by Jerry Hayes
I slumped down after polite applause to notice the table strewn with empty whisky bottles and, in the corner of my eye, the car park groaning with shiny bulletproof Mercedes. My lasting memory of South Africa then was of cowed black men who were too afraid to look white men in the eye. But what really shocked me was lunch with someone who was considered to be a progressive white woman. I had been rather impressed by what I had thought were her quite liberal views. Until she came out with a little tirade against her maid. ‘The trouble with the blacks,’ she confided, ‘is that they are born liars and thieves. They just can’t help it.’ And that was from a liberal. Utterly depressing.
However, I will never forget how humour was the most effective tool of the liberal press to undermine the deeply unpleasant South African government. In the middle pages of a Cape Town broadsheet was a picture of soldiers with night sticks and assault rifles marching through a township. Women and children were cowering back in sheer terror. The headline cleverly escaped the censors.
‘Colonel “Blackie” Stewart takes his men on a “getting to know you” exercise.’
One day I received a message from the whips. President Reagan was flying to Britain; would I (with a few others like Fatty Soames and Steve Norris) like to go and meet him? Of course! So off we were bussed to the beautiful Regent’s Park residence of the American ambassador, Winfield House. It used to belong to a nymphomaniac Woolworth heiress unkindly known as ‘the mint with the hole’.
Meeting Reagan was fascinating. You could tell in those days the rank of each secret service officer by the size of their earpiece. They got smaller and smaller as the great man approached. Reagan was tall and affable, but read everything off a card. Like an actor with mini idiot boards. But the man oozed charm and charisma. Like a good actor, he stood on his marks and recited his lines, often written by his legendary speech-writer Peggy Noonan.
Reagan had the gift to move an audience, make them laugh and – something so rare in a politician – make them feel good about themselves. And that’s how he conquered America after the disaster that was the well-meaning, but utterly hopeless, peanut farmer Jimmy Carter. It is a popular myth that Reagan was a bit dim. According to my friend Stephen Masty, who used to write his party speeches, this was way off-beam. Most of the really memorable lines were penned by Reagan himself.
The relationship between him and Thatcher was remarkable. They sang off the same hymn sheet. If any two people changed the course of history with the fall of the Berlin Wall and Soviet arms reduction, it was their partnership. And they were not without affection for each other. It was rather moving that at his funeral she kissed his coffin. But she wouldn’t take any nonsense from him. Charles Moore’s brilliant biography of her shows her sheer force of will persuading him not to give in to the State Department’s policy of us doing a deal with the Argentinians during the Falklands War.
So here am I in an intimate setting with the most powerful man in the world. And can I remember a word he said to me? Sadly not. I really should have kept a diary.
A few weeks later I received a call from the embassy. Would I like to go on an all-expenses trip to the States for a month? Of course! But the trouble I had with the pairing whip, the delightful Tim Sainsbury (he of the supermarket), was remarkable. Remember, we had a tiny majority of 140. I fought and fought and fought to get on this once-in-a-lifetime trip and finally won.
It was my first time Stateside and I had a tremendous time, travelling enormous distances. I had a wonderful tour of the White House and in the West Wing hatched a plot with the neocon head of protocol. Neil Kinnock was due to meet the President, so how could we screw it up? The answer was: no moving pictures and black-and-white photos only.
Sorry, Neil.
But I did meet Senator Dan Quayle who became, rather extraordinarily, Vice-President a few years later. He was devastatingly handsome (think Robert Redford crossed with Brad Pitt). He had only one serious drawback. He was a master of talking total gobbledegook with great charm. Obviously nothing compared to the batshit-crazy, hog-whimperingly dumb ignorance of Sarah Palin. That is an aberration of nature in itself.
No, dear Dan was just run-of-the-mill dim. But at least he wasn’t dangerous. When I left his office, a senior aide summed it up rather well. ‘Nice guy, huh? Just darn stupid.’
I found a great bar in DC, at the Ritz Carlton. I was first taken there by the head of the election commission. He invited me for tea, which I thought was a rather genteel idea. Ten Black Russians later (don’t worry, it was a drink), I realised that the old boy liked to tope. I haven’t a clue what we discussed. But the bar was a magnet for some serious characters. Dodgy judges and the cream of organised crime. Often they arrived together. I became friendly with an enormous guy of Italian descent called Joe. On my last day he invited me to lunch at one of his restaurants. A stretch limo, with a large muscly guy in attendance, drove me and Joe downtown to an Italian restaurant. When we entered, the waiters stood to attention, but never quite relaxed. All through the meal, dodgy-looking fellows would come up to pay their respects to Joe. Just passing the time of day, I brightly enquired if there really was such a thing as the Mafia any more. The restaurant went deathly silent and waiters shiftily eyed each other. Until Joe spoke.
‘Jerry, you are a good guy, but if you cut your linguine again I will have you rubbed out.’ Then he smiled, slapped me on the back and everyone laughed. A little nervously. I never mentioned the subject again. I presented Joe with a splendid House of Commons keyring. It is probably now embedded in some poor fellow’s eye socket.
Then off to San Francisco. Wonderful. There was only one minor hiccup. At the bar I was approached by a number of ladies in need of a shag. I was rather flattered until I realised that they were more interested in the bulge in my wallet than anywhere else. Uncle Sam had put me up in a brothel. I made my excuses and went to my room and locked the door. Yup, I’m pretty sure about that.
The next stop was Minnesota. I was to stay with a family on a farm. It was a nightmare. I first realised that there were going to be problems when I noticed that there was a large Pat Robertson (a mad gospeller of the right) magnet on the fridge. And when, after dinner (not a whiff of alcohol in sight), their idea of entertainment was the non-stop showing of hellfire sermon videos.
They were a charming family, but were creationists and believed that the Bible was a manual to life that could be used for everything. Literally. They told me with a straight face that if the devil deprived you of money the Lord would recompense you seven-fold. I nodded politely. They saw my scepticism. So they gave me an example of the Bible in action. Here was their story. A few months before, they had received what they believed was an unfair tax demand. So they consulted the Bible and prayed with their community. Guess what? A few weeks later they received a tax rebate. The amount? Seven-fold what had been demanded of them. Jesus! Or maybe not.
Then off to Florida, where I had a volunteer driver called Felix who was a rocket scientist at Cape Canaveral. He drove me to an engagement with the Episcopal Church stuffed full of daughters of the revolution who were utterly convinced that they were related to royalty. They were a pretty grim bunch. The plan was that there was to be a finger buffet, after which I would make a jolly speech. All went well until Felix walked in after parking the car. There was a stunned silence. Felix was black. When they had recovered from the shock I suggested that he join us for the buffet. It was as if I had offered them a gynaecological examination with a used knife and fork. With a fake smile that revealed expensive plastic surgery, the head daughter, through perfectly formed gritted teeth, gave me the full Southern hospitality treatment. ‘We are delighted to feed Felix,’ she drawled, ‘but I am afraid he will have to eat in the kitchen.’ I was puzzled.
‘Why? There is no table plan and Felix is being kind enough to drive me around for nothing.’
‘I am afraid that it would be inappropriate.’
‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll do my speech as lon
g as Felix joins us for supper.’
‘I’m afraid that will not be possible.’
‘Then thank you and good night.’
So Felix and I drove off into the night. We dumped the car and spent a wonderful time singing blues round the piano in a bar. It was depressing that even at the end of the ’80s racism was still alive and well in some parts of the United States.
Last on the list was Boston. A great place. I was invited to the President of the State Senate Billy Bulger’s St Patrick’s Day lunch. This was a very Irish, very pro-Irish Republican event, where the dogs were painted green, as was the beer and the food. With Noraid raising funds in the shadows. What’s more, Billy was a man who took great pleasure in ripping the guts out of his guests, who included Vice-President Bush, Governor of Massachusetts and presidential candidate Mike Dukakis, Joe Kennedy and me. A Brit MP and a Tory at one of these events was not dissimilar to lions having a pleasant chat with a Christian at the Colosseum. I was going to be creamed. So I came prepared. I appeared on the platform in a green leprechaun hat and an enormous badge emblazoned ‘Irish is beautiful’. I then ripped the piss out of Billy (‘It is always a pleasure to see you on TV so I can switch you off’) and told a load of off-colour Thatcher jokes. It was a high wire act.
Mercifully, they loved it. My miserable skin was saved and I became a good friend of Bulger.
Hollywood later made a film based on Billy’s brother Whitey. It starred Jack Nicholson and was called The Departed. Whitey was a gangster and was the FBI’s most wanted man. He is now behind bars. We never met. I think.
Next, a trip to Israel, where Sir Ivan Lawrence and I read the Beatitudes on the spot where Christ would have given them: at the bottom, by the Sea of Galilee, where the acoustics are amazing, as the hills provide the perfect amphitheatre.
Later we had an uncomfortable meeting with the Prime Minister and former Stern Gang member Yitzhak Shamir of Likud. A sinister little man.
Then, a wonderful chat with Shimon Peres (now President). What a great man. What a fantastic and charming sense of humour. This was his icebreaker. In his thick Middle European accent he said this: ‘Gentlemen. We in Israel have an incompetent government and more Arab firepower against us than that of NATO. But it is not as serious as your poll tax.’
We also had an opportunity to meet with the Palestinians, which was invaluable. The way it worked was like this. The British ambassador dealt with the Israelis, while the consul had great contacts with the Palestinians. However, at the dinner the Defence Secretary, Tom King, came in for a slagging-off. Andrew MacKay, who was on the trip, was not amused. He, after all, was Tom’s PPS.
Then a little trip to the Dead Sea. My old chum David Amess, a fellow Essex MP, was a little concerned. ‘I don’t want to go in, I can’t swim,’ he moaned. We gently explained to him that swimming wasn’t relevant as one tended to float. The Israelis always called him Mr A. Mess. Well, we thought it was funny.
The good thing about select committee trips is that this is the only time you really get to know your colleagues from other parties. It is a great bonding exercise. This is what makes these committees invaluable to democracy and potentially lethal to the executive. By and large, reports are delivered that grapple with the issues rather than with the party politics. It keeps ministers on their toes.
I thoroughly enjoyed my time on the Health and latterly the Heritage (now DCMS) Committees. We had three wonderful chairmen, Frank Field, Nicholas Winterton and Gerald Kaufman. All dedicated, all bright and all great fun. It would be far too dull to log every trip, but two come to mind.
One was a visit to Holland to investigate childbirth. It was all rather scary and very Calvinistic. Women in the late 1980s and early ’90s were encouraged to give birth at home rather than at a hospital, and a white bedstead would be set up in the living room. We asked a senior consultant about the sort of pain relief that was available. He looked (it would have had to be a he) at us with total incredulity.
‘Pain relief in childbirth is not part of our culture,’ he snorted. ‘Our women believe that once they have had the pleasure they then have to take the pain.’ I made sure that when my wife Alison was pregnant we didn’t travel anywhere near Holland.
Then, a lovely trip to the USA with Kaufman. For anyone interested, the way to his heart is ice cream, as he is a serious connoisseur.
His tales about the days in Harold Wilson’s kitchen Cabinet could fill a library. I once asked him about Joe Haines, Harold Wilson’s notorious press secretary. ‘Introducing him to Harold was the biggest mistake of my life.’ They despise each other.
This trip was just before the 1997 electoral slaughter. Gerald predicted the overall Blair majority within a couple of seats. He asked me what I would do when I was flushed down the political pan. I remarked that I would rather like to write a column.
‘If you do, use it to destroy your enemies and promote your friends.’ Mmm.
My only recollection of that trip was going to Salem (where the witch trials were held) and its famous maritime museum. There, in pride of place, was an enormous ear trumpet. I asked its provenance.
‘Ah, it is made out of a whale’s penis,’ intoned a straight-faced curator. Of course. What else could it made of? As it was America, I thought it best not to attempt any Dictaphone jokes.
Sometimes it is necessary to milk your contacts to arrange an overseas trip for political advantage. The 1987 election was bound to be a tricky one, particularly in a marginal seat like Harlow. So the splendid Ann Widdecombe came up with a wheeze. Why don’t the Catholic MPs get an audience with the Pope? So we all contacted our local bishops and it was sorted. Wonderful. Particularly as it was John Paul II; a proper Pope and now a saint. So off we popped to Rome, lined up and got a hug and a blessing from the old boy. Within an hour and minus six quid, photos of the great event arrived at our hotel rooms. To milk the whole affair for all that it was worth, I filled my pockets with rosaries so that I could distribute them to Catholic Harlow voters like some Chaucerian indulgence seller. After all, they had been blessed by the Pope. Then I ensured that the photo was splashed on the front pages of my local newspapers. Harlow was awash with Catholics and the cherry on the cake was that I had helped the local Catholic club get their booze licence back. In the 1987 election I doubled my majority to over 6,000. No wonder the man is a saint. That was probably his first miracle.
My last little jaunt abroad before being taken to the electoral vet and put down by the people of Harlow was to Paris. This was a group of Labour and Tory MPs who had a large French company based in their constituencies. This was pure indulgence and fantastic fun. On the last day, after a magnificent lunch, our beautiful hostess asked in her perfumed, delightfully French and hormone-fuelled accent what we wanted to do next. She listed a number of cultural attractions. To this day I still tease my mate Bill Olner and remind him of his request. In his broad Yorkshire accent he asked this insightful question: ‘Merci, madame, mais où est le knocking shop?’ What a star. Of course, we never found it.
CHAPTER 13
THE WHIPS
Of all the government jobs, the one I really coveted was a place in the Whips’ Office. But as I am an inveterate gossip and as discreet as Katie Price in full Hello! mode, I was never a candidate.
The job of the whip is to fade into the background and sniff out what Members are up to. They are a sponge to soak up all the gossip, intrigue and backstabbing and report back to the Chief about who is trustworthy and who is a total shit. The Chief is the Prime Minister’s Beria. The job of the Whips’ Office is not to bully or threaten but to flatter and cajole. Lots of carrot and just a little bit of stick when absolutely necessary. Their power is knowledge. MPs love to gossip and plot. To gain brownie points there are always those who will quite happily stitch up their colleagues in the hope of personal advancement. Very few MPs don’t have one or two skeletons rattling around in the cupboard. And before they step out of line there is always the fear that the whips m
ight just know about them. The chances are that they won’t, but one of the great strengths of the Whips’ Office is that it is shrouded in mystery. Break that mystique and they lose their authority. And the Chief’s official title is not Patronage Secretary for nothing. He can determine the future of even the grandest of ministers.
Once, when I was PPS to Robert Atkins (Ratkins) when he was Minister of State in Northern Ireland, there was a three-line whip on some nondescript and eminently forgettable piece of legislation. Ratkins couldn’t be arsed to fly over from Belfast as he had a full diary the next day. So I was despatched to negotiate with the whips. As Ratkins was a close friend of John Major, then Prime Minister, I thought that this would be easy. Unfortunately, the whip in charge of this vote was my old adversary, the ‘caring whip’ David Lightbown. I could hear the low growl of his twenty-five stone lumbering into action down the phone. ‘I imagine your monkey enjoys being a minister? If so he’d better be at the vote tonight.’ And the phone was slammed down. That was that.
Ratkins did like to chance his arm. He once asked Major if he could have a few weeks off so he could go to Australia and watch the cricket. John realised that if he allowed this it would open the flood gates to daft requests from ministers and play very badly in the press. So Ratkins had his request denied, but his disappointment was rewarded with elevation to the Privy Council. He was styled The Right Honourable Sir Robert Atkins MP. The jammy devil.
There seems to be a misunderstanding by some of the 2010 intake about what the role of the Whips’ Office really is. One poor dear was moaning in the press recently that his whip never took him to one side, bought him a cup of coffee and listened to his woes and brilliant policy ideas. The whips are not the Samaritans. Their overriding responsibility is to push through the government’s business. If you find yourself in a spot of bother, like being found with a cold woman, a hot boy or a serious drink problem, they will advise you how to minimise the damage. But they are primarily doing this to protect the government. Not you.
