An Unexpected MP

by Jerry Hayes

  My first bromance with Her Majesty’s press started way back in 1981. I had just been selected as the candidate for Harlow, but I had one more hurdle to jump and that was to get on the official candidates list. And that meant spending a weekend at a dreary hotel just off a roundabout at Potters Bar. The idea was that you would be taught how to use a knife and fork properly, engage in debate and be grilled by a few captains of industry. It was a bit like being on The Apprentice but with nicer people (not a high bar) and loads of drink. As I was in the wonderful and unique position of having been selected for a seat already, so as long as I didn’t appear splashed across the tabloids in a ‘Top Tory shags royal corgi’ story, I would sail through. Which I did. It was at Potters Bar that I made three lifelong friends, Gerry Bowden, Steve Day and Ian Twinn (who still does a very passable Ted Heath routine).

  But if you think the modern-day back benches are infested by bonkeroons, you should have been a fly on the wall there. There were so many alien life forms on display it was like appearing in an episode of Doctor Who. One fellow spent the whole time walking around the place leaning on a shepherd’s crook. And outside in the rain stood a small and solitary figure sniffing around for a story, with whom I used to chat. It was that titan of journalism, the Press Association’s political editor Chris Moncrieff. One of the reasons he always managed the scoops was because he was omnipresent. I suspect that he rarely went home. When elected I became part of his Monday morning round-up for a quote about whatever political issue was exciting the chattering classes. And as PA fed every national and regional newspaper, it led to TV and radio appearances and hoovering up print. All right, many of my colleagues looked down their noses at me for being a rent-a-quote, which I was, but it made me stand out from the pack and 1983 was one of the largest Tory intakes in generations.

  Politics is like broadcasting. Don’t do vanilla. And don’t try to be too cerebral, either. And on no account ever try irony. The punters want their politicians to look as normal as possible. Sometimes that is a very tall order. Nowadays, it’s rather difficult because so many seem lobotomised with an on-message chip implanted in their brains.

  The 1980s were when Charlie Kennedy, Tony Banks, Ken Livingstone and I mastered the art of the sound bite. In any news clip, ten seconds is as long as you’re ever going to get. In a pre-record, think of your pithy bites and repeat them over and over again. They can’t be edited against you as long, rambling interviews can. And it makes for easier editing. I remember walking across the Members’ lobby when Mike Brunson, political editor of ITN, called over to tell me that Nigel Lawson, the Chancellor, had just resigned: ‘Get over to the studio ASAP in time for a pre-record for the News at Ten.’ It was 9.45.

  I arrived at the studio with not an interviewer in sight. Only a camera and sound man. ‘Mike’s tied up, you’ll have to interview yourself, mate.’ So I gave them three ten-second bites to choose from. And the one that fitted in with their spin was used. You may think that all this is very cynical, but really it’s quite practical. Broadcasters are on a deadline and if you can deliver the goods in one take they will use you again. It also means you get your message across crisply and clearly. There is nothing worse than seeing politicians ducking questions or equivocating. It makes them look shifty and dishonest.

  In politics there is a caste system. Those on the inside track who have advised ministers and who will rocket their way to jobs; those who are desperate to please the whips; and then people like me who were elected purely by accident. George Osborne refers to the former as the Guild. I was never an insider. I had to plough another furrow.

  I don’t wish to be unkind to my former colleagues but some were a pretty dull bunch. Have dinner with them and they would only give you their views (most of which had been given to them by the whips) on a need-to-know basis, for fear that you might somehow use it against them. They would scuttle away to issue unreadable press releases and never ever speak to a journalist. The press was considered the enemy. That was so wrong and counterproductive. But there is an element of truth here. As far as the news desk is concerned, trust them as far as you can throw them. They have a different agenda. Everything you say is on the record even if you use the magic words ‘off the record’ first. And as they are never likely to speak to you again, who cares if they burn their source so long as they have the story?

  The lobby system is very different. Everything you say is off the record unless you say to the contrary. They want stories and the background to stories. They want to sniff the wind and gauge the mood. Some criticise this as too cosy a relationship. Actually, it’s not. It’s a good working relationship. But if you are a scheming little shit who lies to them, word will get round and you will never be trusted again. They will destroy you, because there will be a time when you need their help and it won’t be there.

  Politicians should remember that journalists are gossips because that’s how they get the germ of a story. I was lucky enough to have worked with the very finest. Gordon Greig at the Mail, Ian Aitken of The Guardian, Trevor Kavanagh of The Sun, Geoffrey Parkhouse of The Herald and David English, saviour of the Mail group. These guys were giants. It is just not possible to do a roll-call of all the great men and women of the lobby, but two of my closest friends are Nigel Nelson, veteran political editor of The People, and Ian Hernon, now deputy editor of The Tribune. Ian trained up so many distinguished Fleet Street names that they are affectionately called Hernon’s Heroes. With that other old leftie, Mirror columnist Paul Routledge, I would trust those three with my life.

  One evening, Nelson invited Darkie (Anthony Beaumont-Dark), Gerry Bermingham, Barry Porter and me to the People Christmas bash. It was to be at the Café de Paris so we thought it was going to be a bit posh. Mmm. When we got there the place was throbbing. A little bit too throbbing for our liking. For reasons I still don’t understand, crowds of totally over the top and delightfully outrageous transvestites had been hired to entertain us. The real fear was that we had been set up (we hadn’t) and that we would be splashed as ‘MPs in tranny shame’ (we weren’t). But we did huddle together in terror. It was all very funny. But not at the time.

  One day in Annie’s Bar, Hernon received a call from Anglia TV. He was told to get one MP from Labour and one from the Tories to discuss the Rate Support Grant. Ipswich MP Jamie Cann and I were propping up the bar. ‘Come on, lads,’ pleaded Hernon.

  Jamie was keen. After all, he had been leader of Ipswich Council and he understood this impenetrable mechanism. And I had as much interest in local government as studying to be a mortician. Worse, I hadn’t a clue how the settlement would affect Harlow. So we did a deal. I would do the head-to-head provided Jamie gave me some sound bites. So after another drink we headed to College Green for the interview. Well, we both knocked nine bells out of each other and thanks to Jamie I didn’t look too much of a fool. But it was all a bit Salvador Dalí.

  Sometimes your mates in the press rally round to help. Just before the 1992 general election I received a phone call from the Chief Whip, a lovely guy called Richard Ryder. By this time I had become a bit of an expert on health matters and as this was going to be the last conference before the election, would I make a rabble-rousing speech, since the NHS was a major public concern? You bet. I had always got on well with Romola Christopherson, who was head of press at the Department of Health, and I knew she was pushing for me to be a junior minister if we won the election. This was my moment.

  So Nelson and Hernon worked with me until three in the morning perfecting the speech of my life. The only drawback was that this little masterpiece, which would have made Socrates green with envy, was put together in the hotel bar. The next morning my big moment arrived.

  ‘I now call Mr Jerry Hayes MP.’

  Thinking about what happened next still makes me nauseous. I swaggered up to the podium without a note. I’ll show ’em. And I did. But not in the way that I expected. It actually started off rather well and I got a few cheers. And when I got into my
main theme I was on fire. I was just approaching the part when I would reveal to the world the horrors of Labour. So I built up to my climax. ‘And the Labour Party do … [at this stage alcoholic amnesia swung towards me and my mind went blank] terrible things to people.’

  Oh, God. It was gut-wrenchingly awful. So I tried to save the day with a joke.

  ‘Sorry about that. I had a heavy night last night.’ There were cheers, as half the audience were nursing hangovers. But I was dying on my feet. I was Archie Rice without the aid of half a bottle of vodka. It’s hard to believe, but I got into a worse muddle by calling the chairman of the debate Madam Mr Chairman and saw my political career crash and burn, with the chances of a red box a distant joke. It made the Titanic look like a minor boating accident, except that the only person who died was me.

  The next morning I slunk into the bar to be joined by Hernon and Nelson. They bought me a large Bloody Mary to calm me down.

  ‘Well, at least it escaped the notice of the press,’ I smiled. Until, grinning from ear to ear, they produced the tabloid front pages with my alcohol-induced sweaty face plastered all over them.

  Years later, for my fortieth birthday, they hijacked a TV studio and made a spoof documentary about great speeches of the world. The Gettysburg Address, I Have a Dream, the Sermon on the Mount and of course That Bloody Speech. Thanks, boys.

  Another journalist to whom I am devoted is Glaswegian Mirror Rottweiler Don Mackay. Editor Piers Morgan once brought Tony Blair into the newsroom for a stately tour. They paused at Mackay’s desk.

  ‘Don, have you met the Prime Minister?’

  Don looked up at the great man and growled, ‘Hello Blair, you cunt.’

  At least he didn’t take his teeth out, which was always a sure sign that somebody was going to get thumped.

  On the death of John Smith, Don was put on the story. And in true Fleet Street fashion he borrowed a doctor’s coat and stethoscope just to make certain that the fellow really was dead and not faking.

  But Don really became iconic during the donkey wars. Just to remind you, a few years ago there was a great tabloid story about a ceremony in some tiny village in Spain where once a year a donkey was thrown from a church tower and caught in a blanket. Fleet Street felt that the British public wouldn’t like this one little bit and so there was a tabloid war to find the donkey, rescue it and bring it back to Blighty, where it would live for the rest of its life in donkey luxury. All the red tops sent hacks to find the damn thing. In the best traditions of Fleet Street cheque-book journalism, the Mail won and the donkey was on its way to Britain. Don was distraught. Until he thought of a plan of genius and cunning. The Mirror would splash a photo of the donkey’s girlfriend looking wistfully across the Channel, waiting for her beloved. So the art department was tasked with finding a suitable photo. All went swimmingly until the mock front page showed something that really shouldn’t have been there. Girlfriend donkey had an enormous cock. Luckily Don got it airbrushed out in the nick of time.

  When the Mirror won Newspaper of the Year, Piers thought it was fitting for Don to pick up the award, an expensive piece of cut glass. The trouble was that he was rather refreshed, slipped over and the award smashed into a thousand pieces. Piers, to his credit, thought it was all rather funny. Despite what is said about him in the press, he is a really nice guy. You will hear more about him later.

  I always got on rather well with the News of the World crowd. Rebekah Wade (now Brooks) was great fun, as was Tom Crone, the in-house lawyer. Once, she invited me to lunch at Queen’s. She was with her then partner Ross Kemp and his screen Mitchell brother Steve McFadden. Sadly, I had never watched EastEnders so I hadn’t a clue who they were. Queues of fans were lining up for their autographs. So, over lunch I asked why they were so famous. For the next twenty minutes they royally wound me up.

  ‘Actually, we keep a rather famous pub.’

  ‘Oh, really? What’s it called?’

  ‘The Queen Victoria. It’s in the East End.’ In the end, as everyone else round the table was crying with laughter, they let me in on the joke.

  Another memorable lunch was with News of the World news editor Alex Marunchak. A crowd of us were taken to Rules in Covent Garden. We had such a good time and the wine flowed in such quantity that the second brigade of waiters clapped us out. And then I remembered I was due to speak at the Oxford Union that night against Bill Cash and David Heathcoat-Amory in a debate on Europe. Now, as much as I like Bill, he is not the most exciting of speakers. Attendants would be sent round removing all sharp objects, ties, shoe-laces and anything else that could be used by people to top themselves. As I was well oiled, I decided to play it for laughs. Bill got rather annoyed and complained through the President that this was the most outrageous speech he had ever heard. I admitted guilt. The audience cheered. We won the vote.

  I once had a very interesting lunch with a Sunday Times correspondent. He had rather a lot to drink and thought it would be a good idea to play with the traffic on Fleet Street. I went out to rescue him, tripped and found it difficult to walk. I thought that I had broken my ankle, so I called an ambulance. It suddenly dawned on me that I was not injured at all and had just lost my heel. We fled to one of those dodgy clubs that had a liquor licence all day. There were quite a few of those then, as the pubs had to close at 2.30. This was the Presscala Club. There used to be a large mat on the door with WELCOME written on it. The trick was if you were not a member you’d jump over it or else an alarm would sound. The Presscala was not exactly a fine drinking establishment. This would be the place where newspaper executives would take their secretaries for a few swifties before a pre-going-home-to-the-wife shag. The barmaid was a lady of a certain age who had a cleavage that could have raised the Titanic. When she bent over to pick up a mixer she would be in the habit of emitting a sphincter-rattling fart followed by the ladylike comment, ‘Well, better out than in, loves.’ A truly classy joint.

  Private Eye lunches were always splendid occasions. The idea was that Ian Hislop and his hounds would get you roaring drunk in the hope of a couple of hours of indiscreet gossip. Just up my street. They were held in a scruffy upstairs room in the Coach and Horses when the splendid Norman ran the place. We used to have a drink in the bar with Jeffrey Bernard and then up for steak, chips and vats of red wine. The journos and politicians would sit at editor Ian Hislop’s end of the table and down the far end sat a tweedy Richard Ingrams with equally tweedy literary types. He always referred to me as The Beard. I never cared for him too much and always found him rather snooty. But to be fair to him, he probably was quite entitled to view me a cocky little sod, as humility was never my middle name. But at Hislop’s end the gossip would flow. I have always found him to be very good news. At Leveson, he was one of the few editors to behave with absolute integrity. It was a powerful performance.

  But since Norman left, the Coach and Horses is a dreadful little place. I never bother to go in any more.

  The Mail on Sunday lunches for the ‘Black Dog’ column were the most entertaining. Peter Dobbie, the political editor, was a rough diamond, but could squeeze a story out of a stone. Or, as we still say, polish a turd. Once, on my mate Adrian Lithgow’s first day in the Commons as a journalist, Dobbie introduced me to him with these words: ‘This is that twat Jerry Hayes who hasn’t given me a story in a week,’ as he gently kicked me in the gonads.

  Adrian was a serious ladies’ man. His penis reached iconic status when it was described in a Julie Burchill novel as ‘the silken cosh’. I recall one famous Black Dog Christmas lunch when we shared a restaurant with the sports department, which got a little out of hand. I dimly remember being assaulted with a rubber chicken. Quite why, I can’t remember.

  Dobbie had a habit at the end of every party conference of apologising to each politician he bumped into. I asked him why.

  ‘Well, I probably twatted him, called him a cunt or both.’

  Dobbie was a star.

  But today it has all c
hanged. The Commons bars are rarely full, Annie’s is closed and journalists’ expenses for a decent lunch are long-distant memories. Now pasty-faced youngsters are stuck in front of their screens picking up feeds and press releases from the internet. And apart from a few old-school MPs, the idea of going drinking with a journalist is too terrifying for some of them to contemplate. Clem Attlee used to advise all new MPs to stay clear of the bars and journalists. And what a dull little man he was.

  The rot set in when Ali Campbell, as Blair’s brilliant press secretary, pretty well lobotomised the press. They were prepared to be spoon-fed with press releases, as in those days the Tories were a hopeless shambles. Very few went in search of real political stories. There was also an element of fear. If Blair’s chief fixer, Peter Mandelson, took exception to a story or what he thought might turn out to be a story, he would threaten and bully a journalist into submission. The veiled threat would be that he would go to the editor and have the journo sacked. Whether this ever actually happened we will never know.

  In those days only the most secure journalists dared cross Mandelson. He was a terrifying and venomous figure. And nobody was safe. For an ambitious junior hack, these were very dark days. The Thick of It is not far off the mark. The only journalist who really had the courage to fight Mandelson was my old friend from the Mirror, Paul Routledge. But more of him later.

  For now, a brief word about the legendary David Healey, a rough Glaswegian bruiser of the old school, but with a heart of gold. One day he told me of one of his first kick-in-the-door assignments as a young reporter. He had to go and interview some old duck who had had a bereavement. David, still suffering from the night before, slumped heavily down on the sofa and felt a bit of a crunch. The old duck came back rather distraught because she couldn’t find her little dog. And off she popped to have a look round the house. Healey then looked at what he had sat on. Sadly, it was the dog. He popped it in his pocket, let himself out, and dumped it in a rubbish bin.