Fortunately, I had made a friend in this process. His name was Gary Streeter, and he had been an MP since 1992 for South West Devon – the neighbouring seat to Plymouth Moor View. While I was learning that politics is a game in which everyone gives you advice and you can’t listen to or agree with all of them, you could never argue with someone who had been elected five times in a row.
On hearing of my selection, and always on the lookout to help an ex-serviceman, Gary had invited me for a pint over Christmas 2013. He was a very kind, religious man – driven by principle rather than an outright blind commitment. But he had a steel underneath; he wasn’t ‘wet’ with it. He remains my primary mentor to this day. Somehow he had been assessing me.
‘I think you might just do this,’ he had told me. ‘Stick to your guns. Don’t change. I will see what I can do for you in London to get you some support.’
Those words ran through my mind as I rode the tube back to Paddington. I called Gary from the station and told him what had happened. He asked for the names of the people I had been in with.
‘Johnny, you’ve got to understand there is a difference between the political party and the professional party. I don’t even know who those two people are. Don’t worry about it.’
I felt a little better, and the journey home helped. The train ride from London to Plymouth is special. It goes rather fast to Exeter but then slows down, seemingly in deference to the stunning route it takes, which hugs the coastline, most spectacularly at Dawlish. As you get past Exeter and chug past the Atlantic on your left, and the tors of Dartmoor on your right, London seems to leave you. There is no phone reception either, which I quite liked.
I was going to bloody do this, I decided. I had put up with worse. I had committed myself to this path; my young family were relying on me to make a go of it.
I thought again about the data from previous election results in Plymouth Moor View. The largest collection of voters in the constituency was those who didn’t care who won; who weren’t targeted and who were thoroughly disillusioned by politics. If I could go out there and knock on their door; if I could meet them, make the effort and show I cared about them; if I could give them something to vote for, then perhaps, just perhaps, they might come out for me.
Of course, I would have to show my face in the Conservative parts and meet and woo the local party faithful. Given there were only fourteen members of my association, not all of whom could walk any more, I figured this part wouldn’t take long. I would have to also try and ‘convert’ a few Labour stalwarts; many in Plymouth were fed up with the Labour Party.
Through all this scheming, one course of action leapt out as giving me the best chance of winning. I had to knock on every door. Every single one. If I did that, then at least no one could say, ‘you never tried to speak to me.’
Next I needed a strategy. I had no money to spend on my campaign, but I would need some. So I needed to put myself in enough places to meet enough of the ‘influencers’. I would have to be across every medium; social media, print media and those who didn’t have anything to do with any media. When I left the Army I had no personal mobile phone, and although I had accounts I didn’t use Facebook or Twitter. I avoided journalists and newspapers at all costs. I rarely even read them. That would all have to change.
Felicity and I sat down that night. I would have to set about finding donors – that’s what they did in America. I would have to sell my vision of Plymouth – the potential of the place was huge if we could just get the politics right.
I had never bought the line that Plymothians were somehow less gifted than others, and hence we never really achieved much. We had the finest military history in the nation, contributing more in blood and treasure in the cause of our country than anywhere else. We had the most beautiful natural harbour this side of San Francisco. And if that wasn’t enough, Dartmoor was a fifteen-minute run away, described by Steven Spielberg as the ‘most stunning natural landscape’ he has ever worked on after he filmed War Horse there.
The people were the city and the city was the people. The people of Plymouth had a special breed of resilience blended with an optimism and pride that you don’t find in many places. We just needed better governance. Our settlements for health, transport, the Arts, education and the NHS from the national government were woeful. There was a real opportunity here, and Gary’s optimism had confirmed this to me. So I went back to my military roots. Cheerfulness in adversity was commando quality number four. I would need it.
Felicity and I made a timeline for the next fourteen months. Until December 2014, I would focus hard on finding money – either earning it or persuading people to give it to me – and getting myself out and about and known in Plymouth. I would do the less time-intensive, more strategic meetings with the ‘influencers’ in 2014. From 2 January 2015, I would stop working and would campaign full-time, including the time-intensive tactical door-knocking. I bought six A–Zs of Plymouth and cut them all up to make one big street map of the constituency with, most importantly, all the houses on it marked.
I visited donors regularly. I would go to London and meet ex-military men I knew who were now executives. I tried to sell them my vision with the aim of walking away with a few hundred quid. Similarly, I would try and engage local businesses with this vision, and elicited services when cash was not appropriate. Politics wasn’t dead at all.
I telephoned my local agent regularly as the campaign wore on, wanting to make sure I was abiding by the rules. He never returned my calls – I was persona non grata now – and so I phoned the Electoral Commission for guidance. The rules were not complicated, but one must stay within them. They generally concerned levels of spending many times larger than mine would ever be, but I thought I should play safe.
Felicity and I went out with the children on a couple of Saturdays to gauge how many doors we could knock on each day. We then pored over the maps and marked out every day between 2 January and 7 May 2015 in terms of zones. We would do one zone a day, five days a week, for five months.
We would need a van for the door-knocking stage, and we hired the cheapest one in Plymouth. It stank so much I was scared to open the back doors when we picked it up, and we spent a cold Saturday afternoon in December giving it a deep clean. The girls had great fun painting my name on it. We also spent a little bit of cash on some bike and advertising trailer combinations that we could trundle around in to keep fuel costs low. A plan was coming together.
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On 2 January 2015 the campaign proper started for us. We went out in all weathers. We would draw up to an area in the morning, get Joey in the backpack and get door knocking. I said the same thing thousands of times: ‘Hello. My name’s Johnny and I’ve just left the Army to be your MP. Can I give you something to look at, please?’
With that I would hand over my self-designed leaflets, printed on a budget by a local firm. The weather in January was freezing, and if it was not freezing it was wet. Joey seemed happy with the situation and Felicity was resilient. We often had help from John, the chairman of the association, who had been exceptionally loyal and hardworking since I started this process.
We did every door meticulously, marking off streets as we went. We braved some extremely challenging areas and were told to ‘fuck off ’ more than once a day. If someone was particularly rude to Felicity I would knock on their door and speak to them. I didn’t really care if they were unpleasant to my face.
I was summoned to London again, because Gary had persuaded CCHQ to poll my constituency.
‘I’m not paying my transport and hotel if it’s just another bollocking,’ I told the agent.
‘I’ll sort all that out, Johnny,’ he replied.
I walked into CCHQ and had a meeting with Lynton Crosby, who I now knew was the election campaign director, and a few others.
The results were disappointing.
‘You ain’t gonna win, mate,’ Crosby said.
But on the way home I compared my res
ults with other similar seats whose polling data was in the public domain. I was doing much better than them. I kept checking the data meticulously – the make-up of the constituencies, the previous election results, answers to key questions. But overall, yes, I was doing significantly better than my comparable contemporaries. On that journey home, I thought for the first time I could win, while accepting that this view was not shared by anybody else! Now I was up for the fight, and the disappointing poll did not have a long-lasting effect on me.
Throughout that spring into May 2015, the tide seemed to tangibly turn in Plymouth. People started recognizing me before I knocked on their doors. Some started waiting in to see me. I would put on social media where I was going and what I was doing each day. For the first time, I could feel something in the air, and so could Felicity. The media started getting interested and our rate of progress around the 35,050 households in Plymouth Moor View slowed somewhat, as we made time for interviews.
Local businesses became involved. They helped me with a website and leaflets, and design. There was some serious goodwill towards me. I worked hard, but simply would have got nowhere without this help.
The week before 7 May, we started standing on main roads and roundabouts during the rush hour, holding signs. We had allocated Saturday afternoons for me and Al – a friend from the village – to drive around houses on main roads asking if we could put up posters in their gardens. And the reception was very good. Surprisingly good.
The local Labour Party had started getting upset. Some of the posters were defaced. One encouraged people to ‘cull the Mercers’ and ‘cull the Tories’. Undeterred, I organized nine public meetings in each of the social clubs in Plymouth, and these were surprisingly well attended.
Felicity was my rock. The Army, and nature of some of the jobs I had done for it, made me hesitant to engage warmly with people I didn’t know; I was even a little shy. But Felicity was brilliant at talking to anyone. Her commitment to this project was humbling. It was a slightly mad idea of mine but she just got on with it, in all weathers. The cycling to school in the rain; the peeing in a cup in the back of the van; constantly ensuring Joey was fed and watered on my back; her commitment was deeply affecting, and I shall never forget it.
On 7 May 2015, I didn’t really know what to do with myself. The count didn’t start until 10 p.m. that night, leaving a lot of hours to fill. I didn’t want to go around hassling people to vote for me. I felt I had done all I could in that respect. In the end, I went into town and drove around the polling stations, thanking the council staff for their time and efforts.
By now we had a little network of helpers who fed and watered us and gave us a hand with childcare and leaflets. The day passed very slowly indeed for all of us. That evening we went for a curry and a couple of pints. I thanked them so much for all they had done. The news was on in the corner of the Treasury bar next to Plymouth Guildhall when, at 10 p.m., an exit poll conducted by the BBC suggested a result no one had predicted; a Conservative majority. I put my pint down and made my way back to Council House.
I got there in time to hear the local BBC announce that the swing would not be enough for me, and they were declaring a ‘hold’ for my opponent. I hugged Felicity. I told her the worst thing was not losing. The worst thing would have been not having done all we could to ensure success, and we had done that. We were exhausted, and I was so proud of her and our efforts.
But, suddenly, the atmosphere started changing around us. The local opposition – there seemed to be lots of them, all with suits and clipboards – started getting agitated. They were demanding recounts in certain wards. I didn’t know why. The young council staff on the tables started smiling at me. They wanted us to win.
We were called into the centre of the room. Candidate and agent. Felicity was mine. We were read the result.
We had won.
Felicity started shaking. I tried to compose myself. We walked back through the crowds, unable to reveal the result, and waited at the side of the stage. I nipped behind the curtain for a minute. I thought of Bing. I thought of what we had achieved. I could feel some bastard tears welling up (what the hell was wrong with me?) and I composed myself as best I could. Felicity came to find me and gave me a hug.
‘This is all because of you,’ I said. ‘I could not have done it without you.’
She kissed me.
We went out and were all lined up on stage and the result was read out. The opposition activists started crying. They took it very badly indeed. Not my problem. Next came my speech. I hadn’t prepared anything, so I thanked my team, the people of Plymouth, and, of course, Felicity.
EPILOGUE
The next few days were surreal. There were many, many engagements, particularly with the media. The Conservative Party seemingly did not have any contact details for me, and so the Whips’ office got in touch with me on Twitter. I went to London on the following Sunday night, and on Monday stepped into Portcullis House, the large glass building that sits opposite Big Ben, where MPs’ staff and their offices are housed. I was very impressed that Westminster had its own tube station built into the complex. I was shown around by a ‘buddy’ who was allocated to me; she was very kind and very helpful.
The rules and regulations of parliament were almost mind-boggling. I felt a bit of a fraud; the unease with privilege I had felt at school, Sandhurst and as an officer in the Army was back again. But people were very friendly. MPs on all sides of the house would take time from their schedules to show you where to go if you looked lost and there was advice in spades about staff – that most crucial of decisions when one becomes an MP. I remember being made to feel very welcome.
But you weren’t really settled in this place until you had made your maiden speech on the floor of the House of Commons. We were advised to talk about our predecessor and about our constituency, but keep it light and funny. I wanted to get mine done and out of the way, so I had asked to speak on the following Monday and my parents were going to come up for it, as was Felicity.
Back home that weekend, Felicity got up early on Sunday with the girls to give me a bit of a lie-in. Eventually I got up, feeling full of energy, opened my laptop and just typed away.
I thought of the advice I had been given, including the requirement to pay tribute to my predecessor; I thought of making myself look good with some strong political Conservative statements about a long-term economic plan. I cringed a bit.
That wasn’t really me. I deleted and started again. I thought of Plymouth – how it was time to get the city and its people what they deserved.
But chiefly I thought of my lads. Those whose voices are never heard loudly enough in parliament, who are either too proud or too loyal to ask for a better deal. I wanted, if only for a few minutes, to bring into that chamber what we had asked a generation to sacrifice, in order to safeguard the privileges we enjoyed. I didn’t want to complain about it, but to shine a light on it, in the hope that it might change something for our service men and women. I would find it hard, but I was going to talk about Bing. I was going to talk about his parents and our endless debt to them as a nation. I was going to talk about Dan Collins, who had killed himself on Sennybridge Training Area after suffering the demons of Helmand. I was going to talk of the duty and pride with which we served this nation of ours; I was also going to demand that that duty was matched by the House of Commons and the Government in their treatment of our veterans, service personnel and their families.
It was a risk, and I felt nervous as I went into the House. This place runs on traditions; it is not wise to break them on your first day.
I took my seat at 2.30 p.m. on 1 June 2015. As the afternoon wore on, I became more and more nervous. Most MPs were praising the Conservative Party and their election victory, as well as making people laugh. I was up next. I felt like changing my speech.
But in that moment, I thought of Bing again. It was one week shy of five years to the day since he lost his life. This speech was an exte
nsion of my duty to him and the hundreds of others like him. I looked up into the empty gallery and I imagined Bing sitting there watching me, along with the other service men and women who’d given their lives. I felt the pressure – I was sweating and my knees were weak – but this time there were no tears. I had made it. I had made it to a place where I could be their voice. I would carry the torch. I would not let it go out.
At 6.54 p.m., I rose to my feet.
APPENDIX
Johnny’s maiden speech
I want to start by thanking my predecessor, Ms Alison Seabeck. She worked hard in the course of the past decade to help some of the most vulnerable people in Plymouth. She never wavered in her commitment to her party, albeit a different one from mine.
The great city of Plymouth, which I have been sent here to represent, has a history and stature to rival our nation’s capital. Some of our country’s defining moments have occurred in the ‘jewel of the south west’ that is Plymouth. It has a recent character, defined in some of the darkest days of the conflicts that dominated the previous century.
In the carnage of the Second World War, the sacrifices of those on the home front in cities outside London cannot always be first recalled. During the war, more than 1,100 souls perished on Plymouth’s streets, with a nightly exodus to Dartmoor keeping as many children alive as possible. I mention this because that period of war defined our modern history in Plymouth. From the ruins of those dark days sprang the spirit of a modern Plymouth. A huge period of regeneration saw the building of 1,000 homes a year in the 1950s under the Homes for Heroes plan.
It was those days of regeneration and rebirth and the spirit of discovery that engendered what we affectionately call our Janner spirit. In the general election just passed, I tried to knock on every door in my constituency – and I almost succeeded. I am pleased to report that the Janner spirit is truly alive and well: from local community projects to saving our football club; from pioneering mental health and substance misuse treatments to a world-class hospital at Derriford; and from cutting edge businesses growing an increasingly resilient local economy to the plethora of ambitious and socially aware social enterprises in the city, we truly have a special place on the southern shores of this country that has recently seen a new dawn and is in serious danger of realizing its potential.
We Were Warriors Page 27