Breaking the Code

by Gyles Brandreth

  Coming up with a workable framework of legislation that won’t infringe press freedom but will protect the privacy of the innocent isn’t going to be easy. Peter Brooke seems ready to back a privacy law, but No. 10 is sending out the signal that Mr Major is set to reject Sir David Calcutt’s proposal for a statutory press complaints tribunal, headed by a judge, with powers to impose hefty fines and impose full and proper corrections. Gerald [Kaufman] is determined that we come up with an answer that works and that everyone will accept. He wants his footnote in history – and who shall blame him?

  THURSDAY 14 JANUARY 1993

  Fiona Miller came to interview me for the House magazine and made me smile. She said, ‘They say you’re going to be the first of your intake to get a job.’ I want to say, ‘Wow! Who are “they”? And tell me more!’ Instead, I say, ‘Oh really, that’s nice,’ and burble on about the joys of the backbencher’s lot and how my predecessor but three (Sir Basil Nield) remained on the backbenches throughout his career but changed the lives of tens of thousands of his fellow citizens with his private member’s bill that became the 1950 Adoption Act.

  I went to another of Jonathan Aitken’s ‘thinking people’s soirées’. He made me smile too, told me a story of how Hilaire Belloc, when he was an MP, was asked by an old boy at his club what he did for a living. ‘I’m a Member of Parliament,’ said Belloc. ‘Good God,’ spluttered the old boy, ‘is that still going on?’

  MONDAY 18 JANUARY 1993

  I returned from Chester (where the highlight of my weekend was a lengthy session with the Chester ME Group, all looking as listless as I felt) to find Simon [Cadell] in the Harley Street Clinic (which doesn’t sound good, but he was very airy about it) and George Bush using his last weekend in the White House to fire off forty Cruise missiles in the direction of Baghdad’s nuclear weapons sites. The Chancellor is equally gung-ho: as employment nears three million, the outlook, apparently, has rarely been rosier. I must tell him, that’s not how it seems on the streets of Chester.

  THURSDAY 21 JANUARY 1993

  Audrey Hepburn has died. President Clinton has been inaugurated – and he looks good. And I have just come down from the committee corridor where, with colleagues from the National Heritage Select Committee, we have been taking evidence from Kelvin MacKenzie, bovver boy editor of The Sun – and we looked terrible. We were terrible. It was The Sun who won it. We may have thought we were going to give the terror of the tabloids a grilling. The truth is, from start to finish, Kelvin had us well and truly kebabed. It was very funny really.

  This is the mother of parliaments. Gerald is one of Her Majesty’s Privy Counsellors. When witnesses appear before us we expect a touch of deference, a bit of forelock-tugging, a certain becoming modesty. We don’t expect what we got just now: a cocky Jack-the-lad, bruiser, joker, champion of the working man. He came on strong and walked off triumphant.

  Customarily our witnesses are awed by the surroundings. Most look nervous: frequently they shake with nerves. Not Kelvin. He plonked himself down: ‘Can I say what a pleasure this is?’ he beamed. Working on the premise that attack is the best form of defence (and perhaps assuming, erroneously, that we were armed with a carefully crafted line of argument that we planned to deploy to devastating effect), he struck first: ‘Frankly, I believe you are hostile to the press and hostile to ordinary people knowing what is going on in public life.’ He rejected Calcutt’s statutory tribunal out of hand. He told us we didn’t know what we were talking about. ‘All this stuff and nonsense about wanting US-style privacy laws – you guys must be nuts.’ He taunted. He teased. It was crude but masterly. ‘Now, Miss Lindi St Clair, a woman known – or not known – to some of you. She kept a little list. There are some extraordinary names on that list. If we had the American privacy laws here we could publish the name of every single MP named in the list, all their alleged sexual peccadilloes, and you couldn’t claim a single penny.’

  I said MPs were one thing, but what about Mrs Parker-Bowles? Wasn’t she a private citizen? ‘When you sleep with the next king of England you move into rather a different stratosphere.’ He thought the British papers should be able to publish the Camillagate tapes in full. ‘Prince Charles is the next defender of the faith and he’s cuckolding someone else’s husband.’

  When Joe Ashton (who is usually quite good) got going, Kelvin turned the tables effortlessly: ‘After many years of taking the tabloid shilling yourself, Joe…’ Joe had given what we all thought was a good example of The Sun humiliating a private citizen when the paper reported the case of man who had glued his buttocks together, mistaking a tube of superglue for the ointment for his haemorrhoids. ‘Our John’s gone potty and glued up his botty’ was the Sun headline. According to Kelvin, the man had approached the newspaper himself with the story. Collapse of argument.

  When it was over, Kelvin left the conquering hero. John Gorst241 (who is deaf) thought we had done rather well. Gerald knew the truth. We were lambs to the slaughter – and in large part it was our own fault. We hadn’t prepared a considered line of argument. We hadn’t done our homework. Complacency and laziness leading inexorably to humiliation.

  MONDAY 25 JANUARY 1993

  From 3.30 to 10.00 p.m. I sat patiently in the Chamber of the House of Commons, speech in hand, awaiting my turn. It never came. I wasn’t called. It is so frustrating, but there we are. The National Lottery etc. Bill has achieved its second reading without benefit of Brandreth wisdom. The contributions we did have were pretty lacklustre. The only memorable diversion was Andrew Hargreaves,242 sitting near me also waiting to get in, speculating as to the most fanciable Member of Parliament on the opposition benches. ‘I’d say Jane Kennedy,243 wouldn’t you? Good figure. And she’s nice.’ From the whips’ end of the front bench, we heard a low voice grunting, ‘Nice be damned, what’s she like as a lay?’

  TUESDAY 26 JANUARY 1993

  I have just been talking to Judith Chaplin, sharing with her this morning’s experience. I went to Elvetham Hall in Fleet to take part in a ‘Cabinet Office Top Management Seminar’. I was the token ‘new MP’. My set piece seemed to go okay, but what was alarming was the discussion, both in the formal sessions and over coffee. These people were senior management, middle-ranking to senior civil servants, and their message was clear and uncompromising: this government’s run out of steam. Worse, it’s hit the buffers. It’s come to the end of the line. It’s got nothing to offer because it appears to have nothing it wants to offer. No ideas, no vision, no purpose.

  Judith seemed personally affronted. ‘Civil servants shouldn’t be speaking like that.’

  ‘But they are.’

  ‘It’s so unfair on John.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes, it is. But you’re right. We should do something about it.’

  We have agreed to meet and talk it through. I like Judith. She knows her way around the system. She has the ear, and I imagine the trust, of the PM.

  THURSDAY 28 JANUARY 1993

  This place is a village. The corridors (there are two miles of them) are streets and alleys, Central Lobby is the market place, Members’ Lobby the village green. Gossip travels from one watering hole to the next in moments. There was a buzz in the Library earlier, the crackle of electricity suggesting ‘something’ was in the air. I went in search of further and better particulars and the first person I came across was Emma Nicholson.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’

  (How one hates admitting one hasn’t heard!) ‘No. What is it?’

  ‘It’s John. And his catering lady, Clare Latimer.’

  ‘What? Having an affair?’

  ‘So they say.’

  ‘Is it true?’

  Emma gives her barking laugh. ‘John has always had an eye for the ladies. I know…’

  Emma is deaf so regularly gets the wrong end of the stick. She’s also vain. No doubt the PM has squeezed her hand in the way he does and Emma (poor deluded creature) has mistaken his
naturally flirtatious way with women for a bad case of the hots. On the other hand, if the Clare Latimer story is true (and we know Michèle’s line: ‘Men – they’re all the same’), what a field day Kelvin’s going to have!

  MONDAY 1 FEBRUARY 1993

  Biddle & Co., the Prime Minister’s solicitors, have descended from a great height and successfully killed the story. They’ve issued a disdainful denial on behalf of the PM and instant writs against the New Statesman and the Scallywag, the low-life perpetrators of the libel. That seems to be that. If there had been anything in it, the tabloids would have snuffled it out. I think one or two in the Tea Room are a mite disappointed to discover the story has no legs. They’re making do with today’s twist in the Downing Street soap opera: the PM and the Chancellor barely on speaking terms, Lamont sidelined, economic policy now being run from No. 10 rather than the Treasury. I go along to Drinks and Q thinking we might be given a line to take on all this, but no, the stories on all the front pages, the fact that the pound has just slumped to an all-time low (I’ve just read it on the tape outside the Smoking Room), none of this features on our agenda. Our theme for the week is the government’s assault on unnecessary bureaucracy, how we’re cutting through the red tape to help small businesses. That’s what they want us to talk about, so (even if no one’s listening) we will.

  WEDNESDAY 3 FEBRUARY 1993

  Good news. Malcolm [Rifkind] made a statement at 3.30: the army is getting an additional 5,000 men and the proposed amalgamation of the Cheshire and Staffordshire regiments will not now proceed. We’ve saved the Cheshires! The moment Malcolm sits down I beetle over the road to the office and fax the good news to the Chester media. I hail it as a great victory for our campaign – which it is. I do believe all the lobbying did make a difference. That’s one of the real advantages of our absurd voting system. We are herded together in the division lobbies, government and backbenchers, from Monday to Thursday, for twenty minutes at a time, sometimes several times in a night. There is ample and regular opportunity for the ordinary backbencher to badger ministers – and, in this instance, it’s paid off. Let’s face it, Colonel Bob Stewart and the Cheshires’ deployment in Bosnia haven’t been unhelpful either. Anyway, whatever brought about the U-turn, it’s what we wanted. Three cheers.

  Rather less exciting is the fact that I’ve been dragooned onto the Standing Committee considering the Railways Bill. This means that from 10.00 a.m. onwards every Tuesday and Thursday for the next two months I’m going to be imprisoned on the committee room corridor going through a piece of legislation in which I have scant interest. I wanted to be on the Lotteries Bill. I volunteered to be on the Lotteries Bill. That was probably my mistake. Cecil Parkinson244 put it so nicely: ‘People here like to give you what they think you deserve and deny you what they think you want.’

  My real mistake was letting slip to the whip that I knew quite a bit about the lottery and even had the managing director of Vernons Pools as a constituent. He wheeled me in to see the Deputy Chief Whip245 where I compounded my error by showing off the extent of my knowledge of the bill, its strengths and its weaknesses.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll find this government’s legislation contains any weaknesses,’ said the Deputy with a wintry smile and a slightly raised eyebrow.

  I still didn’t get it. I thought because I was keen and informed I’d be the man they wanted. Now I realise, it’s because I’m keen and informed I’m the very last man they want. The upshot is I’m off Lotteries and onto Railways.

  And I’m not going to New York either. Gerald and the Select Committee are off to the US at the weekend, gathering evidence for our enquiry into the cost of CDs. (Gerald buys a lot of CDs. They cost much more in the UK than in the US. Gerald wants to know why. Fair enough.) Lizard-like, skin glistening, eyes narrowed, tongue flicking, Gerald explained to us that if we all went, the Budget wouldn’t stretch to us travelling Business Class. He felt that those going would want to travel Business Class (murmurs of assent), so was anyone ready to volunteer not to go? I put my hand up. I’ve got a nightmare weekend in the constituency, things that to get out of would bring the house down; I’m committed to the wretched Winter Ball on Monday; there’s the dinner with the PM on Tuesday; now there’s the Railways Bill. I’ve been to New York – and in better company. It’s less stressful staying put.

  TUESDAY 9 FEBRUARY 1993

  The Winter Ball could have been worse. I did my stuff. It turned out they asked me because they were weary of ‘Jeffrey’s hectoring tone’. I bet he raises more money though. I didn’t do too badly, but it isn’t much fun trying to raise £30,000 in under eight minutes flogging three items to four interested punters surrounded by 900 garrulous but non-bidding spectators. One good woman bought a bottle of champagne signed by the Prime Minister for £16,000. She deserves a peerage. (And I understand she may get one.)

  I was warned off taking bids from punters at one particular table. Their dusky hue wasn’t the problem; it was their ‘slightly doubtful business reputation’: ‘they’ll want a picture with the PM – we can’t be too careful.’

  The best bit of the evening was encountering David Cameron,246 special adviser to the Chancellor.

  ‘Well done,’ he purred, pink cheeks glowing. ‘I hear you’ll soon be joining us at the Treasury.’

  ‘Really?’ I tried to look as if I knew exactly what he was talking about while being far too discreet to let on. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘PPS to the Financial Secretary. Can’t be bad.’

  Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it were true? In case it isn’t, I’ve not mentioned it to Michèle. Let’s wait and see.

  This comes to you late on Tuesday morning, from Committee Room 12, where I am advised I shall be closeted every Tuesday and Thursday from now till the end of April. Three months locked in a room with John Prescott247 and Glenda Jackson! Can you imagine? Prescott is pug-ugly, overweight, overbearing, but not, I imagine, over-promoted. He is brutish, but there’s something rather brilliant about him as well. He’s sharp, he’s relentless, he has no way with words but he feels formidable, and he’s openly contemptuous of our side. The contrast between him and our leading player could hardly be greater. Roger Freeman248 is an old-fashioned smoothie. He’s stepped straight out of the ’50s: the posture, the manner, the pin-stripe suit, the Brylcreamed swept-back hair. When Prescott addresses the committee he leans forward in his place and simply belches out whatever he’s got to say. Roger gets up and carefully stands behind his chair. He is punctilious with the courtesies, urbane, gracious, but businesslike not flowery, effortlessly reasonable, never crudely partisan. I’m impressed.

  I’m also relieved to learn that this morning we just sit till lunchtime. From Thursday the routine is 10.30 a.m. till 1.00 p.m., 4.30 p.m. till whenever. It will be a long haul but it is, I suppose, what I’m paid for.

  LATER

  A day that’s included tea with the editor of Izvestia, drinks at Buckingham Palace, and dinner with the Prime Minister, is almost worthy of Chips Channon. For tea in the Pugin Room with Oleg Golembiovsky I’m joined by Chips’s son, Paul, the other non-jet-setting member of the National Heritage Select Committee. (I like to think Paul – ‘his cheeks are pink, his hair is sleek’ – urbane, amused, amusing, only flies first class.) The Foreign Office has set up the meeting and it’s fascinating. Clearly nothing but uncertainty is certain in Russia now. Amiably chain-smoking, Igor tells us that Izvestia’s circulation has dropped from three million to one million since, now they rely solely on sales and advertising for revenue, the price of the paper has rocketed to fifteen roubles. The problems are no longer state control and government interference (you can print what you like), but the alarming cost of paper and distribution. Igor has been learning about how to become a capitalist from an American paperback: a do-it-yourself guide on how to start your own business that he picked up in an airport bookstall.

  As Paul and I speak no Russian and Igor admits to little English we communicate through the
good offices of the interpreter, who glories in the name of Aubone Pyke (you couldn’t make it up) and appears to have no difficulty interpreting my story of the electronic translating device that was given the phrase ‘out of sight, out of mind’ and asked to translate it into Russian. The same machine was then asked to translate the phrase back into English and on retranslation ‘out of sight, out of mind’ came back as ‘invisible lunatic’. I offer this to Aubone as reassurance that he’s unlikely to be made redundant by a computer. He smiles at me indulgently. As we leave, sotto voce Paul cautions me against making jokes with interpreters. ‘An awful lot of them are spies.’

  At Buckingham Palace we were launching the John Arlott Memorial Trust with the aim of raising funds to create low-cost rural housing and safeguarding recreational and play space to go with it. I’d said to the PM, as he was going to be in the same building at the same time, when he’d finished with the Queen why didn’t he look in? I told him Mrs Arlott would be there, so he said he might, but he didn’t. Because I was keeping my eye on the door in case he turned up, I fear I didn’t work the room very effectively. The Princess Royal, of course, was a brick. That’s the word for her. She’s horsey, she’s got an odd strangulated voice, a whinnying laugh, and yet there’s something almost sexy about her – if you like that sort of thing. She made an excellent speech: crisp, clear, businesslike. In my reply I was so busy trying to get away with a convoluted topical joke about Dolphin Square,249 royal palaces and leasehold reform that I lost my way and forgot two or three of the key messages. Bah.