by Chris Mullin
We were treated first to a tour of Burnham Beeches followed by a splendid buffet lunch at Dorney Wood, left to the nation by Lord Courtauld-Thomson and complete with butler, cook, gardener etc.; part of the unseen reservoir of prime ministerial patronage which helps ensure the loyalty of senior subordinates. Contrary to reports, it is funded not by the taxpayer but by a private trust, and the lucky beneficiary must pay out of his own pocket for hospitality. JP is apparently in residence for between 30 and 60 days a year. I scanned the guest book. Visitors include the Queen, The Man, various of JP’s friends and family (young Prescott cheekily signing himself ‘Two Jags jnr’), but no sign of the notorious Tracey.
Wednesday, 17 May
The Tories, despite all that talk about being kinder and gentler, are playing the asylum card again for all it is worth. At Questions Cameron baited The Man over the admission by a senior Home Office official that he didn’t have ‘the faintest idea’ how many illegal immigrants are in the country. Of course he doesn’t. How could he? The Tories abolished exit controls ten years ago. And, what’s more, they were right to do so, since exit controls only told you who had left, not where they were. But the Tories and their friends in the media are having none of it. An avalanche of synthetic indignation has been unleashed.
Thursday, 18 May
I was sitting reading the Daily Telegraph at a table in Portcullis House when Angela Eagle and Martin Salter passed by, Angela remarking cheerfully re the longevity of The Man, ‘We managed to shave off a year last week, but if things go well again, which I don’t think they will, he’ll take it back off us.’ Angela and Martin are among The Disappointed. He because his talents have not been recognised; she because she was unceremoniously dumped after two or three years in office. Although they would both no doubt indignantly protest that they have no thoughts for anything but the common weal, I suspect they believe that The Coming of Gordon will be to their advantage. I, happily, suffer from no such illusion.
William Hague was on the train. We had a pleasant chat. My, how he has grown in confidence and stature. As we were talking, a man leaned over and whispered that he was the best leader the Tories have had. ‘They didn’t say that at the time,’ he laughed.
Tuesday, 23 May
To Lancaster House for a lunch hosted by Dave Triesman in honour of a ministerial delegation from South Africa headed by the uptight foreign minister, Dr Zuma, who was marginally more congenial than the last time we met. I was seated next to defence minister Lekota, who reckons that the reason for the impasse in Zimbabwe is that Mugabe is terrified that, if he stands down, he will be dragged off to the The Hague to account for his crimes. ‘He has seen what happened to Milosevic, Pinochet and Charles Taylor and he is worried it may happen to him.’ Afterwards I talked to our High Commissioner, Paul Boateng, who reckons we are approaching endgame in Zimbabwe, although he points out that the better elements in ZANU PF (are there any?) will have to play a part in any post-Mugabe settlement.
Wednesday, 24 May
The Library
‘A consequence of the Prime Minister believing that we have achieved nothing in health, education or on migration,’ remarked John Denham apropos a poll giving the Tories a four-point lead. He continued, ‘If there is one thing Blair and Cameron agree on it is that we have achieved nothing. I can’t see any plausible way in which we are going to get out of our present difficulty.’
Thursday, 25 May
To the City for a board meeting of the Prison Reform Trust. Everyone in despair at the current feeding frenzy, which is making impossible rational discussion of penal or asylum policy. It’s not helped by John Reid going around saying the Home Office is dysfunctional. Meanwhile the prisons are full to bursting. At the present rate of sentencing it will only be a matter of weeks before a new crisis looms. Later I did an interview with Radio 4 re the asylum frenzy saying that we had all gone barmy. Glad to get that off my chest.
Sunday, 4 June
The silly season has started early with the hacks doing their utmost to provoke a contest for Prescott’s job in the hope that it will trigger several months’ more turmoil. The BBC even trailed JP to America, where he is making a speech on the environment, in the hoping of tricking him into saying something silly. For once, he got the better of them. ‘Have you come all the way from the UK,’ he asked a hapless BBC hackette, ‘to ask a daft question like that?’
Monday, 5 June
A Mori poll in the Sun puts us ten points behind the Tories, mainly due to the fact that the middle classes appear to be abandoning the Lib Dems and returning to their natural habitat.
Norine MacDonald, hotfoot from Helmand province, stopped by to say that southern Afghanistan is going pear-shaped. We are turning from liberators into oppressors and the Taliban are turning from oppressors into freedom fighters. ‘We have to see life from the point of view of the Afghans,’ says Norine. ‘Democracy is of no relevance. All it has meant so far is the Americans bombing civilians and bulldozing their crops. Why can’t the international community stand up to the Americans?’ Why indeed.
Later, dinner with Jean Corston in the Adjournment. She recounted how upset The Man was when, having announced that he would not fight another election, she had pointed out to him that there was no way he could hope to serve a full third term and that he would have until the autumn of 2008 at the latest. It didn’t seem to have occurred to him that he would have to give his successor at least a year to bed in.
Tuesday, 7 Junexs
Highgrove
Tuscan urns, white wisteria, water dribbling from a moss-encrusted fountain, security cameras concealed discreetly in foliage. The ultimate garden. A combination of unlimited resources and exquisite taste. We are being shown around by an upright, cut-glass, white-haired Home Counties lady in a straw hat and pale green frock. Our party consists of half a dozen Members and their spouses, Tories all save for Alan Simpson, his partner, Pascal, their five-month-old daughter, and myself. Strictly no photography, although no one mentions this until the tour is underway. Pascal is first to be pounced upon. She was ordered to delete her digital picture; likewise I am apprehended snapping a secluded alcove. ‘I hope you are not going to make me tear the film from my camera,’ I joked, but the stern Sloane who cornered me is definitely tempted. Even the mighty Nicholas Soames is reprimanded when he pulls a camera from his pocket in the arboretum.
Lounge suits are the order of the day but Soames, defying convention, is wearing posh casual: sports jacket, straw hat, shepherd’s crook and sinister dark glasses. He is reading the copy of A Very British Coup that I autographed for him two weeks ago. ‘Fantastic, f-a-n-tastic, but you don’t really believe that’s how it is, do you?’
Our tour lasts an hour and a half. The garden is series of rooms – terrace garden, sundial garden, azalea walk, potager, stumpery, arboretum . . . Stunning vistas – thyme walk, a four-acre wild flower field; and from the house, a fine view of the tall, sharp spire of Tetbury church, two miles away. The scent of philadelphus hangs in the air. Everything in perfect order, nicely understated. Everywhere little memorials, busts of friends, of the Prince himself and in a glade among the trees a delicate sculpture of the murdered daughters of the Tsar; there is even a little memorial to a dead dog. Only one glaring omission: Diana. Of her, no mention.
‘We must hurry. The Prince has left the house,’ says our guide as we round the far end of the topiary. How does she know? Telepathy? A secret earpiece? A clue: the French window is now wide open; when we passed earlier it was ajar . . . Hastily we repair to the terrace of the Orchard Room, where another dozen Members, spouses and HRH himself await. We loiter in little groups. Alan and Pascal’s baby, which until now has been as good as gold, starts screaming. HRH, protection officer and private secretary hovering discreetly, moves among us, talking seriously, intelligently, knowledegably, never lost for words. I can’t help admiring the guy. Much may have been given him, but he has put a lot back. He has done something with his life; he has made a
difference. Alan Simpson (no soft touch he) agrees. As Liz Forgan says, however, Charles would be a hopeless king ‘because he wants to do things’ and, in a constitutional monarchy, kings have to be seen and not heard.
Soames and I are photographed, arm in arm, clenched fists raised, outside the Orchard Room, out of sight of the stern Sloane enforcer. ‘Gordon Brown will destroy you,’ whispers Soames amiably. ‘Cameron will murder him.’
‘Why?’
‘First, because the public don’t want a Jock. Second, because Cameron doesn’t give a fuck. He’s relaxed, laid-back, but Gordon wants it desperately.’
‘Who would you go for, in our shoes?’
‘Alan Johnson.’
Can’t say we haven’t been warned.
Tuesday, 13 June
Lunch in the Members’ Dining Room with Bruce Grocott, who reckons that it is ‘ridiculously self-indulgent’ to talk of Anyone But Gordon and that there will be no contest. The deputy leadership, he says, must go to someone who isn’t a candidate for the top job – i.e. not Alan Johnson or Hilary Benn, but maybe Jack. Re The Man and Iraq, Bruce says, ‘I am not aware that he was under pressure from anyone – in the Cabinet, the Foreign Office, the parliamentary party or anyone – to ally us with the Americans. It was all his own work.’
Thursday, 15 June
To Seven Kings to see Mum’s sister, Maureen, who was 90 on Monday. I called on Uncle Peter first and we walked round together. What a delightful fellow Peter is. ‘I’ll probably live long enough,’ he said, ‘to be the only person on the planet who has never used a mobile phone, never been in an aeroplane and doesn’t have a television.’ He quoted Bob Hope: ‘Give me terra firma. The more firma, the less terra.’
Monday, 19 June
John Spellar joined me at lunch in the cafeteria. Like so many others he is talking regime change. ‘I don’t see how he can go on much longer. Does he wish to be remembered as the man who won three elections and who then had to be airlifted off the roof of Number 10 as the barbarians stormed the gate?’
Wednesday, 21 June
I walked in this morning, toying with the idea of saying the unthinkable: that Gordon is unelectable and that we should consider the alternatives. Of course, the messenger will be shot on the spot. Not even the likely beneficiaries will dare to express their gratitude. So it has to be said by someone with no prospects and who is not seen as being too closely associated with the present incumbent. I am ideally suited. A last service to the party before oblivion? Several nagging doubts, however: do I feel strongly enough to risk self-immolation? When it comes to unpalatable decisions regarding failed or failing leaders the dear old Labour Party never bites the bullet. Why wager all on a gesture that is likely to be futile?
Sunday, 25 June
Sunderland
Three days since we last caught a glimpse of the sun – and this is supposed to be summer. In the south it is ten degrees warmer and in Germany the World Cup is being played in temperatures of 30 centigrade and more. At the time of writing (3 p.m.) rain has been falling for almost 24 hours, decimating the garden. The pink climbing rose in the back, which was a mass of blooms, has broken free of the wall and is lying in a sodden heap. Ngoc has a persistent cough and cold and I have been afflicted by food poisoning. Has the time come to abandon dreams of retirement to a garden in Northumberland and instead contemplate joining Ray and Luise in the south of France? No sooner had this thought crossed my mind than an article appeared in the travel section of yesterday’s Telegraph saying that Gascony is the new Tuscany and that the British middle classes are flocking there. Damn. As with the mythical walled garden, by the time our turn comes we will have been outpriced.
Monday, 26 June
To London on the usual train. King’s Cross station was closed by a fire and so we had to be evacuated at Peterborough, amid scenes of bedlam. Fortunately, Alistair Darling was on board. He rang his office and before we knew it a taxi had been commandeered and we were on our way to London. All a bit cloak and dagger. We extricated ourselves sharpish from the station and disappeared around a corner out of sight of the crowd. Alistair, until recently Transport Secretary, feared that the mood could turn ugly had he been recognised so the taxis were booked in the name of a Mr A.D.
Greg Cook, the party’s number cruncher, addressed the parliamentary party this evening re the outcome of the local government elections. His message: don’t panic, no meltdown; just a bit of midterm unpopularity.
Tuesday, 27 June
Charles Clarke has set the cat among the pigeons with a series of interviews complaining that the government is ‘becalmed’ and ‘lacks direction’. Most of his ire is directed at John Reid in retaliation for Reid’s rubbishing of Charles’s record at the Home Office, but The Man comes in for some stick, too, and inevitably that is what has attracted most attention. Asked on the radio this morning whether The Man should carry on, Charles replied slyly, ‘If he can recover his sense of purpose and direction, yes.’ What can he be up to?
This evening, an hour on the terrace with Keith Hill and Terry Rooney, Keith making no secret of the consternation at Number 10 over Charles Clarke’s outburst. Much speculation as to his motive. Can it really have been a call to arms, given that Charles is no friend of Gordon? Or was he provoked by Reid? The consensus seems to be that this is not quite a Geoffrey Howe moment and that The Man isn’t going anywhere for the time being, at least until he’s past the ten-year mark.
We turned to the other big question: can we win with Gordon? Keith and Terry think we can, saying that our present poor showing in the polls is not terminal and pointing out that, a year before the ‘87 and ‘92 elections, we had been miles ahead in the polls and were still trounced at the election. The ‘92 result can be read both ways, however. John Major was a new broom, Gordon on the other hand is very definitely ancien régime. As Keith said, there are no significant political differences between Gordon and The Man; it’s all personal. According to Keith, relations have improved. Gordon and The Man are meeting frequently. There is a strategy. The Man’s plan is that difficult, unpopular decisions should be taken on what remains of his watch so that Gordon can ride in on a blaze of glory and lead us to victory.
We fell to trying to identify The Friends of Gordon. General agreement that it is a remarkably small club. Although we are all (more or less) reconciled to the inevitability of Gordon’s ascent, those who rejoice in the prospect are thin on the ground. After listing a handful of True Believers (Douglas Alexander, Ed Balls, Nick Brown) we were struggling. I mentioned Alistair Darling, widely tipped as Gordon’s Chancellor, but Keith says they are not particularly close. Gordon has to find about 90 members for his government. Where is he going to get them without relying heavily on the existing pool?
Later, after Terry had gone, Keith and I discussed Afghanistan, which is showing all the signs of becoming a quagmire. I mentioned the Senlis Council’s plan for growing opium under licence for medicinal use, à la India and Turkey. In passing, Keith, who sits in on Cabinet meetings, remarked how ‘unchallenging’ they are. Discussion is minimal and there is little rigorous questioning. A few months back John Reid (then Defence Secretary) had given a presentation on Afghanistan, but there was scarcely any discussion (‘although,’ says Keith, ‘a number of questions occurred to me’). Bruce Grocott used to say much the same. Keith added that, despite rumours to the contrary, the atmosphere at Cabinet meetings was fairly informal. No one was discouraged from contributing and it wasn’t unknown for ministers to cut across The Man without incurring displeasure. So what is it that keeps them so tame? Perhaps, I suggested, it is The Man’s habit of reaching decisions via small working groups, involving a handful of relevant ministers and outside experts, and then imposing them top down, with the result that the Cabinet isn’t so much taking decisions as being informed of decisions already taken. Keith did not demur.
Wednesday, 28 June
‘You’re mad, completely mad . . .’ said Simon Burns, a Tory, addressi
ng Shaun Woodward, Dave Watts and myself in the Tea Room. He glanced about cautiously to make sure that none of his own side were within earshot, ‘. . . to be getting rid of a leader who has won you three successive general elections with good majorities . . .’
Later, a chance cappuccino in the atrium at Portcullis House with that most brilliant and agreeable of colleagues, Nick Raynsford, who like me, and for the same reasons, finds himself at a loose end. Nick has a plan for Gordon: be as different as possible from Cameron (and Blair). Play to your strengths. Make clear from the outset that you intend to concentrate on stability and delivery rather than presentation and candy floss. No more day trips to Africa or photo opportunities with Angelina Jolie. No more phoney nonsense about ‘Britishness’. A halt to the plethora of initiatives. An end to the destablising and demoralising annual ministerial reshuffles. Instead ministers will be expected to remain for the duration unless they screw up or are ambushed by events. And how about a moratorium on new legislation save that which is absolutely necessary for the functioning of government? Alas, there is little in Gordon’s track record to suggest he is capable of rising to the occasion. He is, as we know to our cost, a compulsive spinner who can’t resist playing with the pieces. All the same, a nice idea.