LATER
We’ve lost. And badly: 292 to 314. Twenty-six of our people voted with the opposition, eighteen more abstained. It’s only a minor amendment, but the effect of the defeat is that we’ll now have to have a Report stage which will delay ratification of the treaty for months and months. That’s their aim, of course. The trouble is, they won’t derail the bill (the opposition support the bill), but they could well derail the government.
There was uproar in the Chamber when the vote was announced. You can tell who has won or lost before the figures are read out because the tellers for the victorious side stand on the right facing the chair. When our whips, Lightbown and Chapman,266 took up their places on the left, the opposition benches broke into a frenzy. They went berserk. We sat dumb-founded. The figures were read out. Cheering, counter-cheering, wild waving of order papers on their side, gasps of disbelief on ours. Then everyone got up to go. Skinner and co. began jumping up and down demanding the government’s resignation. The PM, ashen-faced, set off for his room. Soames267 pushed his way through the crowd, barking at the Wintertons,268 ‘You’re cunts – and ugly ones to boot.’
It is not good news. Two minutes ago I was standing by the tape machine outside the Smoking Room (reading about the Bishop of Gloucester who has resigned after admitting an act of gross indecency with a novice monk) when Bill Cash wandered up and said to me, ‘You lot will all be grateful to us in due course. We’re doing what you want to do, but don’t dare. We’re saving the country.’ Ian Taylor269 came past, ‘And destroying the government in the process. Thank you very much.’
10.30 p.m.: This has been my forty-fifth birthday and memorable in its way. We have just had another vote. I came through the lobby with the Foreign Secretary. ‘What happens now?’ He was philosophical. ‘These things happen. We just plod on.’ Wisely, I think, I didn’t wish him many happy returns of the day.
WEDNESDAY 17 MARCH 1993
Treasury prayers. Incredibly, the view seems to be that the Budget’s gone down fairly well. Well, yes, Norman’s performance was fine, and the general message – taxes rises to support recovery and reduce debt – has been got across, but in the watering holes and the corridors of the Palace of Westminster the natives are rather more restive than the ministers seem to realise. They don’t like VAT on domestic fuel. Nick Winterton is spluttering with indignation. Elizabeth Peacock’s ample bosom is heaving in outrage. David Shaw270 is beady-eyed and adamant – ‘We won’t wear it’ – and when it comes to a campaign – and he’s planning one – I imagine he’s a terrier. Last night the Tea Room was working itself into a fine old lather about it. Lamont and Portillo both seem to think the ‘brouhaha will blow over’: ‘we need the money and it’s a green tax in line with our Rio commitments. End of matter.’ I doubt it.
What was particularly fascinating to me was to discover that Peter Lilley knew nothing about the proposal till yesterday morning. It seems almost incredible that prior to taking the decision to increase pensioners’ fuel bills by 8 per cent next year and 17.5 per cent the year after, there was no consultation with Lilley of any kind, but I suppose I’ve been here nearly a year so nothing should surprise me now.
TUESDAY 23 MARCH 1993
In the Kremlin Boris Yeltsin is struggling for survival. In Downing Street John Major is doing much the same. The headlines only feature the generals and the handful of foot soldiers who step out of line. What about the rest of us? There are 651 MPs, a hundred or so in government, fifty or so on the opposition front bench. That leaves around 500 backbenchers milling about Westminster, looking for something to do. Inevitably some of them get up to mischief. Broadly, on our side the colleagues fall into three groups: the old boys who’ve had their day and know it, some accepting it gracefully (Geoffrey Johnson-Smith, Terence Higgins),271 others rather more grudgingly (John Biffen); the middle-aged ones who are going nowhere and either accept it (like the sweet man who shares the quiet room in the Library with me, whose name nobody knows and never will) or exploit it (Winterton) knowing they’ve got nothing to lose. Then there are those, like me, still burning with ambition, scurrying like dervishes round the bottom of the greasy pole. We’re here every day, from breakfast till midnight (the average time of finishing has been midnight this session), darting from one committee to the next, signing letters, tabling questions, meeting constituents, being busy, busy, busy – but, frankly, to how much avail? Today I’ve done the Railways Bill, bench duty, a question to the Secretary of State for Health, a question to the PM, a Ten Minute Rule Bill … I’ve not stopped … I was pleased with my speech on children’s play space: good points, well-made, coming from the heart. I went for cross-party support again and got some nice notes in my pigeon-hole later. But really, was there any point to it at all?
THURSDAY 25 MARCH 1993
Gerald’s committee have produced their report. It’s a compromise, but none the worse for that. They want a press ombudsman, empowered to impose fines, demand corrections etc.; a complaints hotline; a protection of privacy bill; and a ‘privacy zone’ to safeguard people like my war widows or the parents of my ‘mercenary’.
Lunch with Tim Sainsbury272 who is languid, owlish and amusing. He reveals that Heseltine’s package to help the pits is going to cost £500 million. ‘These rebellious backbenchers are very expensive people to keep happy.’ I’ve gone to tell him what the business people of Chester are looking for from the DTI, but there’s clearly not much point. I think Tim feels they’ve got all they can expect from government: ‘Low inflation, deregulation, a flexible labour market – what more do they want?’
Later, on my way through the members’ cloakroom, DD of the SS stops me. ‘A word in your ear.’ We huddle in a corner by the shoe-shine machine. ‘There’s something going round about you having financial difficulties.’
‘What, me?’
‘Yup. Business in trouble, that sort of thing. Anything in it?’
I am completely nonplussed. I can feel the blood draining away. ‘No, no, of course not.’
‘Just thought I’d mention it. It’s only a rumour. It’s going round the secretaries’ network. You know what they’re like, jabbering women. Not to worry.’ And he was off. And I’m now left, utterly thrown, wondering what on earth it’s all about.
THURSDAY 1 APRIL 1993
There’s a scratchy atmosphere in the Tea Room. When they’re not grumbling about the Chancellor and VAT on fuel, they’re muttering about John Patten’s273 classroom tests. They like the principle of testing; they don’t like the high-handed Patten manner. Rightly or wrongly, when the PM walks in, the grumbling stops. I think there’s a feeling the poor man needs a break. Let him eat his toasted teacake in peace.
I congratulated him on Questions. ‘Yes, John Smith was a bit all over the place.’ He patted the back of my hand. ‘How’s Chester?’
‘Fine, thank you. I’m doing Question Time tonight.’
He brightened. ‘Good, good. What do you think will come up? The train strike, I hope. Now this is what you need to say…’
He put it beautifully. I’ve noted it. I’ll get it in. I’m well briefed, but ridiculously nervous all the same. Rachel [Whetstone] came over from Central Office and ran me through the questions she expects will come up. She says I can rely on her predictions: she always gets at least five out of seven right.
LATER
She got seven out of seven right. I think I did okay. No obvious gaffes. I played it straight down the line. It was nothing special, but I was perfectly happy with it, until the producer came up afterwards and said, ‘You were very reasonable.’ Clearly, they wanted me to be ridiculous – or outrageous. I toed the government line, I didn’t produce any fireworks and I don’t think I’ll be asked again. (I think I also blotted my copybook by asking one of the production team what sort of rate David Dimbleby is on. I had to sign a piece of paper accepting a fee of £50. That’s their standard apparently. I said, ‘It’s monstrous, you get four guests on the show for a total of £200.
This is BBC1 prime time. We should be paid properly. What’s Mr Dimbleby on – a thousand, two thousand? Look, I’ll do it for a quarter of whatever he’s getting.’ They were not amused. They take themselves – and Mr Dimbleby – very seriously.)
PALM SUNDAY, 4 APRIL 1993
No loud hosannas for the government as we approach our first anniversary. The Sunday papers can’t recall another administration that has become so mired so quickly. Apparently, we won’t be fielding senior ministers to talk up our year’s achievements. According to Norman Fowler, ‘it’s going to be a low-key birthday’; we’re producing a four-page pamphlet simply called A Year’s Work (mostly about the Citizen’s Charter I imagine!); Tony Newton (a lovely man but a mortician on the box) will be fielded if there are requests for a Cabinet minister, otherwise we’re ‘leaving it to David Amess’. I love David and, yes, it was Basildon that showed the world we’d turned the tide, but, but, but – we can’t seriously be putting him forward as the Voice of the Conservatives One Year On, can we?
The 150th Grand National turned into a farce, with two false starts and the race declared void. Can’t Mr Major get anything right?
(Yes – he can! Gin274 has just called to congratulate me on Question Time. And she also heard bits of the PM’s big speech on Friday. ‘Daub,275 Mr Major used several of your phrases. Did you give them to him or was he watching you on Thursday? Isn’t it wonderful he’s using your lines? You must be so proud.’ I’m ashamed to say I didn’t disabuse her.)
GOOD FRIDAY, 9 APRIL 1993
A deeply unpleasant thirty-six hours. I am writing this in our bedroom, at the back of the house. We’re being staked out by the Sunday Express. There’s a reporter and a photographer parked outside. They’ve been there for several hours. We’re not answering the door or the telephone. Until they go, we’re staying put. To see if they’re still there, every hour or so I crawl across the spare bedroom floor and peek out of the bottom of the window. It’s quite funny really.
Early on Wednesday evening I got a call at Westminster from an Express reporter. He said he wanted to talk to me about my interest in small businesses following my remarks last week on Question Time. Since I had absolutely no recollection of discussing any aspect of small businesses on Question Time, I knew at once something was up. I told the reporter I was just going to a meeting and suggested he call back at a more convenient time.
When I got home Michèle told me that the reporter had been on to our accountants enquiring about Complete Editions and the state of the business. Naturally the accountants told them they never commented on clients’ affairs. Yesterday morning I was driven to Birmingham and back – a ludicrous five hours in the car to contribute five minutes to Anne and Nick’s show on the death of Alfred Butts, inventor of Scrabble. (Anne’s husband is the producer and I went having squeezed a fee of £200 out of him.)276 While I was away the Express telephoned again. In the early evening I went over to Sky TV for another Scrabble interview and while I was out the reporter turned up at the house. He told Michèle there were ‘allegations’ about Complete Editions and ‘facts’ he wanted to check.
By the time I got back he’d gone. I telephoned Derek Sloane at Allen & Overy and, on his advice, we prepared a note to give to the reporter in the event that he turned up again: ‘I have spoken to Gyles who I am sure you would not expect to respond to anonymous allegations … Our accountants are … Our solicitors are…’
This morning, first thing, the reporter rang the doorbell. Michèle opened the door and the reporter immediately placed his foot inside the door. He was holding a tape recorder. Michèle gave him the note, bent down, picked up his leg and forcibly moved his foot outside the door. She closed the door and double locked it. And here we are, holed up inside. And there they are, camped on our doorstep.
Why are we handling it this way? Mr Mellor would be marshalling his family for a photocall at the garden gate. Mary Archer would be serving them mugs of piping hot coffee and digestive biscuits. We are lying low, hiding in our own home. Why? Because this story hasn’t got legs, it won’t stand up. Complete Editions is in good shape and, now Michèle is running it, doing better than ever. (Michèle’s business philosophy: ‘Turnover is vanity, profit is sanity.’) If I go out there now, give them their picture, make a comment, they’ve got their story: ‘MP denies financial difficulties’. If I say nothing, if they don’t see me, what have they got?
EASTER SUNDAY, 11 APRIL 1993
The tactic seems to have worked. There’s nothing in the paper this morning. The Express’s ruthless investigative reporter and his sidekick lurked outside for most of the day and then disappeared. We stayed out of sight. At about eleven yesterday morning Michèle said, ‘This is ridiculous, let’s do something useful’ and we vanished into the basement and did the most almighty clear-out: a real spring clean, what Michèle has wanted us to do for months. So thank you Sunday Express – and fuck you Sunday Express because my stomach has been churning for three days. I feel guilty though I’m innocent. I’ve gone into hiding though I have nothing to hide. Who do these vermin think they are?
TUESDAY 20 APRIL 1993
There’s a flouncing quality to John Patten that infuriates his enemies and disconcerts his friends. Everything he’s saying about standards in schools and the need for these tests is spot on, but the way he does it is alienating people on all sides. He sat in the Tea Room today, ramrod back, head held high, being waspish and witty like a camp old thing, not realising that it’s his manner not his policy that’s driving his supporters away. We should be scoring in this area and we’re not.
The Maastricht nightmare drags on – we finished at 1.13 a.m. yesterday. The Railways Bill drags on – Roger Freeman is a joy to watch, but I’ve fallen between two stools. You can either (like Sproat)277 ignore the whole thing, sit in a far corner of the committee room, reading correspondence, signing letters, or (like Stephen [Milligan]) you can get stuck in and follow the bill line by line. I’ve been following it, but not with sufficient attention to detail to make either a worthwhile contribution or any impact. (My only ‘moment’ was when Prescott started muttering ‘Woolly jumper! Woolly jumper!’ while I was speaking. I came up with a reasonable riposte: ‘The advantage of a woolly jumper is that you can take it off at will. The disadvantage of a woolly mind is that you are lumbered with it for life.’)
I’ve just been for supper with Lord James.278 I love him. He’s straight out of Jeeves and Wooster – tall, slim, a little crumpled, slightly bent, blue-blooded, sandy-haired, sweet-natured, and can’t be as bumbly and daffy as he pretends to be. Can he? Famously, he turned up for Colin Moynihan’s charity boat race on the Thames wearing a pair of ancient gym shoes covered with filthy brown blotches. ‘Filthy kit you’ve got there,’ boomed Soames or some such. ‘What are those horrible brown stains on your shoes?’ ‘Blood,’ muttered James, ‘my opponents’ blood.’ At Balliol he had five ambitions: to get a boxing blue, to become President of the Union, to be elected a Member of Parliament, to join the government, to become PM. Four down, one to go.
He said he thought we had time to go to his club. Pratt’s, of course. I’d never been. His ministerial car drove us up St James’ and dropped us at the corner. All the way, James told me how much he liked Pratt’s, ‘my favourite club, my father was a member.’ We got to the street, got out of the car, and James stood there, looking quite lost. ‘Now where is it? I know it’s along here somewhere. Let me see.’ Like the White Rabbit searching for his gloves, he scurried up and down the street until eventually he hit upon the right one. ‘Here we are!’ It was like disappearing down the rabbit hole: another world, cosy, comfortable, safe; we shared the club table, ‘the lamb looks excellent and I think you’ll like the club claret.’
THURSDAY 22 APRIL 1993
This is a good place with good people. I have just been having dinner at the Chief Whip’s table with the Deputy [David Heathcoat-Amory]), Tim Wood279 and Tim Smith. They have been jolly and supportive and kind, and have
taken the bitterness out of a beastly day.
I arrived at NPFA at lunchtime for my last council meeting as chairman. On the way over I bought the Evening Standard to read on the tube. Sitting in the meeting room waiting for the others to arrive I was flicking over the pages and, suddenly, my stomach lurched, my heart was in my mouth. The lead story in Londoner’s Diary: ‘Treasury man Gyles at a loss’. Six snide paragraphs, a picture of me looking bleary-eyed and sinister, an assertion that Complete Editions is going down the pan and speculation about what happens when an MP goes bankrupt.
I got on to Allen & Overy at once. At 1.48 p.m. Tim House [solicitor] got hold of a Mr Young in the legal department of the Standard and told him the piece is defamatory, it’s clearly intended to mean that the business is in difficulties and I am facing a risk of personal bankruptcy, neither of which is remotely true. I faxed a letter simultaneously to Stewart Steven280 – who I thought was a friend, but, of course, you can’t have friends who are journalists. He turns out to be away but, come what may, we need a retraction, an apology, costs, damages – the lot.
I wrote a detailed note to my whip telling him there was nothing in it and went over to the Treasury to see Stephen [Dorrell] to apologise to him – because, of course, they’ve dragged his name in, included a picture of him. He couldn’t have been sweeter, totally easy and relaxed about it. (He’s fortunate – and wise. He doesn’t let the papers impinge on him at all. I think he only reads Der Spiegel and the Financial Times.) I ended up looking in on the Upper Whips’ Office (thinking I should be seen to be showing a face) and David [Heathcoat-Amory] said ‘Join me for dinner’, a kindness much appreciated.
Breaking the Code Page 21