An Unexpected MP

by Jerry Hayes

  But there was one rather touching tale. After the story first broke, Alan Haselhurst and I were caught talking on a landing in hushed tones by the Lady’s PPS, Michael Alison. He even saw us exchange a package. Heaven knows what he reported back to No. 10. The truth is that Alan is one of my dearest friends (who should have been Speaker if the Amish wing of the party hadn’t blocked him). The sotto voce plotting we were doing was merely sorting out the dates for his godson (my son Lawrence)’s first birthday party. And the mysterious package? A handgun with ammunition? A hand grenade? A deadly poison? No, a yellow mechanical teddy bear for his cot. Thank heavens the Mail didn’t get hold of that one. He would have been branded the Godfather.

  One of the duller duties of an MP is to be a silent muppet on a standing committee – a phenomenal waste of time. The idea is that you are meant to scrutinise legislation. The reality was that government backbenchers were drilled not to say a word, allowing the Opposition to drone on, and then the ‘improved’ Bill would be presented to the Commons for a third-reading debate before being sent to the Lords, who would seriously have a good look at it and hopefully sort out all the problems created by the lower House. I was put on something called the Health and Medicine Bill as I knew absolutely nothing about either health or medicine. The ideal candidate.

  In a bored moment I sat down and read the Bill. I was shocked. It was an utter disgrace. The plan was to save the NHS thirty million quid and this was to be done by abolishing the free sight test and the free dental check-up. ‘So what?’ you might ask. Just remember that diseases of the eye are silent. A sight test can diagnose glaucoma, HIV and many other diseases. As can the dental check-up, which can spot HIV and cancer of the mouth. Here we were saying to the public that we as a government believed in preventative healthcare but condemning thousands of state pensioners to a life of blindness. That we, as a government who believed in curtailing the spread of HIV and cancer, were condemning thousands to an early death. Of course, it was Treasury-led and backed by an utterly hopeless Secretary of State, John Moore, who, on his appointment, told Cabinet that he could deliver a world-class health service for less money. Oh dear.

  And yet this was not the first time these dreadful proposals had been attempted. Before the 1983 election the ministerial line was that these proposals would be ‘wrong in principle and act as a deterrent to those who should be encouraged to have their eyes and teeth tested’.

  Well, I did what was sensible by the rules. I pleaded with the whips and the Secretary of State. A total waste of time.

  So, me and the feisty Jill Knight (now Baroness Knight), a close friend of the Lady and an old-fashioned but decent right-winger, joined forces. She was an expert as her husband was an optician. The rebellion was also joined by a new up-and-coming right-winger named David Davis, who once told me that his favourite pastime in politics was ‘bayoneting the wounded’. A good guy.

  Well, I did not remain silent as required by the whips. And the committee whip was an old friend called David Lightbown. David was the enforcer. He was twenty-five stone and was not a pushover in any sense. He used to run a factory in Birmingham. When the first IRA bomb went off in Brum, he called in his Irish workforce and sacked them all. He was known as the ‘caring’ whip.

  So, in committee I made a speech quoting all the Cabinet in their letters to constituents in 1979 saying that the plans were ‘wrong in principle’. I finished up with a letter from a lady saying the very same thing. It was Margaret Thatcher, written on her prime ministerial notepaper. There was uproar. The caring whip bundled me outside. ‘You little cunt, you have just destroyed the Cabinet for writing letters that go back to the days of Gladstone.’

  I demurred.

  ‘No more overseas trips for you, lad.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t want any.’

  ‘Well, I’ll make sure you are deselected then.’

  ‘Well, I did call a meeting of my executive last night and they fully support me.’

  And this is when things became little more heated.

  ‘You little shit,’ as he thumped me in the chest.

  ‘Oh fuck off, you fat twat,’ as I kicked him in the balls.

  We were so grown-up in those days. The art of intellectual debate was alive and kicking. Well, at least kicking. The lovely David Hunt, now Lord Hunt of Wirral, then Deputy Chief Whip, commented to the press that he couldn’t possibly adjudicate on every fight in the playground. A few weeks later he pulled me aside and said that if I could vote continuously for the government for six months he would make me a minister. Sadly, I failed.

  And then came the third-reading debate of the Health and Medicine Bill. David Mellor was the lead minister. The government’s majority on this Bill was in serious jeopardy. And he was pretty annoyed that I had appeared simultaneously on every television channel the night before, and particularly miffed that I had written a prominent piece in the Evening Standard which had just hit the news-stands. So, being the sort of man who enjoyed a scrap, he launched into me in a rather personal way.

  ‘Well, my Hon. friend the Member for Harlow would have got a larger fee for his piece in the Evening Standard than a sight check would cost if this Bill is passed,’ he glowered. This was a strategic mistake. MPs can just about stomach voting for unspeakable crap on whips’ orders, but they detest having to put up with a bumptious minister slagging off someone they know is on the right side of the argument. My Standard piece had been commissioned by the wonderful Sarah Sands (she of the perpetually undone extra blouse button; now editor of the Standard) but I had totally forgotten to ask for a fee.

  ‘I did it for free,’ I shouted, glowing with accidental righteousness.

  Ian Gow, former PPS to the Lady, was outraged with Mellor. He stormed out of the chamber and would have missed the vote had Thatcher not despatched the police to find him. That night, the government’s massive majority was reduced to four. Aha, I thought. This could be fun in the Lords. So it was time to hatch a plot.

  I knew Rebecca Runcie rather well, the daughter of Bob, who was then Archbishop of Canterbury and who had won the MC for killing a few Germans. That was about the only thing that Thatcher agreed with him on. He thought the proposals were outrageous too. So we thought of a cunning scheme. He couldn’t tell his mad right-wing bishops what to do. But he could send them off for trips abroad on the night of the vote. And this is what he did. But we still lost. As I was sitting up in the MPs’ gallery when the result was announced, I caught the eye of John Belstead, leader of the Lords, who shrugged his shoulders with sadness. He was against the Health and Medicine Bill too. Government is a very strange business. And I had become a rebel.

  Since the Health and Medicine Bill and the ambulance dispute (which is in another chapter), Ken Clarke thought it would be a good idea to use my energy in a positive way. He asked me to travel the country and persuade GPs that their new contract was a good idea. This was a very tricky job. The British Medical Association is the most ruthless trade union in Britain and they fight low and dirty. Anything that does not provide their members with pots of gold and anything that involves a little bit more work and commitment will be portrayed as an attack on patients, particularly the weak and the vulnerable.

  Actually, the Clarke proposals were perfectly sensible, but the BMA was causing trouble. In those days people really trusted doctors and when notices appeared in surgeries urging patients to sign petitions, there was a groundswell of opinion against the proposed contract. This had to be negatived.

  At the height of the debate, when tensions were high, I managed to get my todger caught in my flies. It was so painful that I went to see my GP. As I put the poor little thing in his hand, he smiled. ‘Is this a good time to discuss our new contract?’

  ‘Ha, bloody ha,’ I laughed through the tears.

  When I look back, I really didn’t vote against the government a great deal. I followed the advice of Harold Macmillan to rebel only on one issue at a time. I suspect what gave me the reputat
ion of being more of a nuisance than I actually was is that when I appeared in the media and was asked a direct question I more often than not gave a straight answer, which was sometimes off-message. In those days the right regarded this as bordering on the treasonous. But if the message is rubbish, what’s the point of being an MP?

  CHAPTER 6

  THE CONSTITUENCY

  It is fashionable for commentators to argue for politicians to ‘speak human’. This really is the most dreadful nonsense. What the electorate want is for politicians to be human. They are fed up with evasive answers from ministers and backbenchers with all the warmth of a speaking clock. It is so obviously a ‘line to take’. But what does depress me is that too many politicians don’t care for people too much. Their votes, yes. But as people? No way. These types are sadly a growing minority. I remember working a room with a new Member who is now a perfectly adequate minister. He pulled me aside and groaned, ‘But aren’t they all so awful?’ I tried to explain to him that some of them were, but most were just decent people who have never met an MP in their lives before. Be polite, be kind and don’t look over their shoulder to find someone to speak to who will be more important for your ghastly career. The likes of him just don’t understand that most people are rarely, if ever, likely to meet an MP more than once. If it is a pleasant experience, they will tell all their friends. If it is all about more me, me, mes than Pavarotti, they will tell even more friends what an absolute shit you are.

  I know this may sound completely irrational as someone who was elected for fourteen years, but I really despise tribal politics. Of course, come an election, I can get as low-down and dirty as anyone. But I hate looking at issues under the party political microscope. That is why, apart from general elections, Harlow for me was a politics-free zone. The most important job of an MP is not to be a slave to the whims of your postbag, but to do your best to protect and help your constituents, try to solve their problems and just be there for them in times of need.

  It is really not all that difficult if you have a bit of common sense, a semblance of education and a strong desire to do what you think is right, even if the party hierarchy disagree. And the headed notepaper helps a lot, too. So the biggest high you can ever get out of politics is sorting out problems which may seem the end of the world to so many but which you personally can actually resolve. That is the job I really loved.

  Selection as a candidate was a weird process. As I’ve told you, I wasn’t even on the candidates list, but luckily my opponents were even more eccentric than I was. Eventually I got the nomination and many assumed that as we couldn’t possibly win I should just do the respectable minimum and use Harlow as a launching pad for a safe seat. Wrong. I’d got there and as hopeless as it seemed I was going to give it a go.

  In those days Harlow Council was very, very left-wing. When I was elected there wasn’t a single Tory on the council. So who was going to sort the election out? Well, I had a lovely old lady from Liverpool called Rose Dickson who was my chairman. And that was about it. So I asked a bright young lad of nineteen called Guy Mitchell to be my election agent (I think I paid him £100) and another youngster called Stephen Rigden (whom I didn’t pay a penny) to be my gofer. They both were brilliant, hardworking and loyal. I owe them an awful lot.

  My first priority was to canvass the council estates. The old school thought I was wasting my time. But Thatcher had changed the landscape. Firstly by allowing people to take pride in their council homes (Georgian front doors) and secondly by letting them buy them at massive discounts. So, rather than the abuse that everyone had expected on the doorstep, it was, ‘Well, I’ve bought my home so I suppose I must be a Tory.’ Too bloody right, matey. Oh, and the Falklands War helped a bit too. I’d love to be part of the delusion that so many MPs have first time round: ‘It was my genius wot won it.’ No, old son, you got in on the coat tails of your leader, and ‘events’.

  I won’t bore you with the nuts and bolts of the 1983 election, but one story comes to mind. I was in a particularly grand village (yes, we had them) where every Conservative Party branch meeting started with the list of people ‘we would consider for membership’. What a joke. They were actually sifting through candidates! For me this was too grim for words, so I found a list of ‘unacceptables’ and banged on their doors. My favourite was a house with a brass plate engraved ‘Mr and Mrs Dave the Deal’. Another joy was going to a mock Palladian mansion with the most amazingly expensive furniture and paintings. Here in the great hall was an enormously obese haulier throwing darts at a board adjacent to a Gainsborough. These guys were loaded, and donated, but the local party was just too snooty to talk to them.

  Once, I popped my card through the door of a bed and breakfast. The poor chap had had a little spot of bother with the police over some minor matter regarding guns. He was so delighted to hear from me that he offered to drive voters to the poll on election night. What was so amazing was that he rolled up with chauffeurs in full livery driving Rollers. Can you imagine driving up to a Tory voter on a council estate with a Rolls-Royce and a liveried driver saying, ‘This is Mr Hayes’s lift to take you to the polling station’?

  However, there was one minor hiccup. A couple of Labour pensioners decided to take advantage and let slip to the driver that they were actually going to vote for my opponent. I asked him how he dealt with it. ‘Oh, I dropped them in the middle of nowhere and told them to fuck off.’ Not my proudest moment. But the damage was done. I dreaded the headlines. Mercifully, they never came.

  A few months before the election, I appeared in court for a young couple who were being evicted from their flat because of drunken parties and an infestation of rats. In evidence, it appeared that they were a rather pleasant pair having a bit of fun. I asked the girl about the rat infestation. She smiled sweetly and told the court that they indeed had a pet rat. I enquired if she had a photograph of it. At that she did better and produced the rat from her pocket. I thought that the old judge was going to have a fit. Far from it, by chance he was a rat fancier, picked the horrible little thing up and tickled his tummy. It transpired that the landlords were just trying to get the property back. So I gave the landlord and his wife absolute hell in the witness box and won the case.

  During the election I banged on the door of rather an imposing property. To my horror it was opened by the landlord and his wife. This was going to be a nightmare. So I apologised for disturbing them and said I wouldn’t dream of asking them to vote for me after giving them such a rough time in court. To my amazement I was offered an outstretched hand, a smile and not just an offer of support but a donation too. Their logic was that, if I could move heaven and hell against them, what could I do for them?

  Elections are a funny old business.

  Although I was delighted to win in 1983, I felt sorry for the guy I beat, the veteran left-winger Stan Newens. I made a particular point of devoting a large part of my acceptance speech to paying tribute to him, as he was an excellent constituency MP and a thoroughly decent man. Politics can be a rough game and no matter how good you are you can’t beat a big swing.

  At least I didn’t make the mistake of my old pupil master, Ernle Money, who totally unexpectedly beat Sir Dingle Foot in Ipswich in 1970. Ernle didn’t even bother to roll up for the count; he just went to the White Swan and got very, very drunk. When his agent realised that Ernle was going to win and have to make a speech he scoured the pubs and eventually found him in a heap. The poor chap couldn’t even walk, let alone talk. So the agent went back and made the speech for him, along the lines that Mr Money held Sir Dingle in such high esteem he felt it quite inappropriate to say a few words. Deft footwork.

  Surgeries (they are now called advice bureaux) were very rewarding and sometimes a little peculiar. My first constituent was a 93-year-old Chinese man who came to pay his respects, bless him. He didn’t have a word of intelligible English and after many smiles and much mutual bowing I led him to the lift, which broke down and we had to call the fire
brigade. Although I think that my wife Alison, who was taking the notes, broke down far worse than the lift as she had to leave the room in fits of giggles.

  Then there was a flasher who actually arrived in a dirty mac and wondered if the new Public Order Act would curtail his right to publicly expose himself. I explained to him that it didn’t but that it was against the law anyway. He went away muttering how dreadfully unfair it was.

  And then there was Mr O’Brien. He hadn’t paid any rates or rent for years, as he had named his council house The Freehold. He used to complain that he had been disenfranchised as the council refused to put him on the electoral roll. I asked him if he had ever applied. ‘Certainly not. It is a breach of my privacy.’ Mr O’Brien was an absolute pain to all incumbents. But one day he saved my bacon. Socialist Workers were demonstrating outside my surgery one day and there was a TV crew in attendance. One of the smelly-socks threw an egg at me just as Mr O’Brien was passing by. I grabbed him and the egg exploded onto his jacket. To which I shouted at the camera, ‘Look what these wicked people have done to a poor pensioner.’ Then I led him away, gave him a tenner for the dry cleaners and suggested he sod off.

  Then there was an intriguing old fellow, a very tall, elderly Irishman built like an ox, who had a grievance that Joe Jennings the bookmakers had failed to pay out a winning over twenty years ago. It was complete nonsense as the locals told me that he had collected the cash, spent it all on booze and passed out. But once a month he would appear. On one occasion he rolled up at a public meeting flourishing a piece of paper. ‘I have here a letter from Her Majesty the Queen. She has written that Jerry Hayes is both a liar and a wanker.’ I had a sneaking suspicion that this may have been a forgery.

  The trouble was that he stayed around afterwards and I was rather worried that he was going to thump me. Eventually it was just me and this enormous bear of a man. And he was coming for me. Mercifully, I remembered that he had been a proud soldier during the war. ‘Seamus!’ I shouted in my best sergeant-major voice. ‘Atten-shun!’ And all that training from all those years ago clicked in. He stood ramrod straight as I slipped out of the back door.