A JOURNEY

by Blair, Tony

  Kate Garvey and the campaign managers also did a great job of preserving our energy, carefully ensuring that we didn’t become exhausted. The TV inquisitions were bound to be challenging. And, self-evidently, the whole thing was really about me – my record, my personality, my decisions. I was on the perch. I was the target. I was the one to knock off. All very obvious and natural, but it meant we had to be extremely careful. And we were.

  I was also in a good deal of pain. As I found out later, I fought the entire campaign with a slipped disc. I alternated between trying to appear young and dynamic, bounding up onstage, moving fast, pacing with purpose – all the usual rubbish – and frequently suffering the most agonising twinges as I did so. If that happened, above all, I couldn’t let my expression change. I was more or less continually aware that of the score of photographers who picketed my every move, at least four or five were only there for the bad picture. And, as Diana used to say, the picture is what counts. If you’ve ever suffered back pain, you know what I mean. There’s nothing worse. Actually, there is for a public figure. Back pain is awful, but it is invisible. Visible illness is at all costs to be avoided, especially with our media. Broken limbs are OK, but anything disfiguring and, before you know it, Quasimodo is running for office. Not good.

  So I would go from meeting to meeting, each event a risk, each encounter potentially explosive, each remark liable to be scrutinised, each facial expression a cause for either serenity or alarm, each smile a grimace if too small, cheesy if too large . . . And they say political campaigns are overly manufactured. Well, they need to be.

  The relations with Gordon were, believe it or not, rather good during the campaign. This was partly because we were together a lot, and I think this calmed him. We had an interesting debate, not quite a contretemps, about tax and spending. My view was that we had reached the limit of spending. We had increased National Insurance to pay for the NHS, yet even with the economy still growing I could sense that enough was enough. We had stayed within New Labour boundaries, but we were bumping up against the fence at points; or so I thought. The third term had to be about making the money work. After all, we had increased investment in health, education and public services by amounts unprecedented outside of wartime. It was always one of the ridiculous things about the charge that we were not really a progressive government. The truth is we made a radical increase in public spending to cure the underinvestment of the Thatcher years; but it was not an end in itself.

  Ed Balls was of the opinion that the public wanted even more spending and were prepared for the extra tax, by reference to polls that the Treasury had – which I said was nonsense. On these issues, the public fib. They say they want increased spending, and in theory they do – but in practice they think someone else should pay for it. However, there it is. As I used to say, the public aren’t always logical, but that’s their prerogative. They do expect their government to be, nonetheless.

  During the campaign, I slowly but surely started to posture, to be in a position of saying: there are no big increases in tax to pay for more spending coming this time. After all, in 2001, we had fought on keeping income tax constant. We had kept the promise, but a little disingenuously since we had increased National Insurance to pay for the NHS. This was justified. But there was no way we could pull the same trick twice; nor should we try to do so.

  Gordon was more inclined to keep all options open, but as the campaign progressed, he found, as I said would happen, that by doing so everyone assumed he was planning a fresh National Insurance hike, which he wasn’t. So over time, perforce, he more or less assumed the same posture as me.

  All in all, though, we got on fine and by the end of the second week the poll lead was extending. The strength of our forward agenda, its New Labour nature, the fact we were so manifestly on top of the policy debate – all these were moving people towards us. By contrast, the Tory campaign looked a little paltry, shamefaced even. The Lib Dems were eschewing a highly personal campaign at a leadership level – because Charles Kennedy was essentially a decent bloke – even though locally they basically plastered areas with leaflets of me and George Bush with words that the Socialist Workers would have been proud of.

  Two-thirds into the campaign, it was clear we were going to win and win comfortably. As we hit the last days, the media, deprived of a close fight, decided to go on the offensive. People at the BBC were genuinely outraged by Iraq. As the campaign had gone on, they also became outraged that it wasn’t dragging us down in the way they felt it should. It was of course a big part of the campaign, but it didn’t dominate. They thought that was because we were so damned clever. In fact, as I say, it was because while people understood its importance, they also understood its complexity. They didn’t ignore it, but they were wary of it determining the outcome.

  The Mail had been given a secret copy of the Attorney General’s advice. Like all lawyers’ advice – especially where plainly there are arguments on both sides – it was nuanced, explaining the pros and the cons and coming to a conclusion. We had published the conclusion that on balance the war was lawful, but in accordance with hallowed practice – in this instance, for a very sensible reason – the advice itself remained confidential to all except senior members of the government and the Butler Inquiry, which had been shown it on Privy Council terms.

  The Mail published excerpts essentially suggesting he had advised the war was unlawful. The BBC took it up. Although we released the entire thirteen-page document the next day, 28 April, they had the opportunity they wanted. Tragically, we lost another soldier shortly before the election day. The result was that the final ten days of the campaign were virtually submerged in Iraq. In desperation, the Lib Dems and Tories returned to the ‘liar’ attack. We lost 3–4 per cent in that final period as votes went to the Lib Dems. The Mail didn’t really try to say: Vote them out. Instead it cleverly concentrated, as did the BBC, on effectively saying: Curb the majority. It chimed with the mood – another three-figure majority would have been considered too much. So I suppose the public got what they more or less wanted.

  However, as a result, election night felt more like a setback than a victory. I sat in Myrobella waiting for the exit polls. Gordon phoned to tell me Andy Marr, the BBC political editor, had told him that they thought it would be a hung Parliament. I really doubted this. Even with the huge focus they had given Iraq, I was sure Britain wanted the government to survive intact with a proper working majority. Also, I was sure that although in north London and elsewhere a certain type of Labour voter was going to defect, the more aspiring lower-middle-class voter – the core of New Labour – were sticking with us.

  Philip Gould phoned to say he thought we could get a majority of eighty. If we had, it would have been fine. Funny that. The difference between sixty-six – what we got – and eighty is only fourteen seats. In fact, if seven were changed, that would be the difference; and we had lost seven at least on the student vote over tuition fees. But the vote at just below 36 per cent was very low for a winning party, and it dampened my spirits.

  As ever, I had the count to go through. In my constituency, one of the candidates was Reg Keys, the father of Lance Corporal Tom Keys who was among the six Red Caps killed by a mob in Iraq in June 2003. I felt profoundly sorry for him, sorry that he felt his son had died in vain, convinced that it was all for nothing. I wanted to reach out and talk to him about it; but I knew too that the cameras were ever-watchful for the scene that could define the election in the way they wanted.

  We made our way down to the party headquarters to ‘celebrate’ the victory. Quite rightly, the party staff thought: Historic third term, majority of over sixty, what’s the problem? So there began a rather curious disjunction between my mood (deflated) and theirs (elated).

  However, I had another reason to be down. In the course of the night, as the result became clear, so the relationship with Gordon deteriorated sharply. I couldn’t fathom why. Ostensibly, it was because he thought I was refusing to
consult him over the new Cabinet, whereas actually I was – only I was refusing some of his choices in the positions he wanted them. He made a huge thing of Geoff Hoon becoming chief whip, a post I thought Geoff was completely unsuitable for; he wanted Ed Balls, freshly elected, to go straight into government, which I thought inappropriate; and we had the usual rigmarole over Michael Wills, Dawn Primarolo and others whom I really didn’t think right for government for various reasons, but whom I did try to accommodate because they were strong supporters of his.

  The consequence of all of this was that as I reshuffled over the coming days – by and large it was going fine – I found that the PLP was becoming distinctly ungenerous in its thoughts. On the one hand I was taking congratulatory calls from the outside world, who naturally thought a third term a cause for general rejoicing, and on the other hand there was an increasingly fractious reaction from the PLP who had ended up persuading themselves it was all a bit grim.

  Gordon’s people – and at this time they included those like Clare Short – were out in the media more or less perpetually dissing me and saying we could have done better with another leader, and my people were on the defensive. Looking back it was ludicrous of course, but it was in part, as Peter had always warned, a result of the fact that we had run a dual TB/GB campaign. It allowed his folk to interpret the result as: we won because of our guy, but our guy had the albatross of the other person to deal with. In fact, while I had repelled some voters, I had also recruited others. It didn’t necessarily follow that someone else could have done the recruiting, even if it was true they might not have done the repelling – i.e. I was divisive. And though the media treated me as if I had lost, the fact is I hadn’t. However, I allowed myself to be caught up in this mood, which was all a little crazy.

  Then Michael Howard did me a good turn by announcing that he was quitting as leader of the Conservatives. It changed the mood; not entirely, but just enough. Suddenly people remembered the Tories had lost and we had won. The madness ebbed, and by the time I addressed the PLP on the Wednesday, things had quietened down somewhat, although a lot of static remained and again Gordon’s people were hard at it. I realised that from then on, every day I remained was going to be a struggle.

  Although the campaign was horrible, I had hardened during the course of it and it was also clear to me that I had grown up as a leader. The weakness, the fear, the desire to run away all remained, but crucially I had acknowledged these feelings. They were now my avowed companions, and because they were avowed, they were contained, no longer demons; there to be suffered, and there to be argued with and faced down too; the ordinary, natural feelings that any human being would feel in the same situation. Nothing to be ashamed or frightened of. Nothing beyond my capacity to control.

  Now I was prepared to manage what I knew would be a continual fight with Gordon. I had to get the reform programme embedded (and whatever his manoeuvres, I judged Gordon wouldn’t dare be in outright opposition); do all I could to settle Iraq, and if possible get our troops on their way out before I left; conduct successful presidencies of the G8 and the EU; if at all possible – though I doubted it – deliver the Olympic bid. And set out a programme that would serve as an agenda for a fourth term if Gordon was sensible enough to take it; and if he wasn’t, my alibi for the defeat that I’m afraid I thought would be inevitable if he took over and moved a millimetre from New Labour.

  There was also one other major event looming. The EU Constitution – fatally named from our point of view, and leading inexorably to our commitment to hold a referendum on it – was going to be a dominant part of the first months of the third term. France and the Netherlands were due to hold their own referenda in May. The polls were unclear but I assumed France would still say yes; and if they did, the Netherlands might well follow suit. Our polls were resolutely against success and not many people believed we could shift them. As ever, I was more sanguine. I thought we might just turn it into a referendum that was effectively: in or out. If France voted yes, Britain might just follow. My advisers disagreed, but I rather fancied mounting a really big public argument on an issue I felt strongly about and on which I was right. I could also see how, in the course of such a campaign, the progressive alliance – fractured over Iraq – might heal. So although plainly a tough challenge, I somewhat relished the fight.

  As things settled down a little, I took a break in Tuscany in late May, staying with our friends the Strozzis at Cusona. I had a great time with Leo, able to spend proper moments with him. At five years old, he was getting to that fascinating age where you can almost see the brain sprouting forth. Except to the doting parents, babies are frankly pretty boring – sweet and cuddly, but still a bit inanimate, if you see what I mean. From about age three onwards, they get interesting and remain like that up to around twelve, when the dark mists of hell envelop them. Unbelievably, they emerge again as semi-civilised human beings around the age of twenty, you stop thinking you are a bad parent or there is genetic delinquency in the family, and realise they are still your children and you love them. There are exceptions, of course, but that’s my experience.

  Anyway, I digress. Cusona was lovely. There was sunshine and privacy, and since all the news focused on France and its vote, the eye of the beast was temporarily diverted, and I relaxed. Nicolas Sarkozy came over, at that time still a minister in the French government. It was clear that there was a battle royal going on over the future of the centre-right UMP party which he led, but it was also clear that he was certain he would win it.

  Nicolas and I had certain things in common: energy and determination; impatience with the traditional categories of right and left; a deep dislike of doctrine and rigidity; we both liked to analyse problems by instinct rather than ideology; and we had both learned that the twenty-first century could not conform to the politics of the previous hundred years. However, we differed in one respect: he had superabundant self-confidence. There was not a glimmer of self-doubt. As we walked through an avenue of trees that led down from the villa where the Strozzis lived, he talked frankly and with complete conviction about his own victory: ‘I will win. I will become president.’

  From anyone else it would have sounded vain or even slightly mad, but he said it with a combination of charm and clarity that made it seem entirely factual. The British would have wanted to cut someone who talked like that down to size, but I could see that the French would go for it. It was an attitude which had passion, elan and also that touch of arrogance which in some small way defines France, and which in some small way I admire. I could see them looking at Nicolas and thinking: Now that’s a president.

  Towards the end of our stay, the news came through during dinner: France had voted no to the Constitution. I knew at once I was off the hook. It was true I fancied the fight, but it was also true that had I lost, it would have been au revoir. You could almost feel the waves of relief coming over the English Channel and making their way down to Italy. I spoke to Jack Straw, who was absolutely undivided in his feelings. ‘Great news,’ he said.

  ‘I was rather looking forward to a referendum,’ I said.

  ‘Then you’re dafter than I thought,’ he replied.

  The referendum result was significant to us for another reason. On 1 July, we took over the six-month presidency of the European Union, which we had last held in 1998.

  During my previous spell as president of the EU all of seven years before, I had been in the first flush of enthusiasm as a novice prime minister, new on the European scene, something of an unknown quantity to them and to myself. It was not one of the highlights of the first term. I was more interested in proving Britain had changed than in changing Europe. We were full of stunts but not strategy, and I rightly wince at some of the ‘initiatives’. One bright soul had the idea that our presidency tie (each successive country had its own tie and logo to mark the presidency) should be a compilation done by schoolchildren of their images of the individual nations. I had no knowledge of this idea until I got a
call from Romano Prodi, then in one of his periodic bouts as Italian prime minister. Romano could often be a little hard to follow, but on this occasion he was as clear as a bell. ‘Hey, Tony, you insult my country. We are more than a pizza, you know. We have Rome, Florence, Venice, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Galileo, Verdi, Garibaldi, and now my nation think the world see us as a quattro stagioni pizza. It is not right. It must be changed or relations between Britain and Italy suffer very bad,’ etc. If I tell you that’s about all I can recall from that spell as president, you will understand that it was not one of my more distinguished periods.

  Now, just after a third election victory with eight years of being prime minister under my belt, I was a different type of leader, and the challenges Europe faced had also transformed, qualitatively and quantitively. For a start – and partly due to strong British insistence – the EU had enlarged to twenty-five member states, soon to be twenty-seven. It had been through an immensely divisive period over Iraq, where it had split more or less evenly in favour and against, but since France and Germany had been in the ‘no’ camp, that had been particularly painful. After years of internal wrangling, a consultation exercise had resulted in a Constitution for Europe which now had been rejected. So: quo vadis? And to cap it all, there was a battle over the EU budget, then up for renewal.

  In this last area, Britain had been in the thick of the debate and the disagreement. Essentially, the old British rebate was up for grabs, along with consideration of the common agricultural policy. The rebate was as highly politically sensitive for the UK as the CAP was for France.

  All in all, this presidency, especially under this country, was going to be interesting, not to say explosive. As if to stir it all up even further, just before I took over we rejected the attempt by Luxembourg and its prime minister Jean-Claude Juncker to get a budget compromise. Jean-Claude was someone steeped in EU Councils, having been a finance minister since the 1980s. Although a small country, Luxembourg was a founding member state, and Jean-Claude was very well respected as an experienced and wise Council member. He had worked hard to put an agreement together, and had been sensitive to the British issue on the rebate. But I felt I couldn’t pull the thing off. It was just the wrong side of the line. He was bitterly and justifiably disappointed. I was the party-pooper and he would have been quite within his rights to consider me a real pain in the neck.