A JOURNEY

by Blair, Tony

  I was and am in favour of Turkey’s accession. I want Turkey looking west and Europe looking east, and, handled correctly, Turkey’s membership would do us all good. It is very dangerous – for us and for them – to push Turkey away, because it would appear to underscore the fact that Judaeo-Christian and Muslim civilisations cannot coexist. The implications of estrangement are very large. After I left office, Turkey was politely but firmly pushed back in the direction of something less than full membership. It is a perilous mistake for both parties.

  At the end of October, I held an informal EU summit at Hampton Court Palace. Unusually for such meetings, it produced an agenda on issues like universities, research and development, energy and innovation, on which a new European budget should sensibly concentrate. Europe was at risk of falling behind, and I attempted to lay out a programme that focused on areas that would be vital to Europe’s competitiveness in the future.

  But the budget remained as the only real issue, and the UK rebate was the point most talked about. The more it was discussed the harder it was for me since, as I say, even talking about it was tantamount to political blasphemy. The French would raise it in a real ‘pulling your nose’ way, and did so constantly. I sparred back with some anti-CAP rhetoric.

  As the budget of course also spanned the whole of EU expenditure, here’s where the complexity set in. This really was a zero-sum game. It was a fixed budget, so someone’s gain meant someone else’s loss. In this arena every country had an active interest, with the new members wanting EU money to develop, and the old members looking to hang on to whatever concessions history had tossed them.

  It was a nightmare of detail, political cross-currents, national pride, presidential and prime ministerial ego, all played out in vivid public technicolor. After the December summit, which would be the final negotiation, each participant would have to go back home to cheers or tears. They would all spin like crazy to get the cheers, but each nation’s media was prepared to believe the outcome should merit tears. I was stuck in the middle and very obviously, because of Britain’s position on the rebate, parti pris.

  The negotiations involved hours, days and, in the later part of the year, weeks of painstaking discussion. I became a veritable expert on the intricacies of structural and cohesion funding, on the Spanish preoccupation with Ceuta and Melilla, on the Swedish and Dutch formulae for their rebate on the rebate, on what the average French farmer might earn, on what the German Länder might tolerate, and of course on the details of the appropriations in respect of each crucial policy area of EU spending.

  I was blessed with a great team led by my EU adviser in Number 10, Kim Darroch, and the UK Brussels representative, Sir John Grant. They were utterly brilliant, the British Civil Service at its best, immensely creative, willing to think outside the box (and there was a legion of boxes) and with a deep network of contacts in member states.

  The final negotiations were set for 15–16 December. It was clearly going to be an all-nighter. Like a giant jigsaw with myriad pieces, if the contours of one piece were changed, suddenly another five wouldn’t fit. Around a third of the total budget had to be reallocated in favour of the new members. That meant all the old members, including Britain, had to pay more.

  European councils meet on the fifth floor of the Justus Lipsius building in Brussels. The meeting rooms are so ghastly that you always have an incentive to agree and get out. The country holding the presidency has a suite of rooms just off the main corridor, where you sit and see nation after nation, listen to their leaders complain, cajole and threaten as you assess what is bluster and what is real, what can be conceded and what has to be confounded, and when it is right for the president to turn menacing.

  No nation likes to be taken advantage of, but no nation likes to be fingered as the cause of failure. So throughout every successive wretched meeting in that boring and soulless room, you are calculating when to advance, when to retreat and when to defer.

  My strategy was this: make an ally of Angela and share credit for success with her – that could settle down her Chancellorship and make her well disposed; sort the Spanish and the Italians; champion the Poles; deal with the French. And then slip in our own piece of the jigsaw right at the end, when everyone wanted an agreement and wanted to go home.

  We got a deal which actually left Britain paying roughly the same as France for the first time. The UK media called it a betrayal, but frankly they would have done that even if I had led Jacques Chirac in chains through the streets of London. And by then I was past caring. We preserved the rebate, tied its demise to the CAP and agreed a break in the budget period where both could be reformed. Though I shouldn’t say it, it was close to a minor miracle.

  I had had the most frightful time with Gordon throughout, however. He was essentially insisting that France accept the demise of the CAP, and in public statements was asserting this in terms that enraged the French. Actually, he didn’t merely want them to disown the CAP, but also sort of apologise for ever having supported it. In a funny way it helped me, because I was able to say: see my problems? Now are you going to be reasonable? So we did a kind of unintentional good cop/bad cop on them.

  But as the negotiations went into the early hours, it became more serious. He was refusing to agree the deal. Jon Cunliffe, an exemplary and bright Treasury official who was go-between, was doing his nut, poor bloke. Gordon was content to let the thing go down and fight on in the next presidency. I knew that would be absolutely appalling for the reputation of the country, the government and me; and once we were out of the driving seat, there could be no guarantee that Britain would get a better deal. In fact, the deal would almost certainly be worse.

  Finally, I’m afraid I just stopped taking his calls. Poor Jon would come into the presidency room and say: ‘The Chancellor really wants to speak to you.’ I would say: ‘I’m really busy, Jon.’ And he would say: ‘He really is demanding it.’ Then I would say: ‘I’ll call him soon.’ And Jon would say: ‘Do you really mean that, Prime Minister?’ And I would say: ‘No, Jon.’

  It more or less worked out. We got a good deal. Gordon was able to distance himself. And soon there were plenty of other things to think about.

  EIGHTEEN

  TRIUMPH AND TRAGEDY

  The schedule of today’s political leader gets ever crazier. The convenience of modern travel; the emergence of foreign affairs as a dominant part of the job; the range and scope of the events you are called upon to deal with; all this means that you can travel to four or five countries in the space of as many days. Because it’s possible, sooner or later you are expected to do so. The schedule is much more punishing than just twenty years ago.

  I got used to it and have a huge advantage: I don’t suffer from jet lag. For me, if the sun is shining, it’s day; if it’s dark, it’s night. I also take a melatonin pill. Pop one of those and you get six hours’ sleep wherever you are, and in whatever time zone.

  The one problem is that travel does play havoc with the digestive system. You need to eat healthily and with discipline. I am very typically British. I like to have time and comfort in the loo. The bathroom is an important room, and I couldn’t live in a culture that doesn’t respect it. Anyway, that’s probably more than you ever wanted to know. But politicians, as I frequently say, need to be seen and understood as human beings. Have a bad night’s sleep or feel lousy because your system is shot to pieces, and you perform badly. And the difference with us is that each performance is on film or reported, and there are no second takes.

  I always knew the seven days starting on 2 July 2005 were going to be challenging: fly out to Singapore for the Olympics bid and spend a hectic two days there, then fly back to Gleneagles in Scotland for the G8, which that year was chaired by Britain, and so by me. Two very big challenges; two very big risks; if they failed, two very big failures.

  When the Olympics open in London in 2012, many people will be remembered as having brought them to Britain, but it all started with Tessa Jowel
l, who at that time was the Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport. When the bid was first raised as a possibility, most of the Cabinet were dubious and the Treasury was hostile. I liked the boldness of the notion, but it didn’t seem likely we could get it – the French were runaway favourites, with other powerful bids from Madrid and New York – and after the Dome we were all a trifle nervous of anything so immense, costly and liable to turn out tricky. The athletics community, however, immediately understood its significance, came out strongly in support of a bid, advocated it intelligently and showed admirable firmness for it all the way through. Tessa was equally emphatic.

  She is a great person, Tessa, just a gem. She represents the best of political loyalty, which at its best isn’t blind, but thoroughly considered. She understood that to be successful, a political party needs to be led strongly and a strong leader needs loyal supporters. If you think the leadership is wrong or fundamentally misguided, then change leaders; but don’t have a leader and not support their leadership. That way lies political debilitation. Tessa was the ultimate sensible loyalist and was with me to the end, however bitter, because she believed in my leadership. And if she hadn’t, she would have told me.

  On the Olympics she was telling me it was an enormous opportunity. Think of the impact on our young people, on fitness, on sport, on the country’s self-belief. I would say, ‘Yes, but suppose we get beaten, and what’s worse, we get beaten by the French and I end up humiliated?’ One day when I had finished saying this to her in graphic terms, sitting in the Downing Street garden where, if the sun was shining, I would sit and have one-to-one meetings, she looked at me reproachfully and said, ‘I really didn’t think that was your attitude to leadership. I thought you were prepared to take a risk. And it is a big risk. Of course we may not win but at least we will have had the courage to try.’ When Tessa says this, you feel a complete wimp and rather ashamed. You know she is manipulating you, but you also know it’s a successful manipulation. ‘Oh, OK, we’ll go for it.’

  The Cabinet came round, but only because I was then really going for it and JP as ever waded in manfully with support, chiding and generally prodding in a JP-like way that made everyone think that they might as well go with the flow.

  In the middle of 2003 we had established a bid team under Barbara Cassani who were thoroughly professional and competent. Craig Tweedie from the IOC was an adept and skilful committee politician. In May 2004, Seb Coe took over. I had only ever really seen him on telly running his famous races against Steve Ovett. He was a great athlete; on the other hand, he had later been William Hague’s chief of staff – and that hadn’t been great. I didn’t mind in the least that he had been a Tory – he obviously wasn’t someone who was hopelessly tribal, and anyway it would help to keep everyone together politically for the bid – but to be frank I wasn’t sure of him. However, I trusted Tessa, and she was certain. It turned out to be an inspired choice. Being the athlete he was, he could instantly enlist anyone in the athletics world. Being the person he is, he did so in an intelligent, decent and persuasive way. He had none of the worst Tory traits and most of the best ones.

  But it was clearly an uphill task. We weren’t even second in the running, and personally I doubted we would ever win. There was a fierce debate over whether I should go to Singapore. In the end I did, but as much because this was a crime scene I had to be present at in order to have an alibi, to avoid being criticised for not trying hard enough. By the time I got there, the bid team had been ensconced for several days. It was the usual ridiculous pantomime in these situations: we could talk about the bid, but we weren’t supposed to canvass. Try to work out the difference if you can. I couldn’t.

  The bid strategy had two parts to it: there was a ceremony and a party at the British High Commission to show off our wares and to give the team a sense of unison and solidarity; then we would see the various members of the committee, of whom I was deputed to meet around forty on a one-to-one basis. Out of a total electorate of 115, it was a fair proportion. I sat in the hotel suite, and just before they were ushered in I was handed slips of paper with their details on, so I would know roughly what their likes, worries and dislikes might be. In the course of two days of meetings, I learned again the lesson that, at a profound level, electorates are the same everywhere: each member has one vote. In small electorates, this is crucial.

  When I ran for the Sedgefield nomination, John Burton taught me this. There were lots of big mouths, movers and shakers on the General Management Committee (the selection body at the time) who would take the floor, but John identified the little old ladies, the not very assiduous attendees, the shy, the diffident, the uncertain and the unaligned, and together we went after them. When all was said and done, they each had the same number of votes as the movers and shakers: one.

  Because the Olympic electorate are globally dispersed, the adage was even more true. The person who spotted this first was Cherie. Ever since we had launched the bid, she had been going to different parts of the world and meeting the less significant members. There are several people without whom we would not have won the bid, and she is one of them. She can be difficult, my wife, but when determined, she is determined. She can also work a room better than anyone I’ve seen.

  She and her mum and the wonderful Jackie, our nanny, are all passionate about athletics (truthfully I’m not) and so she enjoyed it. But enjoy it or not, by the time we all converged in Singapore, she had met, followed up and kept in touch with a large part of the committee. At the IOC party we were continually bumping into her ‘old friends’ who were usually on their own as they weren’t considered important, but each of them of course had the same vote as those over whom a lot of fuss was being made. So, hidden from sight, we had been building up a lot of quiet support. Seb too had been travelling the world and was very effective.

  As I discovered quite quickly, the people seeing me hadn’t the slightest interest in talking to me about athletics, rightly figuring me as an ignoramus on that score; but they were fascinated about politics and meeting a famous political figure. I found that my recent speech to the European Parliament was a huge talking point. Bizarre, I know, but it struck a chord, and though some agreed and some disagreed with Iraq, they all had a strange respect for the fact that I took a deeply unpopular decision.

  Because we shouldn’t exaggerate the pulling power of politics, we also put David Beckham into the mix. David is a complete pro – he did what he was asked to do with no messing about, and generally sent Singapore into a twitter, which is exactly what was required.

  In the course of the meetings, I learned yet again how important it is to listen as well as talk. Knowing when to shut up is one of the most vital rules in life, never mind politics. Basically, most people are psychological itinerants in search of someone who wants to hear about them, who is interested in what they have to say, and who will regard what they say as both sage and stimulating. This applies at any level. In fact, the more elevated the level, the truer it is. In most of my meetings with other leaders – less so those whom I knew really well, or when there was real immediate business to transact – I would listen or ask them questions to get them talking, so that I could listen. A good meeting is one where you have listened more than you have spoken.

  Also, know when to disagree and when to let a comment pass. If it matters and there will be a frightful misunderstanding, you have to step in and contradict; but frequently, even if your interlocutor makes some completely ludicrous assertion, contradiction will only lead to a futile, sterile disagreement which it is then embarrassing to move on from. Unless it is germane to the real issue at hand, let it pass.

  So, anyway, I met endless members of the IOC and paid as much attention as I could in the time allotted. Occasionally, they came in too thick and fast. I would get the slips of paper out of order and the people muddled up. One chap came in who my paper said was a champion javelin thrower. I thought it odd that he seemed so small – about five feet eight. I thou
ght they were supposed to be big, though truth be told my knowledge of javelin throwers was limited. I asked him what was the most important factor in his sport. His reply completely threw me. ‘The quality of the ice.’

  God, I thought, I really don’t know anything about javelin throwing. ‘I see,’ I said. ‘Is that very important to you?’

  ‘Yes, the most important thing,’ he replied. ‘It determines how high you can go,’ he went on. I could see Seb gesticulating wildly but not very articulately behind him.

  ‘How high do you go?’ I asked.

  ‘About three feet,’ he said.

  Seb intervened. ‘He knows all this because for years he was the champion ice skater. Very famous for his skating on ice.’

  Another moment of drama was when the Russian delegation came in to see us, led by the mayor of Moscow. Ken Livingstone told me mysteriously that they were close, and that they had an understanding. He didn’t give details and I thought it better not to ask.

  They trooped in looking very Russian. There is something about a group of Russian men that makes you want them on your side. You feel that in the wrong context, or any context, they could become excessive; that the boundaries which circumscribe our conduct and character don’t apply; that you fully realise why Napoleon failed and why Hitler was daft to try.

  They sat down heavily, and looked at me. I looked at them. Then they smiled knowingly and nodded. Ken, who had joined me for this one, looked at me and we both nodded at them. The nodding went on for some time until a conversation began that was, for me at least, entirely elliptical. The gist of it was that we all understood each other very well, that they were very true to their word and so were we, and they didn’t like people who weren’t (I got a bit uneasy at that). But since they were and we were, there was no need to say any more. After another round of knowing smiles and nodding, they trooped out.