Breaking the Code

by Gyles Brandreth

  The News of the World have got Rod’s moll to kiss and tell. He is in a very bad way. And the rest of the press (more legitimately) are having fun with Portillo. He hosted a party in Admiralty House on Thursday night (to which we were invited but didn’t go) and, as happens at these parties, the guests talked and drank and then talked more loudly and paid no attention at all to the Beating Retreat taking place on Horse Guards Parade below. The noise of raucous revelry from the Defence Secretary’s open windows was such that ‘complaints were made’ and poor Michael has been obliged to issue a grovelling apology.

  THURSDAY 13 JUNE 1996

  My ‘shit of the year’ has lived up to his billing. Sir John Gorst of the poisonous breath has teamed up with another unfathomable soul, Hugh Dykes, in an attempt to blackmail Stephen into saving the casualty unit at Edgware Hospital. This has been bubbling up for months, but it came to a head on Monday when they sent Stephen a letter saying that, as of last night, they wouldn’t vote with the government unless they got their way. Stephen had come up with a compromise on the hospital that predated their threat, but Gorst and Dykes proceeded to go public and claim the compromise as a personal victory – leaving the government open to the charge that it’s now so enfeebled that any two-bit threat and the PM instantly succumbs. Blair put it alarmingly well at PMQs: the PM’s policies are now ‘determined solely by the imprint of the last person who sat on him.’

  The Chief (in his crimson-with-anger mode) hauled them in and gave them a bollocking – a terrifying experience for most normal mortals, but as Gorst is arrogant and deaf and Dykes is strange the effect on them may not have been as harrowing as it would have been for your average colleague. That said, their post-meeting demeanour suggests they got the message – more or less. The Chief, of course, is frantic that everyone else gets the message too – which is why two things have happened: we discreetly ‘inspired’ denunciations of the would-be blackmailers at this afternoon’s 1922 Committee and an account of the Chief’s ‘unpleasant encounter’ with them has been fed to the press. (This is very unusual. The Chief believes absolutely in the golden rule that Chief Whips are silent and invisible, neither heard nor seen, never photographed, never quoted. And even in an emergency like this he won’t have talked directly to the press. What will have happened is that either the Deputy or Andrew [Mackay] will have slipped into Members’ Lobby and whispered what we want to say into the selected correspondent’s ear. It’s an extraordinary system: the licensed tip-off. It can be on the record or off, as you please. And it’s a service that’s available round the clock. In Members’ Lobby, immediately outside the Upper Whips’ Office, there are lobby correspondents loitering hopefully at all times of day and night. When there’s a division on they’re shifted from the lobby itself to the corridor that runs past the Tea Room to the Library and there they line the walls, lounging up against the panelling likes tarts beneath the lamppost plying for trade.)

  LATER

  The PM is ‘incandescent’. Yesterday the Chief hauled in Bill Cash to tell him that his ludicrous ‘European Foundation’ should either stop accepting funding from Sir James Goldsmith or Bill should step down as the Foundation’s chairman. Bill agreed ‘on reflection’ that it was probably ‘inappropriate’ to be taking money from a man who will be putting up candidates against Conservatives in the election – and we thought that was that. But no. It turns out that Mrs T. has now called Bill to offer him some of her money. She is going to make ‘a substantial donation’. Of course, the official line is that it’s up to her how she spends her money, but the PM is white with anger.

  SATURDAY 15 JUNE 1996

  Sometimes, like yesterday, when I get in I’m simply too weary for the diary. I should be more disciplined, do it at the same time each day, like Douglas Hurd. Fifteen minutes in the dressing room, every night, before saying one’s prayers. But Douglas is more organised, more certain, (more impressive) than I am. I imagine he wears a wine-coloured dressing gown, and striped pyjamas with a cord like we had at prep school. On Friday nights as a rule I stumble back to the flat around eleven, half-past, and have half a bottle of wine collapsed in front of the box (if there isn’t The Word I make do with Jools Holland). Last night I crawled straight into bed and curled up with comfort reading (the Sherlock Holmes that Saethryd gave me). Between twelve and one, I say ‘goodnight’ to Michèle’s picture (out loud), turn on the World Service and switch out the light. I’m asleep in less than ten minutes.

  Yesterday: another ‘listening session’ with the farmers. The scheme isn’t working. There’s queue-jumping, the renderers can’t cope, it’s chaos out there. I gave them copies of the latest letter from Tony Baldry.577 It contains his home number. They won’t use it, but I wanted them to know I’m on their side. I ended the day at Chester Castle – Beating Retreat, generous hospitality to follow. (Never mind Options for Change – the mess budgets seem happily unaffected.) I took the salute – and this time I had a hat and knew what to do with it.

  The papers tell us that the PM has had ‘a bellyful’ of Euro-rows. (Who comes up with these phrases? Howell, I suppose. ‘Bellyful’ is a perfect Major word.) Hilariously, Hugh Dykes is on the rampage: ‘The Whips’ Office behave like hysterical children and if they try any dirty tricks over the weekend I will be having strong words with them on Monday.’ We’re quivering in our boots to be sure. What a tosspot. (And the Chief was right. He didn’t over-react. If every disobliging backbencher with a grudge thinks he can to hold us up to ransom, we’re doomed.)

  The Birthday Honours are really dreary. The knighthood for George Martin is spot-on, but that’s about it. There are Ks too for some of our harmless old boys (Roger Sims,578 Robert Hicks),579 but nothing for Nick Winterton, who will not be amused. In the office we’ve taken Nicholas’s recent egregious grovellings at PMQs as a sure sign that the poor man thought his overdue recognition was imminent. Certainly he’s served more than his time (a quarter of a century, as he regularly reminds me) but I’ve a feeling (fair or unfair) he won’t be getting his knighthood under the present dispensation. He claims he was as good as promised it a year or two back. The prospect may have been wafted loosely in the air, but I can’t believe anything was said ‘in terms’. When colleagues come to see the Chief, as they do, ‘to discuss the workings of the honours system’ as he puts it (he’s very funny), he may twitch and gobble at them in such a way as to give them hope, but I’m sure he never says anything. He’s a brilliant operator. (And his knighthood is assured.)580

  WEDNESDAY 3 JULY 1996

  We discovered at this morning’s meeting that the PM planned to announce this afternoon that the Stone of Scone is to be returned to Scotland. After 700 years, it is to be yanked out of Westminster Abbey and carted off to Edinburgh – swirling bagpipes and wee Michael Forsyth in his tartan trews doubtless leading the parade. This is a Forsyth scam, a brilliant coup from his point of view, but the news of it provoked ruffled feathers and a fair degree of tut-tutting at the meeting a) because we’re not sure how well this will go down in England and b) because we knew nothing about it. The office hates not being in the know. Clearly Forsyth thought this up and nobbled the PM direct. He’s kept it entirely under wraps. I don’t know how much advance notice the Chief got. The Deputy, Mackay, Conway, looked distinctly miffed. Michael Bates, as ever, played the faux naïf.

  We’re also not too happy with the PM because of his proposed Holy-Joe response to the recommendations of the Senior Salaries Review Body. It looks as if the SSRB are wisely suggesting a £9,000 hike for backbenchers (up to £43,000 from £34,000) and what amounts to a sweet £17,000 more for Ministers. This is 26 per cent plus-plus. The PM wants us to settle for 3 per cent. We say ‘give us the money’. We want the money – we particularly want it now because it’ll mean enhanced pensions when we all lose our seats. It’ll be a free vote, but the payroll [Ministers and PPPs] will be whipped to support the government’s line and Blair and his acolytes will vote for restraint, so it’s touch and go.
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br />   LATER

  Nothing has been said, but smirks and nudges from Conway and the Deputy in the upper office just now suggest that we needn’t worry too much about the salaries’ vote.

  Forsyth has had a triumph. Townend and his ilk are in the Tea Room touting him as leader-in-waiting.

  I’ve been over at 7 Millbank recording my contribution to Prince Philip’s obituary. I wasn’t nearly as good as I would have liked to be. I am cross with myself because I should have thought it through more carefully, prepared the right sound bites. He is a remarkable man and I would have liked to do him full justice. I may phone them and ask if I can do it again.

  THURSDAY 11 JULY 1996

  At around ten past midnight the deed was done. Five divisions, each one going the way we wanted. I am now £17,000 better off. There’s a feeling in the office that Derek may have over-egged the pudding. The government lost the main vote by 168 to 317. It says in The Times: ‘Around fifteen of the government’s 126-strong “payroll vote”, who had been told to support 3 per cent, did not register a vote, but the whips insisted they had good reasons for being away.’ According to my reckoning, the figure’s nearer forty than fifteen. The PM is seriously displeased. He’s been undermined by the office and he knows it. But now we’ve got what we wanted, the Deputy is sending out the signal: no grinning, no hurrahs, straight faces, don’t refer to it, move on. (I wonder if this would have happened under Thatcher or Churchill. Under Thatcher, possibly. Under Churchill, probably not. They all had private incomes in those days.)

  This morning’s other excitement has been the visit by Nelson Mandela. Westminster Hall was decked in all its glory: red carpets, gilded thrones, state trumpeters, Yeoman of the Guard, gentlemen at arms (none too steady on their feet). The hall was packed: Lords, Commons, the great and the good – even Jeremy Thorpe,581 bent and pathetic. The sun filtered through the west window. There was a palpable sense of expectation, and when the trumpets sounded and the great man made his entrance I doubt there was a completely dry eye in the house. He is tall and handsome, but he’s frail. He tottered down the steps. The Speaker had to hold his hand. I imagine it was the proudest moment of her life – and why not? In her speech – just a touch too much me-me-me for my taste – we learnt that Betty in her day had been at the heart of the anti-apartheid movement, one of the white sisters of Black Sash protesting in Trafalgar Square. But, in fairness, if she said too much, she did at least say all the right things. Mandela said too much, too. His speech was rather long, rather ponderous and, from where we were sitting (about halfway back) difficult to hear. But it didn’t matter. It was the presence we had come for – and the presence we got. And when he’d finished and we stood to cheer, he teetered down the steps and made his way out along the central aisle. Curiously, close to he looked less frail. His smile is enchanting. As he passed he shook hands on either side. I was on the end of the aisle and he came right up to me – and then clasped the hand of the bugger behind. It was General de Gaulle all over again.582

  TUESDAY 16 JULY 1996

  We had the full cast for prayers at the DoE: Gummer, Curry, Robert Jones,583 Robin Ferrers584 (it really is like having Osbert Lancaster in the government), Beresford,585 Clappison, Douglas French, Matthew Banks.586 It’s not a bad team. In fact, it’s quite impressive. Gumdrops is outstanding – he has defused the green lobby, indeed he’s claimed ownership over a range of the green issues – unthinkable five years ago. Curry is on tenterhooks hoping that the reshuffle will see him into the Cabinet. I now think it won’t. Any changes will be minor – not just because we know that ‘refreshing’ the look of the government only has a twenty-four-hour effect, but mainly because reshuffles leave bruised souls and we daren’t risk any more unhappy bunnies. This means Beresford is safe – though in fairness he has been trying quite hard to be more emollient. He has learnt at last that when one of our side introduces an adjournment debate, the minister is not supposed to duff him up and put him straight: he’s supposed to butter him up, woo him, praise him to the skies. And Douglas French is a decent guy. He’s been here ten years and deserves a break. But he won’t get it. He’s one of those: always in the frame, never in the picture.

  Speaking of which … I was saying in the office how jolly Jeffrey Archer has been being in recent days – and there was a lot of chortling from Conway and Tim Wood: ‘There couldn’t be a reshuffle coming up by any chance, could there?’ Anyway, I met up with Jeffrey for coffee in the Pugin Room (I was three minutes late, Jeffrey was tapping his watch when I arrived, ‘I am never late!’ he barked) and he took me through the key ingredients for making a successful novel – the shape of the book, the number of pages, the quality of paper, the type size, the number of lines on a page. It was both ludicrous and compelling – and he’s done it, damn him, he’s a world-class best seller.

  But that’s not what he wants. He wants to be in the government – Minister of State, nothing more junior, and actually as Arts Minister or Sports Minister he’d give it energy, commitment, brio. But it won’t happen. The activists would welcome it; the parliamentary party wouldn’t wear it. The office would regard it as ‘a risk’ and risks are not what we’re taking this year.

  LATER

  An amusing cock-up. One of my SIs587 this morning. I take a pride in rattling through them. When I joined the office it was explained to me that you’ll get reliable people to serve on your SIs if they know they’re going to be brief and you send them a note to thank them for coming. My record to date is thirty seconds. Beresford played ball and simply got up and said, ‘I recommend the measure to the committee’ and sat down. We voted and that was that. Well, this morning we rattled through it – whatever it was – some nonsense to do with rating – voted – the committee members duly thanked me for a three-minute session and we all toddled on our way. Now I learn from one of the clerks that the Instrument was riddled with misprints. We are going to have to reconvene the committee next week and go through the whole rigmarole again. So much for parliamentary scrutiny.

  MONDAY 22 JULY 1996

  Housing Bill, Lords’ amendments. At the 2.30 p.m. meeting I promised to deliver the votes at 5.30 p.m., 6.15 p.m. and 8.15 p.m. In the event, the first was six minutes late, but the other two were spot on. Curry and Clappison were magnificent. James [Clappison] kept protesting, ‘I must put this on the record.’ I kept hissing, ‘No you don’t – no one cares’, then barked out loud, ‘Beg to move!’ For three hours I was bobbing up and down like a yoyo. We rattled through it. I told Michèle that we’d be in the Strangers’ Dining Room by 8.30 p.m. – and we were! It was Jo, Beckie, Seb, and a good time was had by all. (I am still mildly in my cups as you can tell. The news I should be reporting at greater length is that David Heathcoat-Amory’s resignation is now out in the open. He’s going because ‘our European policy isn’t working’. Of course, he may also be going because he knows there’s no place for him in the Cabinet, so he can afford to take this principled stand. Is that unfair? Probably not. David Davis is staying put – and keeping mum. I sense he’s to be placated with a PC in the not too distant future.588 The mini-reshuffle is now a muddle and scheduled for tomorrow. The joy of the Whips’ Office is that I know I will not be featuring. I am very content where I am.)

  TUESDAY 23 JULY 1996

  ‘Minister’s resignation over Europe reopens Tory wounds’. Redwood, Tebbit, Lamont are hopping up and down hailing Heathcoat-Amory as the hero of the hour. Joe Public is saying, ‘Who? What?’ The rest of the reshuffle will also pass the great world by. Willetts becomes Paymaster-General (excellent), but at the Cabinet Office (under Roger Freeman) not at the Treasury. Oppenheim goes to fill the gap at the Treasury with a splendid title they’ve dusted down from somewhere: Exchequer Secretary. Steve Norris and Tim Eggar589 are stepping down at their own request with a view to making boodles of dosh. John Bowis (good man) goes from Health to Transport and three members of the office move on: 1) Liam Fox goes to the Foreign Office to ease their workload. (David Dav
is whinges that’s he’s got too much to do – and won’t do it. Jeremy [Hanley] obliges and is exhausted. Enter Liam to help share the burden.) 2) Simon Burns replaces Bowis at Health (did the Chief feel he’d heard enough about the Essex Fire Service?) 3) The Deputy becomes Minister for Industry at the DTI. (This is a just reward. His seat is none too safe and out of the office he can raise his profile. Also, if it all goes wrong, there are going to be more jobs going for a former Industry Minister than a former Deputy Chief Whip.)

  The office will miss Greg. I think he has been outstanding. I’ve just sent him a long note saying that I don’t think I’ve ever come across a person better suited to their job or one who did it so well. And I meant it. His handling of the team has been perfect: he made it fun and he covered our backs, so when he whistled we jumped. His successor as Deputy is Andrew Mackay. This will disappoint Derek [Conway], but it was inevitable. By rights, by seniority it should have been Tim Wood, but that was never going to be. Perhaps a consoling K is in the pipeline? Given that he’s bound to lose his seat it ought to be.590

  I slid into the meeting at 2.31 p.m. to find Andrew firmly ensconced at the Deputy’s desk – Greg’s mountains of debris already cleared away. As I flopped into my chair, all of sixty seconds late, he curled his lip and said, ‘I shouldn’t need to remind the office, the meeting begins at 2.30 sharp.’ Faintly silly. (I like him – I like him a lot – but he is faintly ridiculous – the impeccably tailored suits, the perma-tan, the self-consciously smooth gliding through the corridors of power…)