Breaking the Code (54 page)

I’ve got to do this speech and,
come what may
, I’ve got to do it well. They say it is only given to those for whom advancement is imminent. Get it right – and up you go. Get it wrong and that’s that. (It’s absurd, but so often this place
is
absurd. Outside, no one has heard about this bizarre tradition, but inside, here, especially on our side, especially among the old guard, this sort of nonsense still counts. I’ve got to take it seriously and I’ve got to deliver. David Sumberg
531
told me he did it several years ago and blew it completely. That was the end of him.)

I’m glad Jopling bottled out. It’s now to be Douglas Hurd, which is so much better, more distinguished. He commands respect, he’ll settle the house, he’ll be good to follow and I can make something of the shared birthdays – his, mine, John Ward’s and the Speaker’s secretary. I have finished the speech. I’ve done what’s expected: some self-deprecating jokes, a paean to one’s constituency (the honour is Chester’s not mine), a few minutes on the contents of the Queen’s Speech. Quite early on I’ve also put in a bit of buttery stuff about the values of the House – ‘a good place where – for the most part and in all parts of the House – good people of good faith are doing their best to do a good job for their constituents’ – both because it’s true but principally to defuse hostility. Greg Knight was very funny: ‘Remember, there’ll be 300 people in there all wanting you to fail. (Pause) And the opposition won’t want you to do that brilliantly either.’

I was feeling
relatively
easy about it till last night when I thought, for fun, I’d look up accounts of past State Openings. Look what I found: Chips Channon on 3 November 1936:

And Harold Nicolson himself, 7 November 1936:

Oh God!

At 6.20 p.m. I presented myself at No. 12. Douglas was already there. Drinks were handed round (the Chief is a generous host), banter exchanged. Were we happy? ‘No,’ smiled Douglas, ‘but what has happiness got to do with it.’ Alastair ran through the form. Murdo ran through the form. Douglas mentioned a school song that he might refer to. Alastair spluttered, ‘Good God, you’re not going to sing!’ Douglas murmured reassurance. Greg Knight was perched on the edge of the sofa next to me. I passed him my speech. He read it through. I was glad. I wanted
someone
to have seen it, to share in the responsibility. ‘Looks fine,’ he said.

The Chief heaved himself to his feet and led the way to No. 10. There are interconnecting doors that take you from No. 12, through the hallway at No. 11, straight into the entrance hall at No. 10. I trooped alongside Douglas. ‘Well,’ I said rather stupidly
(why do I always have to fill the air with sound?), ‘I suppose it’s something for us to say we’ve done.’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘another of those curious little cul-de-sacs life throws in one’s way.’

Upstairs, in the main drawing room, the entire government had assembled. This was the ‘Eve of Session Reception’. Once upon a time there was a dinner, but when ministers were asked to pay for their own meals the mean and the impoverished grumbled and the tradition lapsed. Now we get drinks (plenty of them) on the taxpayer. The PM, in good humour, welcomed us, told us what a challenging and exciting session it’s going to be and then asked for the doors to be shut and invited the Cabinet secretary to step forward and read the Queen’s Speech. He read it out, word for word, as Her Majesty will read it tomorrow. Then Madam Speaker spoke – graciously and well, wishing us all the best in the coming session and doing so with sincerity and style. She paid a lovely tribute to Tony Newton – ‘he is a golden man, golden’. And he is.

We quaffed, we sluiced, we made our way into the street. As we stepped out into Downing Street, Andrew Mitchell (who did it so well in the year I arrived) caught up with me and put an arm around my shoulder, ‘I know exactly how you’re feeling. It’s hell. But it’ll be all right.’

And it was! Joe Ashton saved the day.

The butterflies were terrible. I must have gone for a pee at least three times between lunch and 2.30 p.m. I have spoken thousands of times (for thousands of pounds!) – I am an old hand, but I’ve never known anything like this.

Madam Speaker: ‘I shall now call on Mr Douglas Hurd to move the Address, and Mr Gyles Brandreth will second it.’

Douglas got up – and almost at once it went wrong, not badly awry but just enough for us all to feel instantly uncomfortable. It must have been the first time he had spoken from the back benches in twenty years. He made an immediate mistake saying when he leaves the House it’ll be his constituents not us he’ll miss the most. And then he went all dewy-eyed and lyrical as he took us on a rural ride through Oxfordshire – we had the local school song, verse after verse of it – and while on our side we listened with respect, on their side they lost interest, the murmuring and shuffling began. As he got away from the sentiment and onto the substance of the Queen’s Speech he began to recover and by the end – not that I was really listening – it seemed fine, not a triumph but by no means a disaster.

But as I stood up and heard the groans and jeers from the benches opposite, I
thought to myself, ‘This is going to be a disaster. And there’s nothing I can do.’ My mouth was so dry I thought I might not be able to utter a sound. I started. I was struggling, but I knew all I could do was plough on. Madam Speaker, bless her, was sitting forward on the edge of her seat looking directly at me. I looked directly at her, concentrated entirely on her, she was willing me to keep my nerve – the rumbling opposite was subsiding, they were beginning to listen, and then, about three minutes in, I began my passage extolling the virtues of the matchless city of Chester. ‘It has 2,000 years of history,’ I said, and from the far end of the second row of the Labour benches Joe Ashton cried, ‘And a one thousand majority!’ The House roared. I rallied, and suddenly they were on my side. And from there on in there were no problems – even a couple of blissful moments. A joke at the expense of the Liberals united all but thirty members; a joke at Paddy Ashdown’s expense united all but one.

It’s done. And it went well. For this relief, much thanks.

Lots of nice notes about the speech. Good notices too. Matthew Parris: ‘one of the best of recent years’. Hooray. Now draw a line and move on.

The Queen’s Speech itself gets a so-so press, probably much as it deserves.

Hero of the hour: little Alan Duncan who performed ‘a citizen’s arrest’ on one of a gaggle of Asylum Bill protestors who threw paint and flour at Brian Mawhinney as he and Alan were crossing College Green. He is cooler and more courageous than I would have been. (I like Alan. He is amusing, and effective, but within the system here they’re suspicious of him. They don’t
quite
trust him.)

Joke of the hour: Sir Julian Critchley
533
has declared that he would not vote Conservative next time. The papers are playing this up as ‘a serious blow’ as though Critchley were a serious figure. He is an entertaining writer and, for all I know, may have been an effective MP, but since I have been here I think I’ve seen him on the premises five times.

In the Tea Room this morning there was considerable resentment at the coverage he’s getting – and ‘the salary he is drawing given that he does bugger all’ (Simon Burns). He’s never here and while his illness is debilitating (I last saw him in a wheelchair) he’s clearly fit enough to write, broadcast and kick the party in the shins when it suits.

I breakfasted with the only other person in the country who didn’t watch the Princess of Wales being interviewed last night on
Panorama
. Stephen didn’t watch because he really isn’t interested. I didn’t watch because I was in the Chamber waiting for my adjournment debate on ‘employment in Chester’. (For most adjournment debates there are just two MPs in the Chamber – the backbencher and the minister replying. Last night, we had a grand total of three – the dullard of Ellesmere Port joined us to be seen to be ‘in on the act’.) Diana had clearly worked hard at her sound bites and tragi-pathetic look. But I think we already knew that she and James Hewitt had been lovers, didn’t we? In the Tea Room Fabricant was disappointed when I told him that I was pretty sure she met Hewitt nine months
after
Harry was born, not nine months before. Soames (Charles’ fat-man at Westminster) went over the top and is being sent a ‘cool it’ message from No. 10. However, I think we can take it that Soames’ line that Diana’s behaviour shows ‘advanced stages of paranoia’ reflects the true feelings of the Prince of Wales.

I spent the morning at a Better English Campaign meeting. Trevor [McDonald] is a good chairman, courteous, well-briefed, keeps the show moving, but I wonder if anything is to be
achieved
? Yes, we’ll get coverage, picture stories, fleeting awareness, possibly one or two pilot schemes to help youngsters with ‘interview skills’, but will the campaign make any sort of lasting difference? I think we know the answer to that.

I’m just in from the Chester Association President’s Club lunch at the Carlton Club. Our guest of honour: the Deputy Prime Minister. (It’s done on a quid pro quo basis. You go to their constituency; it’s difficult for them to refuse to come to yours.) Hezza arrived late. I couldn’t face the small talk while we were waiting, so went outside and paced the pavement, heart sinking, stomach churning, glumly anticipating the ‘well-he-can’t-really-deliver-the-big-names-can-he?’ looks I got last year when the Chancellor failed to show. Happily, and actually only about fifteen minutes behind schedule, the DPM swept in. He went straight into his turn: ‘We’ll win the election because people vote with their wallets not with their hearts. It’s the economy that decides it and on the economy middle-Britain trusts us more than Labour.’ He shook hands, posed for photos and swept off again. I was grateful, but whenever I see him at close quarters I notice how he impresses but he doesn’t seduce.

The Budget’s been and gone.

A penny off income tax, steady-as-she-goes, I’m-a-prudent-Chancellor. Two-fifths of the roads programme is to be cut, which will have one or two jumping up and down in certain parts of the constituency, but on the whole it’s all very reasonable (MIRAS untouched), very Ken, easy enough to defend on the doorstep. As the Chancellor sat down, from below the gangway Skinner called out, ‘Is that it?’ I suspect that may be the general verdict.

Public spending is currently running at 42 per cent of national income. Equally alarming (possibly more so) is the news that I’ve put on a stone since I arrived here. I had my ‘medical’ in the little room off the Cromwell lobby: cholesterol improvement (all those salads, all that grated carrot!) but ‘a little regular exercise wouldn’t come amiss’. Potentially more exciting is news of the virtually unnoticed mini-mini-shuffle. John Taylor is swapping with Jonathan Evans. Because John is frayed at the edges, looks as if he has lived a little and is divorced, the view is that clean-cut Evans is our boyo for the matrimonial legislation. Horam is coming to Health and Willetts replaces him as Roger Freeman’s sidekick. There was confusion for a time when it dawned on somebody that moving Horam to Health made Sackville surplus to requirements. Poor Tom hung in limbo for an hour or two until a berth was found for him at the Home Office. They are going to have five ministers there, instead of four. It’s only a game. Why not?

The upshot of the musical chairs is this: there’s a vacancy in the Whips’ Office. Once the panic over Tom had been resolved, I said to Stephen, ‘This means there’ll be a new whip.’

He looked at me blankly, ‘Yes.’

I said, ‘Well?’

The penny dropped. ‘I’ll speak to Alastair,’ he said.

We’ll see.

Memorable day. President Clinton came to address both Houses of Parliament. At 12 noon we trooped into the royal gallery and took our places. We had the usual flummery: Black Rod, the Lord Chancellor, Madam Speaker, all in full fig, figures straight out of Gilbert & Sullivan. The fanfare sounded, trumpets from on high. In came the Clintons and the Majors. The PM, Norma and Hillary sat in the front row; only the President sat on the stage. In the middle of the stalls we’d come because we thought we should. He may be a Democrat, but he’s still President. ‘Be not too proud to be there.’ This is a collector’s item, we said to ourselves. But if we’d come to mock, we stayed to praise. He was sensational.

He looks good – tall, slim, handsome, his eye meets your eye – but the way he talks … His speech was just perfect. It was measured, easy, elegant; he touched all the right buttons. He saluted the PM’s quest for peace in Northern Ireland, he affirmed the special relationship, he even announced that the US navy’s latest vessel is to be named the
Winston Churchill
(gasps around me, ‘First he wins the lottery, now this!’). He said all the things you’d expect him to say, but in such a way that they seemed neither predictable nor clichéd. There was a grandeur about it, yet his language was simple and the manner almost conversational. He brought us towards him. It did what oratory should, it stirred and lifted, but he made it personal and intimate. There was none of the phoney theatrics you’d have got from Heseltine or Hague (or even me) – no dated Oxford Union nonsense about this. This was modern oratory, the best speech of its kind I’ve ever heard. If we walked in wondering how he ever got to the White House, by the time we shuffled out we knew.