Breaking the Code

by Gyles Brandreth

I’m just in from St James’s Palace, the Chester Cathedral fund-raising reception. My chat with the Prince of Wales consisted largely of manic barking laughter on both sides. Evidently we both felt that was the best way to get through it.

  THURSDAY 19 OCTOBER 1995

  A unique day. It began with the Home Secretary on the ropes, probably a goner. It’s ended with him triumphant, as good as unassailable. This is the first time since I arrived here that I have seen a performance in the Chamber – by itself – transform a situation.

  It was an opposition motion – ‘That this House deplores the unwillingness of the Secretary of State for the Home Department to accept responsibility for serious operational failures of the Prison Service’ – and Jack Straw led the charge. He had a powerful case to deploy, but right from the outset he was woolly and plodding, easily confused, thrown by the interventions and virtually sunk only five minutes in by a beautifully judged question from Bernard Jenkin: ‘Under the circumstances, would he have dismissed the Director General of the Prison Service?’ It was a little hand-grenade lightly lobbed, but its effect was devastating. Straw hesitated. For a second the wretched creature couldn’t think what to say. He didn’t have an answer. And as he began to flannel we began to jeer. He never recovered and, as soon as Howard started intervening on him – urgent, attacking, determined, but not for a moment losing his cool – we knew we’d won. Straw was a mangy old sheepdog, and toothless, our man a thoroughbred panther, fangs bared.

  By the time Michael got to his feet Straw was already in retreat and Michael pushed home his advantage mercilessly. He had wonderful venomous fun at Alan Howarth’s expense – how we loved it! – and he scored again and again both because he was so unrelenting – chillingly so – and because his mastery of the brief was absolute.

  Blair sat next to Straw looking increasingly grumpy and uncomfortable. He was hating the hash Straw was making of it. He kept nudging him, telling him what to say. Howard saw what was happening – the despatch boxes are only six feet apart – and began goading Blair, taunting him – so that eventually Blair made the fatal mistake of getting to his feet, humiliating his man in the process, but completely failing to deliver any kind of blinding strike. It was an electric ninety minutes and when Michael finished and sat back, triumphant, the roar from our side was incredible. We cheered and cheered, we waved our order papers, those of us sitting right behind him leant forward to pat him – to touch his garb. At lunchtime in the Tea Room there was a general acceptance that Michael’s number was almost certainly up. Thanks to Straw’s ineptitude and Michael’s nerveless bravura performance, whatever the rights and wrongs of the case, Michael has set himself free. Amazing.

  Walking along the corridor between Members’ Lobby and the Tea Room I came face to face with Alan Howarth. He said, ‘I feel bad about you and Stephen.’

  I said, ‘But you let the Labour Party use you. They’ve simply exploited you.’

  ‘It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.’

  I said, ‘Never mind. It’s done now.’ I think I was trying to sound scornful, dismissive, but it came out wrong. I just walked away. It’s probably childish, but I really don’t want to talk to him any more.

  WEDNESDAY 25 OCTOBER 1995

  A happy day, much of it (about eight hours) spent in the Chamber. This morning I initiated a ninety-minute debate on community service – raised an issue that I care about, even put forward a couple of practical ideas. This afternoon, from 3.30 p.m., we’ve been debating the national lottery. I chipped in merrily here and there and, for once, I was called to speak at a relatively civilised hour – 7.00 p.m. I spoke for about half an hour, easily and well. At least, I made myself laugh.

  I’ve had an excellent dinner with congenial coves and I’m on my way to a nightcap with Willetts and Coe – intelligent, attractive, interesting achievers. It’s not a bad life. I can see how easily one could turn into a Tufton Bufton – a settled backbencher, making the odd speech, writing the occasional article, opening fetes and bazaars and hostels for single mothers in the constituency at the weekend (bit of a bore, but there we are), being wined and dined by all and sundry, having access to anyone – the life of Patrick Cormack or Geoffrey Johnson-Smith, or Gerald Kaufman, comfortable, complacent, not entirely without achievement (a useful campaign now and again, a constituent’s intractable problem actually solved once in a while) … but it’s not what I want, is it?

  TUESDAY 7 NOVEMBER 1995

  8.00 a.m.: Breakfast with Stephen, followed by DoH prayers at 9.00. Stephen’s in his element. He knows his way around the department,525 he rates the officials, he’s happy with his ministers – especially Gerry. The others I think he doesn’t notice. Tom526 loves to be ignored. ‘God, you should have seen Virginia!’ Clearly Virginia was busy-busy-busy morning, noon, and night, on the line all the time – daybreak and weekends a speciality. Stephen doesn’t refer to the ministers unless he needs them. Julia finds this disconcerting. I said to Stephen, ‘She hasn’t had one proper conversation with you since you arrived.’ He said, not unkindly, ‘That’s the junior minister’s lot. What does she want to say anyway?’ He sounded genuinely puzzled. Because he is self-contained and certain of what he’s doing, he doesn’t realise that others may want the occasional pat on the back. ‘You can tell her how wonderful she is.’ ‘I do. Actually, I tell her how wonderful you think she is.’

  10.30 a.m.: Coffee in the Pugin Room527 with Ned Cavendish. It’s one of the good places here, the one room we share with the Lords, hence their red carpet underfoot but our green leather to sit upon, Mr and Mrs Pugin gazing down at us, the friendly Filipino waitress (who is always so sweet to Michèle) who always arrives with the coffee before she’s even asked. Ned is some sort of descendant of the Marquis of Hartington528 – Harty-Tarty – my favourite nineteenth century politician since I heard the story of how, invariably, he would dismiss the bright new schemes and bold initiatives brought to him by ambitious eager-beavers with the same refrain, ‘Far better not!’ Ned is droll, foppish and has hopes for the candidates list. He is destined to be disappointed. I think he knows it.

  11.30 a.m.: As instructed, I presented myself at 12 Downing Street. I arrived with Michael Jopling. We were ushered into the Chief Whip’s little study. We have been singled out for a signal honour: next Wednesday, when the Queen opens Parliament, we are to propose and second the Loyal Address. Alastair mumbled that he was sure we knew the form, Murdo Maclean529 crept forward like Uriah Heep with photocopies of the choicest speeches of recent years, I said ‘Thank you very much, I’ll do my best’, and Jopling sighed and shook his head and snorted and whinnied like an old cart-horse. ‘I’m not sure, Alastair, that I’m the right man, I’m really not. With all the stuff about my outside interests, there’ll be barracking. Could spoil what should be a special occasion.’ Alastair protested that thanks to his reforms Michael is admired across the House. True. Still, the old Eeyore hemmed and hawed. He’d think about it. All the way back to the House, he chuntered to me about how he really didn’t think he could, it would backfire, it would prove embarrassing. He’s going to bottle out. I’m sure of it. I’m not unsympathetic, but if anyone’s going to be barracked it’s me. (It is awful to admit it, but it’s a relief to feel my tormentor-in-chief530 won’t be here. I didn’t want him to die. I just wanted him to go away.)

  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 Sumberg531 told me he did it several years ago and blew it completely. That was the end of him.)

  MONDAY 13 NOVEMBER 1995

  I’m glad Jopling bottled out. It’s now to be Douglas Hurd, which is so m
uch 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:

  I heard the Address moved and seconded. The mover was Miss Florence Horsbrugh, Member for Dundee, an extremely likeable and able woman. She used simple, but magnificent prose, and scored a great success; she was wearing a dark-brown, flowing dress and fawn gloves. She was followed by Harold Nicolson, from whom so much was expected. He was in diplomatic uniform, and somehow looked ridiculous … He rose, and immediately ‘lost’ and annoyed the House. Indeed, his speech was one of the saddest I have ever heard, so well meant and so well phrased, but meaningless to the point of absurdity. He began with a tribute to Ramsay MacDonald, which irritated both sides of the House, then he stumbled, and at one moment I feared he was breaking down. I felt sick for him … He sat down, at long last, in complete silence.

  And Harold Nicolson himself, 7 November 1936:

  Many press cuttings come in which suggest to me that my speech on the Address was really more of a floater than I had imagined. It is most unfortunate, as I gather that they really did mean to give me a job in the government when the reshuffle comes in the Spring and I may now lose the chance for ever. Three minutes of blindness and a ruined career!532

  Oh God!

  TUESDAY 14 NOVEMBER 1995

  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.’

  WEDNESDAY 15 NOVEMBER 1995

  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.

  THURSDAY 16 NOVEMBER 1995

  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 Critchley533 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.

  TUESDAY 21 NOVEMBER 1995

  I breakfasted with the only other person in the country who didn’t watch the Princess of Wales being i
nterviewed 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.