TUESDAY 25 FEBRUARY 1997
Anticipating another tight vote last night we hauled in our troops from far and wide – from sickbed and safari – and then ended up with a majority of thirty!
Ted came lumbering up to me, shoulders heaving, wreathed in mischievous smiles: ‘See – I’m still with you!’ Silly old goat. The PM shrugged, ‘People don’t take him seriously any more, do they?’
Winston was back from Paris. I had paged him on Thursday night – at the behest of the police who wanted to warn him of a death threat – and he said, ‘I got your message. I was at the Paris Opera. You spoilt the second act. I thought I must have missed a vote or something.’ I’m impressed his pager works internationally. I suppose with Winston it needs to.
One evening last summer we were coming through the division lobby together and I remarked on his unusually casual appearance.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s maddening. I’ve been running late since lunch. I didn’t have time to change. The service at the Cipriani was dreadfully slow today.’
The DPM had returned from the London Fashion Week dinner. ‘I’d only eaten the first course.’
‘Why on earth do you go to London Fashion Week?’
‘Because I invented it!’
WEDNESDAY 26 FEBRUARY 1997
EDCP with Hezza in the chair. We rattle through the forthcoming attractions. Virginia has an announcement on violence on TV. And she’s going to ban another satellite porn channel.
‘Can’t we have any fun?’ murmurs Tony Newton, lighting up. There is momentary consternation. He quickly adds, ‘I haven’t even got a satellite dish, of course.’
Brian Mawhinney bleats: ‘This isn’t supposed to be just a diary of events. We’re supposed to decide what we’re going to say. What are we going to say this week?’
‘Well,’ says Tony, risking a second sortie, ‘we could start by saying to the Chancellor and the Foreign Secretary, “Why don’t you talk to one another?”’
Nobody laughs.
It’s difficult to know when to laugh in this business. Charles Lewington tells me that Page Three lovely Melinda Messenger is about to endorse the PM. ‘That’s worth twelve points in the polls, isn’t it? I’m seeing The Sun on Monday. Shall I give it to them? What do you think?’
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
THURSDAY 27 FEBRUARY 1997
I arrived at No. 11 at 9.30 a.m. to find the Chancellor in mellow mood, bleary-eyed but well-scrubbed. It took ten minutes to sort out the coffee. ‘Why won’t it boil?’ He hadn’t switched on the kettle. ‘We’re out of milk – hold on.’
He kept dashing out to the kitchen, into the hallway, but eventually we sat down and I outlined the strategy:
GB: ‘The PM doesn’t want to go into the election on the back of a lost confidence vote.’
KC: ‘Agreed.’
GB: ‘The Irish would welcome a concession on airport duty,642 so why don’t we make the concession now to show we’re willing rather than wait till it’s forced out of us?’
KC: ‘It’s probably illegal. It’s certainly illogical. That’s why.’
GB: ‘Make the concession today and it’ll be lost in the papers tomorrow – but it might just encourage a couple of the Irish to stay away if we lose Wirral South and Labour call a No Confidence vote next week.’
KC: ‘I don’t believe they will.’
GB; ‘They might – and isn’t there a case to be made that the extra airport duty for Northern Ireland and the highlands and islands is unfair?’
KC: ‘Not much of a case! Let’s face it. It’s simply a bribe for votes. Okay, £7 million for the Reverend Martin Smyth is cheap at the price, and, if it comes to it, I suppose we’ll have to do it, but let’s not rush into it. It’s just a bribe.’
GB: ‘But if on the night it’d make a difference you’d agree to it?’
KC: ‘Probably.’
I reported that EDCP hoped that he and the Foreign Secretary would be coordinating their two big speeches scheduled for next week.
‘I’m going to be talking about the world,’ said Ken, twinkling. ‘What’s he talking about?’
‘The world,’ I said.
‘And they want our two worlds to be the same?’ mused the Chancellor. ‘Fair enough.’
Lunch at the Treasury was pleasantly chaotic. Michael Jack attempted to persuade Ken to make a speech offering his vision for Britain’s economic future. ‘That won’t get any coverage,’ chortled Ken. ‘That isn’t what politics is about these days. If you want coverage you either have to have a row or do what I did yesterday – go to Bristol and make an idiot of yourself in a balloon factory. And if you want a front-page picture there’s only one thing to do: wear a silly hat.’
At Cabinet the PM gave strict instructions that the response to the anticipated Wirral South debacle will be as follows: thirty seconds (at most) of regret, then straight on to what will count is the general election when it comes and what Labour has to do is answer the question, ‘Where’s the money coming from?’
At lunch there was much laughter at the news that Michael Howard is to be the minister on the spot in Wirral South in the morning. ‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer chap.’
‘Poor Michael. It’s bound to go wrong,’ said Ken. ‘If they’ve got any sense the Labour Party will have people with placards out to greet him: “You’re too late, mate! It was yesterday!”’
FRIDAY 28 FEBRUARY 1997
The Wirral South result is entirely predictable: a 17 per cent swing to Labour. We’re doomed.
MONDAY 3 MARCH 1997
Stephen’s blown it. ‘John Major’s government was back on the ropes again last night after Stephen Dorrell, the Secretary of State for Health, smashed the fragile Cabinet agreement on the European single currency.’
Interviewed by Jonathan Dimbleby, Stephen declared ‘We shan’t be joining a single currency on 1 January 1999’ – which may well be true, but isn’t the line to take when the poor PM has striven so desperately to get everyone to accept that the government’s agreed view is that our joining in 1999 is ‘very unlikely, but not impossible.’ The headlines tell the story: ‘Dear, oh dear, Mr Dorrell. TV blunder over pound spells crisis for Tories’ (Express). ‘Dorrell Does the Splits’ (Daily Mail). ‘Euro Gaffe Wrecks Tory Unity’ (Independent).
At our end of the Tea Room colleagues are shaking their heads in disbelief. Among Stephen’s supporters there’s dismay. What was he up to? If it was a deliberate attempt to shift the policy, it was naive. If it was simply a case of going off-message, it was naive. Either way, it’s a major blow to his prospects. The ‘safe pair of hands’ turn out to be covered with goose grease. Now he is gaffe-man – his admirers are downcast, his enemies delighted, the generality of the party in despair. This, on top of Wirral, combined with Ted and Tebbit, supplemented by the memoirs of Lord McAlpine643 and the autobiography of Ian Greer, and there’s a sense today that we’re in free-fall.
At the A&Q meeting as well as plenty of justified Dorrell-sniping, there was a determined bout of Central Office bashing. The boys are confused about our current line of attack (we’re saying that Labour’s committed to £30 billion in spending and there’s a £12 billion black hole in Gordon Brown’s plans and we’re putting out both messages simultaneously) and they don’t like the weeping lion. ‘That poster’s not going to win us the election, you know.’ I sit next to John Ward who scribbles away furiously. ‘I’ll pass it all on to the boss – unvarnished.’
I lunched with Sonia Land644 who told me her Feng Shui guru says that the government’s problems stem from the gates at the entrance to Downing Street. They’ve prevented the good air from getting in and the ‘bad vibes’ from getting out. Pull down the gates and all will be well. I must pass it on.
TUESDAY 4 MARCH 1997
At breakfast Stephen was contrite – and charming, full of apologies and regrets and shy boyish smiles. ‘I don’t know how it happened. I found myself saying in public what I’ve s
aid in private a thousand times – and when I should have heard the alarm bells ringing, I didn’t.’ We agreed that as far as colleagues are concerned all he should do now is be about and be himself. He shouldn’t overdo the self-flagellation or attempt self-justification, just modest regret at any embarrassment caused. As far as the media is concerned, Danny was adamant: ‘Do what Hezza does – be enigmatic. Don’t give anything away. Let them draw their own conclusions.’
David Faber was nicely consoling: ‘Three months from now the gaffe element will be forgotten, but the Eurosceptical spin will linger on.’ I wonder… I see that William Hague has announced his engagement.
I walked over to the House with Danny and reported on the A&Q gathering last night and our boys’ problem with the poster. He waved his yoghurt carton in the air and roared: ‘I’ll tell you what the problem is! The problem is eighteen years in power, the Prime Minister’s leadership, the fall-out from Wirral South – and two dozen backbenchers want to blame it on the fucking poster! Jeezus!’
This week’s message is ‘Where’s the money coming from, Mr Blair?’ Not a bad message, but will we stick with it?
‘I don’t know,’ said Danny, still laughing. ‘One of Major’s failings is that he won’t lock on to a theme. We keep moving from one idea to another, from one target to another.’
‘I hope you’re enjoying it,’ I said.
‘Oh, it’s wonderful. When I ran computer magazines we had fiascos, but these are much more fun. These are fiascos on a proper scale!’
LATER
I am writing this in the Quiet Room at the end of the Library, where the non-political books are kept and conversation is taboo. Not so snoring. There are eight low green leather chairs set around the fireplace and on nights like tonight when there are several votes they are filled with gentlemen members (I have never seen a woman in here) snoozing fitfully. Within a few inches of me is Peter Mandelson, in his shirtsleeves, gently dozing. He sat down to study the New Statesman but, understandably, didn’t warm to his task and his eyes quickly closed and now a gentle New Labour ronflement is emerging from him. I am resisting the temptation to rifle through his papers and Filofax, now literally within my grasp, but in the fullness of time I look forward to learning how the command structure of New Labour has worked in the run-up to this election. It is self-evidently so much more effective than ours. We have too many power centres and messages insufficiently coordinated and focused – and, perhaps, even no longer a will to win.
Raymond Robertson was with the PM in Scotland on Friday and felt that, for the first time, the boss has accepted we might lose. There’s been a sense of free-fall these last twenty-four hours that might just tip him into going for 10 April after all – not just to get it over and done with, but to prevent further fall-out.
An incidental benefit of the Dorrell brouhaha is that it’s swamped the speculation over which ministers are planning to break ranks and reject EMU outright in their election addresses. One of the Sundays fingered Angela Browning, our comfortable Minister for Food, and on Saturday night/Sunday morning the lines were hot. The DPM spent an hour on the phone to her – at 1.00 a.m.! – and the PM called her at 7.00. She was dissuaded from resigning and agreed to stick to the line, but if it hadn’t been for the Dorrell gaffe the story might have gathered legs.
Hezza’s been in fine form today, bullish and playful. We had a meeting to run through his speech for Thursday’s debate on public expenditure. William [Waldegrave] seemed unduly exercised about it, but Hezza was gloriously off-hand. In under a minute he ran through the headings – ‘it’s all pretty obvious – we’ll have some fun’ – and then chucked the notes to an official, slapped the desk and dismissed us. Clearly, he’s not to be discounted.
For well over a year now, in dark corners, colleagues have been muttering about the succession. Now they talk of it openly. In the Tea Room a motley crew is running through the form: Redwood – ‘no go, still the man from Mars’; Portillo – ‘bruised and unreliable’; Howard – ‘brilliant but bloodless’; Clarke – ‘sensational, but his views on Europe make it impossible’; Rifkind – ‘reality and dandruff are against him’; Dorrell – ‘seemed a nice boy for a while, but it’s all over’; Hague – ‘please, you can’t be serious!’; Gillian – a round of mocking laughter. The consensus: it’s got to be Hezza – with, wait for it, as a dark horse, a last-minute surprise runner: Jonathan Aitken.
Ted Heath was at his most twinkly earlier: ‘You whips are so busy now controlling the vermin you have no time for controlling the government. We have far too much legislation, poorly drafted, given inadequate time.’ Sometimes the old dinosaur gets it spot on.
WEDNESDAY 5 MARCH 1997
Much fluttering in the dovecotes. David Evans, the fat ass with the common touch, has been telling-it-like-it-is at a school in his constituency. On John Major: ‘I find him vindictive and not forgiving.’ On women in politics: ‘Women get promoted, like Virginia Bottomley, who’s dead from the neck upwards, right?’ On the Birmingham Six: ‘You think they hadn’t killed hundreds of people before they caught them?’
Evans is holed up at home now, with four camera crews at the door, and he’s issued an apology, but the damage is done and, of course, today’s the day of the PM’s fourth ‘presidential’ press conference.
EDC (Ministerial Committee on Competitiveness) meets at 10.00 a.m. with a substantial agenda and an early warning from officials that the meeting will be a long one. In the event, the DPM arrives three minutes late and tells us he is due to take a phone call at quarter past. ‘Let us proceed … Consumer affairs – deregulation.’ Leafing through the paperwork: ‘Do we need this before the election? Do we want to have all the consumers’ organisations climbing all over us at this stage in the game? Let’s postpone it.’
Greg Knight (Minister for Industry): ‘This is just what I—’
DPM: ‘Agreed. Next.’
Greg’s set piece was due next: competitiveness plans for the English regions. Greg had plenty to say – and began to say it, with giggling on all sides (especially from Gummer). Happily, within a couple of minutes, the penny dropped and he ground to an abrupt halt.
By quarter past we were shuffling out, Douglas Hogg in tweeds, hobbling on crutches.
Waldegrave: What happened to you?
Hogg: I broke my ankle.
Waldegrave: Kicking someone, I trust?
Gummer: Does the countryman’s code require one to wear a hacking jacket with a broken leg?
Hogg: I can’t hold the crutches with my usual jackets.
Gummer: It’s the hat we really miss, Hoggie.
The joshing and the banter and the ragging continued as we rolled out into Whitehall. It’s end of term at a minor public school.
THURSDAY 6 MARCH 1997
The Finance Bill faces a couple of hazardous hurdles on Tuesday and the Chancellor of the Exchequer has toddled off to Hong Kong on his way to China. At the Treasury we gather to work out compromises to ensure we avoid defeat. ‘Oo, you can’t do that!’ cluck the officials. (The younger ones all have a slightly camp manner and north country accents). ‘Oo, we can’t possibly change that at this stage.’
In the ‘War Room’ at Central Office we meet – at last – to agree the lines of attack on Labour’s spending pledges. There are eight young men in shirtsleeves and a leggy girl to take notes. For an hour confusion reigns and we end up exactly where we started. Charles Lewington has to go to No. 10: ‘The PM wants to rule out VAT on food.’
‘He can’t. No one can.’
‘If he can’t, he’ll shoot himself.’
Suppressed giggles all round.
In the Commons Hoggie hops about in the face of accusations of confusion, buck-passing and incompetence in his handling of the BSE crisis in general and the Meat Hygiene Service Report in particular. The PM defends him manfully, but behind the scenes ministers shake their heads and Michael Forsyth [Scottish Secretary] puts the boot in.
Hezza does his ‘turn�
�� on the economy and the handful who turn out for it enjoy the show.
MONDAY 10 MARCH 1997
I was rather dreading last night’s ‘showfolk party’ for the PM at the Ivy. In the event, it was rather fun. There were about 150 in all – Barbara Windsor, Frank Bruno, Joan Collins, Anneka Rice, Ruth Madoc, Anita Harris, Mike Yarwood – more pantoland than South Bank Show – but the wine flowed and the PM circulated and a good time was had by all – including the boss, I think, who brought Norma and the children and arrived at eight and was still at it at eleven. Cliff [Richard] looked the business – ‘it’s all off-the-peg and the shoes cost £55 – I mean, where can you buy a pair of shoes for £55 these days?’ – and offered the PM crumbs of comfort: ‘Heathcliff got a terrible press and they said no one would come. Well, we got the biggest advance in history! Forget the critics, John – trust the punters.’
I thought Tim [Rice] and the PM should say a few words. Howell agreed: ‘a little bringing of the room together, a little punctuation mark.’ The PM wouldn’t have it. He was having a night off. He was funny though.
Donald Sinden was telling a fruity story.
‘And then,’ said Don, ‘Lord Alfred Douglas turned to me and remarked…’
The PM chipped in, ‘At least you didn’t say “And then Lord Alfred Douglas turned over to me and remarked…”’
TUESDAY 11 MARCH 1997
I am writing this sitting on the front bench as we embark on the final stages of the Finance Bill ready, if the minority parties but knew it, to concede absolutely anything rather than lose a vote. The PM has just struggled valiantly through a lacklustre question time and Madam Speaker has just completed one of her music hall turns, playing to the gallery after a good lunch. The Exchequer Secretary [Phillip Oppenheim] has arrived in buoyant mood: ‘See that girl in the box. She’s Hungarian. Snogs like a hoover.’ He’s clearly got his mind on the job.
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