Breaking the Code

by Gyles Brandreth

  And look who’s here: the Chancellor of the Exchequer has wandered in, bleary-eyed and unshaven, just off the plane from Beijing. ‘You lot seem to have been panicking somewhat in my absence. Do you know it was 3.30 a.m. when you roused the ambassador’s wife to get me onto the radio to deny that silly story about 17 per cent VAT on fuel.’

  ‘How was Beijing?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Seems a long time ago.’

  THURSDAY 13 MARCH 1997

  Last night I made the mistake of going to a dinner hosted by the BBC. They were eager, intelligent, friendly, hospitable, but the exercise was pointless. They’d invited MPs from all parties which was naive because, as a consequence, we all watched what we said with special care. All we learnt was that the Major–Blair TV debate won’t happen.

  ‘We’ll see you in court first,’ chirruped Archie Kirkwood who looks exactly like an ageing jockey.

  The legal advice is that a head-to-head without the Lib Dems isn’t on. And what do you do in Scotland? On our side we were resolutely loyal and wouldn’t contemplate the possibility of defeat. Menzies Campbell645 offered Charles Kennedy646 as his preferred successor to the generally despised (by his colleagues) Paddy Ashdown.

  I’ve just had coffee with Sir Trevor Skeet, an old tortoise, who was dined by the PM last night along with thirty-six other retirees. ‘He was very good, but he’s got a lot on his mind. He just came and went, you know. He didn’t go round the table and say an individual word to each of us. That’s what we wanted.’ Jesus wept! You simply can’t win, can you?

  At lunch I entertained the Chancellor with an account of Central Office’s latest research. Europe and the constitution mean nothing to the bulk of the electorate. 30 per cent of those polled (the same 30 per cent) want us to leave the EU but join EMU!! John Prescott isn’t the bogeyman our activists like to think he is. Only 30 per cent of those polled could identify the party he belongs to. Blair is the man they know and rather like. The message for us is ominous: ‘People want freshness. They don’t like fundamental change.’

  FRIDAY 14 MARCH 1997

  Albania is disintegrating before our very eyes. How about the Conservative Party? The hapless PM is on his way to Bath to rally the faithful while Edwina is on the radio telling the world that his would-be successors are already readying themselves for the fray and, when the time comes, ‘John mustn’t hang around. He’s got to get on with it – and go.’

  She shouldn’t be saying it, even if it’s true. And it is true, of course. To my knowledge there are least four campaign teams in an advanced state of readiness. Last night, one zealot ran me through the computer program for his man. Anyone likely to be in the new House of Commons is in there (complete with nicknames, numbers, special interests and peculiarities) and rated from one to five – one for a certain supporter, five for ‘never-in-a-million-years’.

  MONDAY 17 MARCH 1997

  It’s coming through on the fax right now: ‘The Prime Minister has today asked Her Majesty the Queen to proclaim the Dissolution of Parliament. Her Majesty has been graciously pleased to signify that She will comply with this request.’

  Last night, at the whips’ dinner at No. 12, the PM was surprisingly relaxed, exasperated but not exhausted. ‘Bath went well, though you wouldn’t have known it from the television pictures. Have you read George Walden’s piece in the Express? What on earth does he think he’s doing? Earning £500 I suppose. God!’

  We sneered at Edwina. ‘How many doors has she been knocking on?’

  ‘Quite a few publishers’ doors, I imagine.’ The PM shook his head with a weary smile. ‘And who on earth benefits from John Biffen’s words of wisdom?’ Pause. Glint in eye.

  At the end of the day, when we come to the peerages, let no one assume it comes automatically just because you’ve been in the Cabinet. ‘Lady’ Biffen needs to remind her husband of that. There are the likes of Fergus [Montgomery] and Jill Knight to whom I owe a lot more.647

  He wants the TV debate. ‘What have I got to lose? I’ve forgotten more policy than Blair’s ever dreamt of.’ The only bleak moment came with the news that our turncoat Alan Howarth has secured a safe Labour seat. ‘God, that is depressing.’ I wish Alan joy of it. There’s a picture of him in the paper today, his elegant toff’s head addressing a football at the Newport Working Men’s Sports Field.

  During the afternoon we went through the charade of the ‘party review’, each whip giving his (or her) report on the ministers and PPSs in his department in anticipation of the post-election reshuffle. I turned mine into a bestiary – Heseltine the elderly giraffe stalking through the jungle, head aloft, picking off the juiciest leaves; Ken Clarke, the mangy lion; Waldegrave, the anxious llama; little Michael Jack, the eager Chihuahua hopping up at the table etc. It went down quite well during the afternoon, but alarmingly, at the end of dinner, when the post-prandial silence fell, I suddenly heard the Chief saying, ‘Gyles, tell the Prime Minister about your little menagerie …’ I looked across the table at the PM and suddenly regretted that third Martini, that fourth glass of claret, that top-up of port. I burbled. I was neither impressive (which didn’t matter) nor amusing (which did).

  This evening Michèle and I had dinner with Stephen in the Strangers’ Dining Room.

  ‘What happens if John stays on?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘He won’t,’ I said.

  ‘He might, mightn’t he? Perhaps he should – do the decent thing for a year or two, hold us together, maintain the centre ground, allow the National Union time to develop their ideas for an electoral college in which the activists have 20 per cent of the vote.’

  Behind us John Gummer was sitting, like a happy pixie, his tie flicked over his shoulder, having a fit of the giggles.

  ‘What does he do?’ whispered Michèle.

  ‘Supports Ken. Ken’s active. Peter Butler [Clarke’s PPS] keeps pestering me for phone numbers.’

  On the far side of the room, Gillian [Shephard] and Robert Cranborne [Lord Privy Seal], à deux, were locked in a conspiratorial huddle. The Chief Whip came in and surveyed the scene.

  A little later, scurrying between the Chamber and Tony Newton’s room – where the lovely unsung hero of the administration is on his third pack of cigarettes since this morning’s announcement – I bump into a wild-eyed Neil Hamilton.

  ‘Look, what am I going to do? Downey648 isn’t going to be able to report now before the election. I’ve got my AGM on Friday and I needed Downey to exonerate me. Now he can’t in time. I’ll need a letter from the PM saying “innocent till proved guilty”.’

  Neil catches John Ward and repeats his plea, but John tells me he doesn’t believe the PM can risk overt assistance. ‘What if the report leaks during the campaign and it isn’t good – and the boss has backed Neil?’ I go back to Neil and suggest he gets a letter from Downey, explaining the process, and perhaps something from Mawhinney on how Central Office is going to be pulling out all the stops to win in Tatton. Neil’s fear, of course, is that despite one of the healthiest majorities in the land, he could still lose. And then what has he got?

  TUESDAY 18 MARCH 1997

  By playing it long we thought it could only get better. Perhaps it can only get worse? ‘Labour surges to 28-point lead’ is the Telegraph headline above a shot of JM on his soapbox in Luton. He knows what’s coming: that’s why he’s so relaxed. At yesterday’s Cabinet, Hogg was absent (in Brussels) and the Chancellor was late. The PM cast a withering glance at the empty chair and lifted his eyebrows before embarking on his announcement: he would go to the Queen at 11.30, the House would be prorogued on Friday, be dissolved on 8 April and the election would be on 1 May.

  This morning it was all very playful in the Tea Room. Our boys were doing their ready-reckoning, who’ll be in, who’ll be out. ‘Edwina’s done for. Thank God!’ ‘Even her friends don’t like her.’ ‘What friends?’ ‘I met one once!’ ‘She exudes sexuality,’ said Winterton, mouth full of crumpet, ‘oozes it, but she doesn’t have any sex appea
l at all.’ ‘Yes,’ mused Fabricant, ‘you can’t really see yourself doing it with Edwina. Now I did once picture myself sleeping with Teresa Gorman.’ Several of us made our excuses and left.

  The Chancellor arrived at his penultimate prayers in high spirits: bright blue shirt, bright yellow tie, cigar in hand, ready for the fray. William was more subdued, but buoyed by his debate in the City with Alistair Darling (shadow Chief Secretary). ‘We won the argument. When I said to Alistair, “Mr Blair said yesterday ‘there’s a black hole in the government’s finances’, how do you propose to fill it?” Darling didn’t have an answer.’

  Phillip Oppenheim was fresh from ECOFIN where coinage had been high on the agenda. Apparently the Nordics won’t have nickel in their coins. They say it damages your health. And Kohl doesn’t like our 20p piece.

  There’s confusion about who can do what between now and the election. The Chancellor is clear: ‘You are ministers until 1 May. You can sign letters, you can make announcements, you can go on visits.’ Peter Butler protested that in the outer office the civil servants were saying you couldn’t sign letters. Ken leant back contentedly in his chair and waved his cigar smoke about: ‘Terry649 knows bugger all about the way it works. They’re pretty unworldly here at times.’

  Before the Chancellor arrived I stood alone in the room admiring the Pissaro, the seventeenth-century Dutch still lifes, the portrait of Austen Chamberlain. Forty-four days from now and it’ll all be over. Talking to Norma later – she was looking more starlike than ever: she glows – I suggested a chart on the fridge to mark off the days. ‘We’re taking Easter off. I insisted.’ She’s mastered the art of being wonderfully intimate without being in the least indiscreet.

  WEDNESDAY 19 MARCH 1997

  The press are getting away with the implication that the fact the Standards and Privileges Report won’t appear before the election is somehow the government’s doing. It isn’t. It may well be in the government’s interest, but that’s a rare little bit of good fortune.

  The campaign’s only just begun, but the bookies are looking over the hill. Today’s odds from William Hill on the leadership race: Hague and Portillo, 7–2; Howard and Heseltine 5–1; Clarke, Dorrell and Shephard 10–1. Redwood’s stock is dwindling. The problem with John is that when he tries to be nice ’n’ normal it comes out all wobbly. As they say in the Tea Room, ‘Never do business with a country that has orange in its flag and never trust a man with green blood.’

  When I told the PM a few weeks back that I was sure Blair wore make-up at PMQs, he seemed genuinely surprised. ‘We need to give that greater currency, don’t you think?’ So we’re going to have a go tomorrow, either with a planted question, ‘Can my Right Honourable Friend take this opportunity to salute the cosmetics industry in the United Kingdom etc. …’ or by having someone shout out as Blair rises: ‘He’s wearing make-up!’ Yes, it’s come to this.

  THURSDAY 20 MARCH 1997

  What a shambles! Confronted by some hardball from the opposition, Tony Newton has promised an ‘interim report’ from the Committee on Standards and Privileges at noon today. We now have the worst of both worlds: we’re highlighting the problem without resolving it. And, of course, Tony’s so decent he won’t even tell the Cabinet what the report has in store.

  At five to twelve the Members’ Lobby is packed with hacks lining up to collect their copies of the report – which then turns out to be a non-event! Downey unreservedly clears a dozen colleagues that we didn’t even realise were being investigated while the cloud over Hamilton and co. remains.

  At the Treasury we have a last sandwich lunch and the Chancellor makes a gracious little speech. ‘Over the past few years we’ve built an economic recovery round these sandwiches. The trouble is: the buggers out there aren’t very grateful. This has been the best ministerial team I’ve had. And the best private office. Yes, Gyles, I know it seems a bit shambolic, but I don’t like to take things too seriously for more than ten minutes at a time. I’m in the business of cheering ourselves up.’

  We raised our glasses. William said ‘Cheers!’ Someone else said ‘Britain is booming!’

  ‘God, I hate that expression,’ said Ken.

  ‘It’s on all our posters, Ken.’

  ‘I know it is. Central Office wanted it. I didn’t.’

  John Mackay650 (Social Services Minister in the Lords) had come along and couldn’t quite believe it. ‘All this drinking and laughing, it’s amazing. With Peter Lilley, we just sit there with our heads bowed counting our worry beads.’

  There was a full turnout for John Major’s last PMQs. The cheering and the jeering were extraordinary – and he was at his best. We had tears in our eyes. It was an amazing spectacle, moving and ridiculous. There was a lovely tribute to Michael Jopling (recovering from his road accident but looking pretty frail) and a last hurrah from Winston. Our absurd cries of ‘He’s wearing make-up’ bounced off Blair unheeded.

  MONDAY 24 MARCH 1997

  Day 8 of the campaign doesn’t begin too badly. Overnight we manage to shift the focus from sleaze to The Great TV Debate – which is amazing since, as yet, it’s a non-event (and may prove to be such even if it does materialise) – and today there’s a leak from the Labour manifesto suggesting firms could be forced to recognise and negotiate with unions where they are supported by a majority of the workforce. We’re dubbing it ‘Blair’s big pay-off to his union backers.’ Is this our first whiff of spring?

  Two clerks from the Treasury caught up with me at 7 Millbank. They needed a Lord Commissioner to sign three Treasury Warrants. The first was for £215,096,760 and 90p. The next was for £1,554,472,000 – my first billion-pound cheque. The best was yet to come … in the foyer of 7 Millbank, witnessed by the security man and the lad on the switchboard, amid much giggling, I signed a warrant for £96,861,662,000! I was relieved to see that HM The Queen was my co-signatory and interested to note that her signature is as large and loopy as mine.

  TUESDAY 25 MARCH 1997

  The English Patient has won nine Oscars. The Telegraph tells us that personal incomes have risen by 56 per cent since 1979. John Redwood has been persuaded to cancel the press launch for his anti-EMU tract, Our Currency, Our Country. Convicted terrorists have been foiled in their attempt to dig their way out of the Maze Prison. And Allan Stewart, mutton-chopped axe-swinging former Minister, has decided not to contest our safest seat in Scotland for ‘health and family reasons’ – the tabloids got wind of a dalliance with a lady he encountered at a drying-out clinic! All in all, this has probably been our best day yet. The worst that befalls us is that the PM is photographed visiting a shop called Slees. (Slees Home Hardware of Braunton, Devon.)

  WEDNESDAY 26 MARCH 1997

  I rather doubt whether anyone is listening, but if they are they’ll have noticed that this week we’re winning. The unions are back. We’ve raised the spectre of beer and sandwiches at No. 10. At last, Blair is on the defensive.

  At 7.45 a.m. I called Sheila Gunn at Central Office. As she picked up the phone she was shouting across the room, ‘You’ve no idea how isolated we feel.’ Sheila’s i/c the PM on tour and ‘We’re having teething problems, that’s all. We haven’t got the bus and the plane yet and communication’s terrible, so there we are in the middle of nowhere doing our press conference on education, as agreed, and up here they’ve decided to switch to the unions and nobody’s bothered to tell us. Never mind.’

  ‘Keep smiling.’

  ‘God, I am. I’ve given strict instructions. At all times we’ve got to reflect the mood of the boss, take our look from his look.’

  ‘I’ve seen the pictures – you’re beaming beautifully in every one – and you’re holding out the recorder to catch every word.’

  ‘Only the machine doesn’t pick up half of it – and we’re supposed to get it transcribed, but that doesn’t seem to be happening either. Happy days.’

  Talked to Christine Hamilton who was sounding amazingly chirpy. ‘The Association’s being just wond
erful. It’s been terrible and I’ve had the lot – screaming habdabs, hysterics, crying buckets – but our people locally are being just fantastic. I don’t know what we’re going to do about the press. Do you know what the Editor of The Times said on Friday? At an editorial conference, Michael Gove suggested a piece outlining everything we know about Al-Fayed and Peter Stothard said, “No, that would blunt our attack on the MPs.”’

  THURSDAY 27 MARCH 1997

  Oops! There goes another one … Tim Smith is stepping down in Beaconsfield. ‘Ex-minister quits over sleaze – Tory who accepted £25,000 goes, but Hamilton fights on’. I’ve always rather liked Tim. I didn’t know him well at Oxford, but re-encountering him at Westminster, twenty years on, he seemed a decent cove: genial, civilised, intelligent, upright, the sort of person you’d expect to find as a party treasurer and junior minister, not the sort you’d expect to see slinking out of the side-door of Harrods clutching brown envelopes stuffed with used banknotes. He was certainly very effective on the Finance Bill and, last night on the box, brave Jenny at his side, he made a dignified fist of his resignation – and looked as upright as ever: ramrod back surmounted by ovoid head, a blanched version of the Green Mekon. Poor man.

  Hang on! There’s more! News is coming in that Piers Merchant, 46-year-old husband, father and MP for Beckenham, is having an affair with a seventeen-year-old Soho nightclub hostess and was photographed kissing her in the park on Tuesday night. You couldn’t make it up! Clean-living, conscientious Piers, vegetarian, teetotal, Peter Lilley’s exemplary PPS, so frequently ‘in the frame’ for promotion but never quite making it on account of his apparent lack of charisma. Little did we know … What an idiot! He’s denying it, and wife, family and constituency are right behind him, of course – but it’s still morning and I imagine by nightfall he’ll be gone.