Breaking the Code (27 page)

John Birt
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came to address the media group. He looks like Daddy Woodentop, but, as his hour with us wore on, he impressed more and more. There’s clearly more to him than mere management-speak and he seemed to have a firm grasp of the breadth and depth of the challenge he faces. Perhaps we should have him in the government?

It’s fascinating the way the Chamber sometimes can make a difference. When John Patten came to announce his partial retreat on testing, he came away a broken reed. I’ve just witnessed Kenneth Clarke perform an equally spectacular U-turn and emerge a hero. We’re scrapping the system of income-related fines we introduced only a matter of months ago, we’re rethinking the whole of the 1991 Criminal Justice Act, we’re reversing great chunks of our own policy under pressure … it should have been a humiliating climb-down. Instead, the way Clarke played it, breezy, bluff, commonsensical, he came out triumphant. Blair
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helped. Blair’s dangerous. He could be one of us: public school, Oxford, decent, amiable, well-groomed, no known convictions, he’s been scoring on law and order. Not today. Today he got it all wrong. And Ken knocked him for six, dismissed him as ‘a tabloid politician’ obsessed with side-issues, incapable of dealing with substance. Our Sumo wrestler flattened Labour’s flyweight. It was a pleasure to watch and fascinating to see how the mood here can change in a matter of minutes. When it was over we set off for the Tea Room with a spring in our strides. We felt good about ourselves again.

The PM rallied the troops at the Scottish Conference on Friday. ‘Give up? Give over.’ Not quite in the Churchill league (‘Some chicken! Some neck!’), but not bad for a damp Friday in Carnoustie. Could I do any better? We shall see.

I got a call just now from No. 10, Alex Allen [Principal Private Secretary] in the PM’s office. ‘The Prime Minister is due to make a big speech to the business community. We’ve done a draft, but the Prime Minister feels it needs a bit of brightening up, a touch of humour, a few jokes, you know the sort of thing. He wondered if you might be able to help.’ I said I’d be delighted to try (of course) but that it isn’t easy conjuring up phrases, lines, jokes in a vacuum. You need to know the context. ‘Yes, of course. But if you can send anything across the Prime Minister would be much obliged.’

This is a bugger because while it’s nice to be wanted (it’s
wonderful
to be wanted) my schedule today is a nightmare and I’m going to have to spend the rest of the day juggling the diary while trying to cobble together anecdotes and turns of phrase for the PM – most of which I know will go straight from the fax machine to the shredder.

I sent over two pages of lines, quips, asides. There was some quite funny stuff about the Chancellor which they binned at once. I said that making jokes about an issue shows you are relaxed about it. Clearly No. 10 is not relaxed about the Chancellor. There were a couple of lines I think they liked and one story that seemed bland enough to fit the bill:

I have just left a very convivial group in the Smoking Room: David Lightbown, a gentle giant, Sydney Chapman (who reminds me of Arthur Howard, Leslie Howard’s brother who played Jimmy Edwards’ sidekick in
Whacko!
), John Taylor,
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former whip now the Lord Chancellor’s man in the Commons, and Jeremy Hanley. We have been having rather a lot to drink and rather liking it! High politics was not on our agenda. John Taylor asked if we’d heard about the American university where, in the interests of political correctness, they are alternating seminars with ovulars. David banged his glass on the table, ‘Sod political correctness!’ Jeremy said that if we were to be politically correct we shouldn’t call Sydney Chapman ‘Chapman’ we should call him Sydney Personperson. (It seemed very
funny twenty minutes ago.) John Taylor then got the hiccups and I began telling the group how excellent Kenneth Carlisle
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had been this afternoon when I took my deputation to see him about the A51 and the bypass. Carlisle said virtually nothing at the meeting, but listened with real concern and impressed the local councillors considerably. Jeremy said what a decent chap Kenneth Carlisle is: suddenly the whips fell ominously silent. I imagine Mr Carlisle is not long for the ministerial corridor … poor man, he probably has no idea.

The end of the Maastricht road is nigh. The Danes have voted ‘yes’ in their second referendum and the PM has called for unity. Fat chance. We have the Third Reading tonight and I have just spent a very jolly hour closeted with the Chancellor working on his speech. He was in high spirits. ‘We end the Maastricht debate tonight,’ he chortled, ‘and I shall have the last word. It’s as it should be.’ We trimmed the draft drastically and added a number of robust touches: ‘We put Britain first. Always have. Always will.’

Norman seemed pleased with our endeavours. ‘I think we’ve got the balance right, don’t you?’ Mischievous grin. ‘At least it isn’t too Hurdy.’ Much chuckling over Norman’s exchange with the Foreign Secretary:

‘What should I say in my speech, Douglas?’

‘I think you have your own distinctive line, Norman.’

We toyed with the idea of a section mocking Gordon Brown for fumbling his way round Europe declaring
‘Je regrette beaucoup!’
As I left, Norman walked me to the door half-singing half-laughing,
‘Non, non de non. Je ne regrette rien. C’etait seulement les chansons du bain.’

Norman did well. He battled through the mayhem and came out on top. Gordon Brown had plenty of bark, but no bite. The Labour Party abstained so, inevitably, we won the vote, but it was a hollow victory. At least fifty of our side either voted against or abstained. It’s taken almost a year to secure this Third Reading, hundreds of hours of debate, dozens of futile divisions, endless late nights, and, beyond these walls, no one seems to have much of an idea of what any of it’s about! In the Smoking Room the champagne is flowing. The Bill now goes to the Lords, but at least for the time being we’re shot of it. Hooray!

I said to DD of the SS, ‘I’m not sure that we should be celebrating yet. The headlines aren’t going to say “Maastricht Bill Achieved”, they’re going to trumpet “Tories’ Biggest Ever Revolt”.’

‘I think not,’ he said, with a sly grin.

‘Why not?’

‘Why not? Because the Queen Mother has just been rushed to hospital. Haven’t you heard? It’s touch and go. We’re not sure if she’ll last the night… ‘Wolfish leer followed by conspiratorial chuckle. ‘Yes, the arm of the Whips’ Office has a lengthy reach.’
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Day 3 of the Finance Bill Committee. I shall be confined to Room 10 every Tuesday and Thursday till the end of June, but as a PPS I don’t speak, I simply sit behind the minister passing him notes from the civil servants as and when required. It is not taxing and should leave me time enough to think of lines for our beleaguered Prime Minister – from whom I have just received a very civil letter thanking me for my contributions to his speech for the CBI dinner: ‘in future I will try to get you more notice and see the context in advance. I have a speech to the Women’s Conference in around ten days – text unwritten as yet … if anything strikes you!’ It is gratifying to get handwritten notes from the PM, but I am a little alarmed to think of him finding the time – or feeling he has to find the time – to send these billets-doux.

I have just come from a meeting with Michael Howard. Half a dozen of us gathered in his tiny room on the ministerial corridor to discuss the aftermath of Rio.
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There’s only a small sofa and a couple of chairs, so two of us sit on the floor, arms clasped around our knees. We are all middle-aged men, but you’d think we were schoolboys gathering round the housemaster for hot chocolate and a late-night reading of John Buchan. Michael has hardly launched into his spiel (he knows his stuff, he’s impressive) when the phone goes. It’s No. 10. He’s wanted. Urgently. It can’t wait. He must go. He leaves us and, at once, we all think the same thought. The reshuffle has begun.

In fact, it hasn’t, but reshuffle fever is definitely in the air. Who’s up, who’s down, who’s in and who’s out? It’s the life-blood of the place. According to Portillo (I’m sitting right behind him as I write: his hair really is impressive at close quarters, a high sheen and not a touch of dandruff), since the Whitsun Recess begins on Friday, the reshuffle will happen on Thursday. That way, if you get the sack you can slink off home to lick your
wounds and don’t have to face your apparently sympathetic (secretly gleeful) colleagues for a week or two.

Well, well, Norman [Lamont] has gone and John Patten has survived. David Hunt moves up the Cabinet pecking order (to Employment) which is good; John Gummer ditto (to Environment) which is surprising. Michael Howard is Home Secretary and Ken Clarke Chancellor. The Cabinet newcomer is John Redwood,
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about whom I know nothing.

Wanting to see the action I skipped the Voluntary Arts Network meeting and went into a deserted House for lunch. On the way in, my first encounter was with Jeremy Hanley who had just emerged from No. 10 and was bubbling with justifiable excitement: Minister of State at Defence. I lunched with Michael Ancram
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and teased him about his reshuffle haircut. He was looking very spruce – and eager. He treated me to a large Bloody Mary on the strength of an intimation that he should not wander too far from his telephone. Before lunch was over the call had come though. He’s going to Northern Ireland to replace Jeremy. He’ll be superb. We were halfway through the meal when Tristan [Gard-Jones] sauntered in and announced – to general astonishment and barely concealed flickers of dismay – that the PM had asked him to stay on – and that he’d agreed. He gave a three beat pause and then said, ‘He asked me to stay on – for a week – to chair a meeting – so I agreed.’ David Heathcoat-Amory replaces Tristan [as Minister for Europe] and DD of the SS replaces Robert Jackson who gets the boot. I like Robert, but he is an oddity. He sits in the Library translating obscure Greek texts into Latin or vice versa. Kenneth Carlisle goes too: I could have told him: too lacklustre. Edward Leigh
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also gets the push: too pushy and too openly disloyal.

It’s a good day for loyalists: my friend William Hague goes to the DSS and there are jobs for three of the Drinks brigade: John Bowis,
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Derek Conway
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and Michael Brown.
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Who says grovelling doesn’t pay?

I saw Stephen [Dorrell] at six. Bless him, he’d had an optimistic haircut too. He was disappointed, but sanguine. During the day he’d heard, and I’d heard, rumours that he was going to go to Wales, but if Lamont was the only one to be dropped he knew the newcomer would have to come from the right, so there we go. His time will come. Meanwhile, we have the interesting prospect of ringside seats at the court of King Ken…

I’m sitting in bed in Chester, befuddled and bemused. Bemused because I’ve a feeling that – already – within twenty-four hours – the reshuffle hasn’t worked. Everyone said: Norman must go. Norman goes. But no one seems any the happier – except for Ken Clarke who is pictured on the front page of half the papers, standing on the steps of the Treasury, beaming inanely, beer belly and Garrick Club tie to the fore. I’m befuddled because I’ve spent the evening enjoying the excellent hospitality of the Cheshire Regiment. I was much honoured by being invited to take the salute at Beating Retreat in the Castle Square. If I’d known what was expected I might have declined. I turned up on time, but without a hat.

‘Where’s your hat?’ gasped Colonel Ropes, red-faced, perspiring with anxiety.

‘I haven’t got a hat.’

‘Haven’t got a hat? You must have a hat. You can’t take the salute without a hat.’

‘I didn’t know one needed a hat. No one said anything about a hat.’

The Lord Lieutenant came to the rescue. He opened the boot of his limousine. It was stuffed with hats – top hats, bowlers, berets, hats with plumes. Colonel Ropes selected a brown trilby which made me look at best like a bookie, at worst like a spiv. He’s a sweetheart, as anxious and well-meaning as they come, but his briefing was useless. I didn’t understand a word. He said, ‘Don’t worry. You’ll be driven to the podium. Climb the steps and stand to attention. I’ll be on the ground beside you and I’ll tell what to do and when to do it. The main thing to remember is that when you salute you take the hat off your head with your right hand, put it to your chest, and then put it back on your head again.’

I was driven onto the parade ground. I climbed the steps and stood there. Alone. Ropes was 6 feet away at least and inaudible. If he’d been my officer at the front I’d never have gone over the top because I wouldn’t have heard any of his orders. Every now and then I could hear the wretched man
muttering
, but of what he was saying I heard not a word. The massed bands marched to and fro and I doffed and donned my trilby with gay abandon. When the regimental goat came forward and bowed, I glanced towards my Colonel and caught him looking at his knees. I decided to salute the goat on the grounds that it was wearing the regimental colours.

The ordeal over I vowed never to wear a hat again and retired to the mess and drank a great deal – as you can probably tell.

A week after the reshuffle and already it seems as bad as ever – if not worse. Indeed, from the PM’s standpoint it is worse. There’s a poll today showing him to be the least popular Prime Minister on record – less loved even than Neville Chamberlain in 1940. The shuffle itself now seems a one-day wonder, its impact already evaporated and colleagues wondering why it didn’t go further. People are even feeling sorry for Norman. He is feeling sorry for himself, understandably: he did the government’s bidding within the ERM and then delivered clever packages in both the Autumn Statement and the Budget, quelling the disquiet from business, raising taxes without damaging prospects for recovery. What more can you ask? More bounce, better PR – attributes Ken Clarke may well bring to the job. Who knows? What we all know is that things don’t look good for the PM. People are openly giving him ‘a year to sort things out’. The general verdict seems to be: if things haven’t improved by next summer, it’s curtains for nice Mr Major. As David Willetts put it on his return from Michael Portillo’s fortieth birthday bash: ‘Let’s go for Ken Clarke – better to have strong leadership you disagree with than no leadership at all.’