A Journey (95 page)

The bid strategy had two parts to it: there was a ceremony and a party at the British High Commission to show off our wares and to give the team a sense of unison and solidarity; then we would see the various members of the committee, of whom I was deputed to meet around forty on a one-to-one basis. Out of a total electorate of 115, it was a fair proportion. I sat in the hotel suite, and just before they were ushered in I was handed slips of paper with their details on, so I would know roughly what their likes, worries and dislikes might be. In the course of two days of meetings, I learned again the lesson that, at a profound level, electorates are the same everywhere: each member has one vote. In small electorates, this is crucial.

When I ran for the Sedgefield nomination, John Burton taught me this. There were lots of big mouths, movers and shakers on the General Management Committee (the selection body at the time) who would take the floor, but John identified the little old ladies, the not very assiduous attendees, the shy, the diffident, the uncertain and the unaligned, and together we went after them. When all was said and done, they each had the same number of votes as the movers and shakers: one.

Because the Olympic electorate are globally dispersed, the adage was even more true. The person who spotted this first was Cherie. Ever since we had launched the bid, she had been going to different parts of the world and meeting the less significant members. There are several people without whom we would not have won the bid, and she is one of them. She can be difficult, my wife, but when determined, she is determined. She can also work a room better than anyone I’ve seen.

She and her mum and the wonderful Jackie, our nanny, are all passionate about athletics (truthfully I’m not) and so she enjoyed it. But enjoy it or not, by the time we all converged in Singapore, she had met, followed up and kept in touch with a large part of the committee. At the IOC party we were continually bumping into her ‘old friends’ who were usually on their own as they weren’t considered important, but each of them of course had the same vote as those over whom a lot of fuss was being made. So, hidden from sight, we had been building up a lot of quiet support. Seb too had been travelling the world and was very effective.

As I discovered quite quickly, the people seeing me hadn’t the slightest interest in talking to me about athletics, rightly figuring me as an ignoramus on that score; but they were fascinated about politics and meeting a famous political figure. I found that my recent speech to the European Parliament was a huge talking point. Bizarre, I know, but it struck a chord, and though some agreed and some disagreed with Iraq, they all had a strange respect for the fact that I took a deeply unpopular decision.

Because we shouldn’t exaggerate the pulling power of politics, we also put David Beckham into the mix. David is a complete pro – he did what he was asked to do with no messing about, and generally sent Singapore into a twitter, which is exactly what was required.

In the course of the meetings, I learned yet again how important it is to listen as well as talk. Knowing when to shut up is one of the most vital rules in life, never mind politics. Basically, most people are psychological itinerants in search of someone who wants to hear about them, who is interested in what they have to say, and who will regard what they say as both sage and stimulating. This applies at any level. In fact, the more elevated the level, the truer it is. In most of my meetings with other leaders – less so those whom I knew really well, or when there was real immediate business to transact – I would listen or ask them questions to get them talking, so that I could listen. A good meeting is one where you have listened more than you have spoken.

Also, know when to disagree and when to let a comment pass. If it matters and there will be a frightful misunderstanding, you have to step in and contradict; but frequently, even if your interlocutor makes some completely ludicrous assertion, contradiction will only lead to a futile, sterile disagreement which it is then embarrassing to move on from. Unless it is germane to the real issue at hand, let it pass.

So, anyway, I met endless members of the IOC and paid as much attention as I could in the time allotted. Occasionally, they came in too thick and fast. I would get the slips of paper out of order and the people muddled up. One chap came in who my paper said was a champion javelin thrower. I thought it odd that he seemed so small – about five feet eight. I thought they were supposed to be big, though truth be told my knowledge of javelin throwers was limited. I asked him what was the most important factor in his sport. His reply completely threw me. ‘The quality of the ice.’

God, I thought, I really don’t know anything about javelin throwing. ‘I see,’ I said. ‘Is that very important to you?’

‘Yes, the most important thing,’ he replied. ‘It determines how high you can go,’ he went on. I could see Seb gesticulating wildly but not very articulately behind him.

‘How high do you go?’ I asked.

‘About three feet,’ he said.

Seb intervened. ‘He knows all this because for years he was the champion ice skater. Very famous for his skating on ice.’

Another moment of drama was when the Russian delegation came in to see us, led by the mayor of Moscow. Ken Livingstone told me mysteriously that they were close, and that they had an understanding. He didn’t give details and I thought it better not to ask.

They trooped in looking very Russian. There is something about a group of Russian men that makes you want them on your side. You feel that in the wrong context, or any context, they could become excessive; that the boundaries which circumscribe our conduct and character don’t apply; that you fully realise why Napoleon failed and why Hitler was daft to try.

They sat down heavily, and looked at me. I looked at them. Then they smiled knowingly and nodded. Ken, who had joined me for this one, looked at me and we both nodded at them. The nodding went on for some time until a conversation began that was, for me at least, entirely elliptical. The gist of it was that we all understood each other very well, that they were very true to their word and so were we, and they didn’t like people who weren’t (I got a bit uneasy at that). But since they were and we were, there was no need to say any more. After another round of knowing smiles and nodding, they trooped out.

‘What the hell was all that about, Ken?’ I asked when they had left.

‘Don’t you worry your pretty head about it,’ he said. ‘I think it went well.’

In between all the ‘non-lobbying’, there were formal meetings and receptions. The Queen of Spain – very gracious and a real asset for them – turned up with the newish Spanish prime minister, José Luis Rodriguez Zapatero who, despite my friendship with Aznar, always behaved very well towards me and was obviously a smart leader. Big politicians mixed with small royals. At the reception, given by Singapore’s prime minister in the wonderful old colonial General House, we all mingled uncomfortably, talking to one person, watching with snake-like intensity the moves everyone else was making, acutely aware that an inadvertent word or snub could lose a precious vote. Really horrible stuff: being competitive without appearing to be and trying to maintain dignity while begging.

Princess Anne was also touring the meetings, and doing so carefully because she was an IOC member. She was genuinely respected because genuinely knowledgeable and, of course, an Olympian herself. She does a huge amount of largely unnoticed charity work and is a tremendous ambassador for the country. I always liked her. I doubt the feeling was mutual, or perhaps more accurately she was indifferent, except on the hunting ban, which I’m sure she would have hated. She is a chip right off the old man’s block. People think Prince Philip doesn’t give a damn about what people think of him, and they are right: he doesn’t. Anne is exactly the same. She is what she is, and if you don’t like it you can clear off. It’s not a quality I have, but I admire those who do. The unfortunate thing is, it stops people seeing the other side of their character.

During our first time at Balmoral, Princess Anne called Cherie ‘Mrs Blair’, and Cherie (being Cherie) said, ‘Please call me Cherie.’

‘Actually, I prefer Mrs Blair,’ Anne replied. At one level, it is stunningly rude and discordant in our democratic age. At another, it shows an admirable determination not to be concordant with our democratic age but to tell that to clear off as well.

I remember, early on in government, Buckingham Palace thought they should have a reception for a few Labour MPs. Since we had a rather large majority, perhaps they thought they should do so in case there were any latent republican tendencies that might erupt. It was going fine until Prince Philip wandered up to Joan Walley, a very sincere leftish feminist MP. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘where do you represent?’

‘Stoke,’ she said.

‘Ghastly place, isn’t it?’ he replied.

On the evening I was due to leave Singapore we had the grand ceremony, the opening speeches and the IOC drinks party. I met the Spanish footballer Raul, and tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade him of the merits of moving to Newcastle United over Real Madrid. By the time of the drinks party I was desperate to get away. I was exhausted, and frankly wanted to kill the next person who gave me their opinion of the present geopolitical challenges facing the world today. I had had just about enough of the Olympic movement, its members and its ceremonies. My brain was switching on to the G8 preparations, about which I had had continual and not always positive reports throughout the stay. I was more and more conscious of the double-whammy possibilities of failure: lose the Olympics, screw up the G8.

Jacques Chirac arrived, swinging into the party like he owned the Olympics and everything in it. I noticed in a rather jaundiced way – but it may have been my mood – that everyone fluttered around him. Maybe I had stayed too long, become too familiar, been too modest, not grand enough. I started to exhibit signs of whining, signs my staff recognise.

This is when it is important to have people around you who don’t respect or revere you too much. Jo Gibbons from Number 10, in charge of events, was sympathetic to my exhaustion but utterly unsympathetic to my leaving. There were many people to see. Seb was very kind, but completely firm: stay. Cherie seemed inexhaustible. I was going to miss the big presentation the next day because I had to get back to prepare for the G8. Jacques could do his in person, I could only be in a video. So stay it was.

Finally, when I had just about given up the will to live, and when all the drinks waiters had had their picture taken with me in turn, it was time to go, get on the plane and head back, a twelve-hour flight.

In fact, the difference between me and Jacques at the drinks party kind of summed up and symbolised the difference in approach of the Paris and London bids.

In 1948, London had to be persuaded to host the games. Then the Cold War somewhat distorted the bidding process. But by the 1990s, the Olympics had come of age. It was no longer a case of a country doing the Games a favour by hosting them, but rather the hosting of the Games became a prize to be desired devoutly. Nowadays, the IOC assume that countries can get the infrastructure built and physically put on the games. What used to be the end point is now only the starting point. The real value added is what the host city can contribute to what might loosely be described as the Olympic spirit – the intangible but deeply felt soul of the Olympic movement.

During the IOC preliminary visit to London to assess our bid, Buckingham Palace put on a dinner for the assessment team, whose chief I sat next to. It was only in the course of talking with her that I realised London’s bid had to be about them, not us; or more accurately what we could do to advance the ethos, the spirit, the inner emotions of the Olympic movement, rather than being simply about London, infrastructure, and so on. The IOC were a curious mixture of athletes, business people, royals and the general great and good; but whatever their origins, they were immensely sensitive to the charges that the whole thing had become commercialised and had lost touch with its inner self. They wanted the Olympics to mean something again, a higher and better thing, not just a great moneymaking celebrity fest.

People talked about the Games needing a legacy, which normally meant facilities that didn’t close as soon as the Games were over. I took it to mean something that would make a positive difference to the world. I found Seb and the others in a similar mood, so we set about presenting London as modern, dynamic, multicultural, multiracial and proud of it. London on its contemporary merits – modernity as much as tradition.

Rather like at the drinks party, the French affected an attitude of ‘we are going to win and aren’t you lucky when we do’ and tried to sweep people along as if invincible – very French. We affected an attitude of ‘we humbly beg to offer our services to your great movement’ and paddled and conspired like crazy underneath the surface – very British. The French way can in many cases be the right way, but they overdid it just a fraction. It undoubtedly made a difference; our presentation just had a better feel.

There was one final person without whom we may not have won: Silvio Berlusconi. The previous August I had gone to visit him at his home in Sardinia to seek his help with the bid. Italy was a key player. He asked me how much it mattered to get the Olympics. ‘It matters,’ I said.

‘Greatly?’ he asked.

‘Greatly,’ I said.

He said, ‘You are my friend. I promise nothing but I see if I can help.’ Typical Silvio, which is why I like him. Most politicians say ‘I promise’ but then do nothing. He said ‘I promise nothing’ but then delivered.