1991

  ‘4.00 a.m.: Bombs rain down on Iraqi capital as war erupts in Operation Desert Storm.’

  I had a disconcerting experience during the show tonight. I have three spots when I’m alone on stage, burbling to the audience, and during one of them I suddenly felt as if I was up in the gallery looking down on myself – I could see myself from a long way away, as if I was looking through the wrong end of the telescope, and I was this tiny figure in a ridiculous costume and I just wanted to laugh out loud at the complete absurdity of it. Instead, I dried – not noticeably, I don’t think – but, just for a second, my mind went blank and I had no idea where I was, what I was doing or what came next.

  SATURDAY 19 JANUARY 1991

  ‘After just fifty days in office, Britain’s youngest Prime Minister this century has been forced to become a war leader. His hardest passage so far came during the pre-dawn hours yesterday morning. John Major had slept no more than two hours during Wednesday night as he received intelligence briefings on the first sorties against Iraq. He retired on Thursday night about midnight but aides woke him in the Downing Street flat at 12.45 a.m. The development they feared most had happened: Iraq’s launching of missiles against Israel, threatening a belligerent response that could detach the Arabs from the allied coalition.’66