An Unexpected MP (17 page)

The howling drunken mob at Ayr were not the sort who would have enjoyed me and James having a bit of light-hearted political banter.

‘What should we do, mate?’ I pleaded, consumed with terror.

‘Aw, just go on and tell a few jokes,’ he grinned.

This was not a recipe for success. I was an MP, I was a Tory and I was in Scotland. The devil incarnate.

So, on I strode with a swagger in my step and water in my bowels.

‘Are you having a good time?’ I yelled, hoping for the usual ‘Yeah!’ followed by me saying, ‘But I can’t hear you.’ Which would be followed by louder shouts of joy.

Well, it didn’t quite work like that. The shouts were not of happiness but of ‘No! Fuck off, you Tory bastard.’ The ice had not quite been broken.

So I told a few jokes. Very badly. But at least they didn’t lynch me. That time.

The last venue was Pwllheli, Wales. Here was the same number of drunks but without the sophistication of the Ayr crowd. These were Scousers on holiday. Now, I am very fond of Liverpool, but for this lot, straw in the bedroom would have been an unthinkable luxury and food in a trough could only be countenanced if both hands were tied behind their backs. You got the impression that their clothes were well past their steal-by date. They were in a very ugly mood.

First on was comedian Charlie Chuck, who had a very odd but very funny routine. He appeared in a tatty raincoat, hair in disarray and carrying a broken piece of wood. Every now and again, in a sort of Yorkshire display of Tourette’s, he would shout ‘donkey’, then move over to a drum kit and smash it all over the stage. Usually, by this stage the audience would be in howls of laughter. In Pwllheli they sat in indifferent silence. I was on next, to be met by an angry Charlie staggering into the wings. ‘Don’t go out there, lad, they’re all fucking pork.’

So again in utter terror I started my routine of off-colour jokes. What with the toilet rolls that were being thrown in my direction, coupled with a level of abuse that could have won a
Turner Prize for anatomical imagination, I ran for cover. James fared no better. So we despatched our agent, Phil, to go and get the car, a fantastically vulgar white stretch limo, so we could get the hell out of Dodge. In the meantime we had to improvise. How do we keep this feral mob from stringing us up?

Well, one of the acts was a very pretty magician. But her magic was exotic, which basically meant that she took her kit off and produced budgies and bunnies from unusual places. She had been kind enough to tone things down so I didn’t get into trouble with the press. But now was the time to press the nuclear button.

‘Luv, you’re on, and don’t spare the horses.’ Although, being a tasteful act, there were no actual horses involved. But she got the message. On she went. Still no limo. The crowd was becoming hostile again.

‘Luv, time to flash your tits.’ She duly obliged. Still no car. Time for the nuclear option.

‘Luv, time to flash the Hitler moustache.’ I will leave that to your imagination.

Then the limo arrived. I bounded onto the stage with a sheet, wrapped the girl to protect her modesty and off we drove like bats out of hell.

We were tired, hungry and thirsty. Where could we relax? Then, out of the Welsh mists we saw a blue sign: ‘Pwllheli Conservative Club’. With me as a sitting Tory MP there may not be petals, brass bands and vestal virgins, but there would be a warm welcome. So in we strode.

I suppose as we were still in full make-up and in showbiz attire we must have cut an odd picture to the dozen or so gnarled, interbred faces sitting supping their pints at the bar.

‘’Allo,’ said the barman, ‘are you a member?’

And, puffing my chest in the best ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ mode (uncharacteristic for me but I was traumatised), I announced that I was the Conservative Member of Parliament for Harlow.

‘So you are not a member ’ere, then?’

‘Well, no.’

‘Then you and your fancy friends ’ad better bugger off, then.’

To this day if anyone mentions Butlins or Pwllheli I break into cold sweat and begin to twitch.

But I am very grateful to James Whale. He gave me a great opportunity which I grasped. Most important of all, after I was kicked out of Harlow he made me employable.

T
he run-up to the 1997 election was nothing short of poisonous. In reality we were a minority government, which meant that the lunatics had taken over the asylum. In the land of the politically blind, the one-eyed loons were kings. And John Major’s brave attempt to civilise the party was coming apart at the seams. Of course, the economy was booming, unemployment was on a downward spiral and all the indicators that would normally lead to a resounding
election
victory were in place. But the Euronutters had declared war. They were still mourning the political death of Thatcher and they genuinely believed that it would be in the party’s interests to lose so that they could regroup with a right-wing agenda that would sweep us into office after five years of
root-and
-branch socialism under Tony Blair. Utterly mad. They had forgotten the lesson of the 1980s: voters do not vote for divided parties. And we weren’t just divided; we were ungovernable, mutinous and deeply unpleasant. Worse, the electorate were fed up with cash-for-questions and had never forgiven us for Black Wednesday, when interest rates hit 15 per cent. For the very first time in years they were no longer afraid of Labour and had fallen in love with a youthful and vigorous Blair, who
promised an end to the old politics. It was all motherhood and apple soufflé.

At home I still had a security detail. Fellows with
submachine
guns were in foxholes on the cricket pitch and we had a chap with a Beretta stationed outside our bedroom door. An extremely effective contraceptive.

It wasn’t without its moments of humour. One evening, some poor devil ran over a cat outside our house. He screeched to a halt, which attracted the attention of the guys with guns. The driver’s door was wrenched open and the driver found himself with a gun at his head and lots of little red dots on his torso. ‘Sorry I killed the cat,’ he wailed.

And then one evening I came home early. The village was taped off and the army was a significant presence. I tried to get through the barrier.

‘Can’t go through there, sir, there’s some MP with a bomb outside his house.’

‘But it’s me!’

So I was allowed through to see that a car had been dumped outside my house, with a robot investigating. I walked through the door to find Alison baking cakes and the kids enjoying the spectacle. Suddenly, the order went out: ‘Principal down.’ Which meant that two burly men threw me to the floor while there was an almighty explosion outside. When the smoke and the dust had cleared we saw that the army had blown up the car. Excitement over. Until the lady who couldn’t get a place at the station car park and dumped her car outside my house arrived, rather depressed to see a smoking wreck. Now, you will be asking the same question that everyone else asks whom I’ve told the story to:
‘Who paid the bill?’ The truth is that I haven’t a clue. Except that it wasn’t me.

And then one evening there was another shout of ‘principal down’ and again I was hurled to the floor as a man dressed in camouflage with a shotgun sauntered down our lane. He had the usual red-dot treatment and fell to his knees in terror. It was the local poacher. But at least he lived to tell the tale. Until relatively recently I was pathetically grateful for the protection until I discovered that Operation Centurion was not designed for that at all. The likes of me were mere bait for the men of terror. If I was plugged so would they be. It would have been nice if I had been asked.

I used to share the security detail of Southend East MP Teddy Taylor. As much as they liked the guy, they hated their turns there, as Taylor had a very yappy and very ferocious little terrier. Dear old Teddy wanted to have his own handgun, but the chief constable was of the view that he would be more of a danger to himself than the IRA.

So, election day approached.
The Sun
was supporting New Labour, as was the
Mail
. It was like being a turkey when the Christmas jingles are being played in the stores. To be fair, Major did an amazing job of trying to get the good news across. But when the punters have stopped listening, it is a waste of time. We fought hard, though. I even had a moment of self-delusion that I might just win. Mad.

The good voters of Harlow were charm itself. But that was the problem. They were just being nice. It was like taking an old and faithful Labrador to the vets to be put down after he has outlived his usefulness. I was a dead man walking. I remember walking down a street being followed by a Jehovah’s Witness.
I gave him a hug and told him to savour the moment, as he was going to be welcomed with open arms.

The only highlight of the election was the arrival of my old mate,
Mirror
man and old leftie Paul Routledge. We had a three-bottler. ‘You’re fucked, Comrade!’ Tell me about it. But he did write a lovely piece about me. You will hear a lot more about Routers in this book. He is one of the most talented journalists and decent human beings that I have ever met.

God, the election was awful. Someone even tried to kill me with a bag of flour. This may seemed far-fetched, but if one of those hit you from twenty-three storeys there wouldn’t be much left of your head.

And then it was time for election night. We knew that the game was up. I got quietly pissed in a hotel, waiting for my good friend Dave Roberts, the chairman, to ring when the time of my execution had arrived. I spoke to the troops before I went in to the count. ‘We are stuffed. But I don’t want a single photographer to get a picture of a sad face. We go in with our heads held high with a smile.’ And that’s what we did.

When the time came for the announcement and the speeches, I thought back fourteen years to when I had won and made a speech thanking the man I beat, Stan Newens, for all his hard work in the constituency. And then in 1992 when I defeated Bill Rammell, I thanked him for being such a splendid candidate. So, in victory, what would he say about me? Nothing. He gave a political rant and I was airbrushed out of history. I would be lying if I said I didn’t think that was pretty shitty behaviour.

After it was all over Dave Roberts came to the rescue and
brought his car outside the sports centre where the count had taken place. Sadly, he couldn’t get the car up to the door, so it meant a bit of a walk with a media scrum in tow. There was one particularly unpleasant cameraman who wouldn’t stop crowing that me and all my wicked Tory chums had been kicked out. He was running backwards at the time. I warned him about the fast-approaching steep bank. He just told me to piss off.

Oh well, I did try. And when I saw him hurtling down the slope in the process of breaking his arm, I couldn’t suppress a small smile.

So that was it, fourteen fascinating years as an MP were over. What on earth was I going to do? I hadn’t practised as a barrister for years. Thank heavens for the resettlement
allowance
. All those hair-shirted puritans who think that it should be abolished should experience what it’s like to be deprived of your only means of earning a living. Without some form of financial cushion most ex-MPs would be signing on within a couple of months. And then the phone began to ring. The first call was from my old friend and head of chambers, Sir Desmond de Silva QC.

‘Dear boy, you would be most welcome back in chambers.’

‘But I don’t know any law.’

‘Dear boy, you never did, you are an advocate. Best you read the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.’

It was time to dust down my wig, if only I could find where I left it.

The next call came from Dominic Midgley, who worked at Mohamed Al Fayed’s newly acquired
Punch
magazine. Did I fancy lunch? Of course.

I had already written bits and pieces for the magazine and rather fancied the idea of a column. Lunch was a great success from what I can remember as rather a lot was drunk. But I did make a pitch for a job. He said he would put in a good word with the editor, Paul Spike. And off I staggered, only to be chased by a waiter asking me to pay for a bottle of wine that I had forgotten about. Of course, it was all a set-up and appeared in the
Telegraph
diary the next day.

Two days later and I received another call from Dom.

‘Sorry, mate, the editor says he can’t stand you.’ Strange, as I had never met him.

A week later I received another call from Dom.

‘Spike’s gone. We’ve got a new one called James Steen. He wants you on board. Are you interested?’

Does the Pope shit in the woods? Of course.

And thus began four of the happiest years of my working life. I suddenly found myself as a columnist for a magazine edited by a delightful genius, with a deputy who taught me how to make a story zing and an assortment of some of the most witty, charming, creative and generally bonkers people I have ever been privileged to work with.

James and Dom, his deputy, were fantastic guys to be around. The place was a powerhouse of creativity and fun. My job was to trawl Westminster for stories and put together a column of about 3,000 words. A serious ‘think piece’ in the middle and loads of gossip around the sides. Richard Brass, another legend, would then sort out either a cartoon or a witty Photoshopped mickey-take of whatever I had been writing about. And I would be asked to write the odd feature about whatever took my, James’s or Dom’s fancy.

When I think back I realise how blessed I have been. Many who had lost their seats were pining for a comeback. I even got a lovely handwritten note from the Chief Whip, Alastair Goodlad, offering help. That was very kind. But I had done fourteen years as an MP and the thought of coming back to a fractious and frothingly insane parliamentary party with the possibility of ending my days with a very junior and dull shadow portfolio didn’t seem like a barrel-load of laughs.

For the past fourteen years I had been working hard for my constituents and propping up the bar with my mates in the press. Weekends were never my own, filled with speeches, surgeries and constituency events. Now I was a member of the parliamentary press gallery, gazing down on the very benches where I used to sit, and still propping up the press bar with my old mates. The nearest thing to heaven that I can imagine.

The transition from poacher to gamekeeper was almost seamless and my good friends in the press rallied round. Nigel Nelson, Paul Routledge and Ian Hernon helped me get on my feet with all sorts of helpful advice about how to get stories. It was basically that MPs love to talk, usually about themselves, their friends and – particularly – their enemies. James had given me an expense account so I could buy them drinks and the odd lunch, and the stories started to roll in. But the guys also gave me some very good advice about how to deal with the boss.

Editors are strange creatures who wield enormous power and sometimes they become very eccentric, power-crazed megalomaniacs. Get on the wrong side of them and you are dead. Make a list of their enemies and slag them off, and make another of their friends and say nice things about them. James
was an exception. The fellow we had to keep sweet was our proprietor, Mohamed Al Fayed.

James is a creative genius, laid-back, with an amazing sense of fun: an all-round good guy. He now ghostwrites for world-famous chefs, makes a small fortune and never starves. He could edit any national newspaper with distinction, but I suspect he just can’t be bothered with all the office politics.

Editorial meetings were rather different from those of the rest of Fleet Street. I would roll into the office at about eleven, have a chat with Richard Brass (Brasso) and the lovely Jenny, who used to sub my copy, then me, Dom and James would disappear for a few sharpeners before lunch. This meant about four large gins at one of the many watering holes not far from Harrods, the eyrie of our great proprietor, Mo. Then off to the Swag and Tails or Monza for lunch. All I can remember is drink, gossip and laughter. It was like being a student with money.

James had a particularly mischievous side. He was also a fantastic mimic who used to love to wind up the rich and pompous. One of his favourite targets was the
Daily Mail
’s gossip king, Nigel Dempster. Poor old Nigel had lost the plot by this stage and was hitting the bottle in a big way. His column had descended into a terrible 1950s confection about Princess Margaret, unheard-of aristo totty and fading Bond girls. And he was rude and pompous to everyone below the rank of a belted earl. He treated his staff abominably, once thumping the splendid Adam Helliker, who is now chief gossip
columnist
on the
Sunday Express
. James decided to have some sport and rang Dempster, who had a running war against Mo. The conversation went something like this.

‘Yes, what do you bloody want?’

‘Nigel, it’s Jonathan.’

‘Jonathan bloody who?’

‘You know! My father used to speak most highly of you.’

‘And who the hell is your … was your bloody father, for God’s sake?’

‘Nigel, it’s Jonathan Rothermere here.’ He had just become the proprietor of the
Mail
group.

There was a deathly silence, then followed the most
revoltingly
obsequious conversation that I have ever heard. Then came the real sting.

‘All this stuff about Al Fayed has run its course, don’t you think?’

‘Of course, of course. You are so right.’

‘In fact, why not say some nice things about him?’

‘What an excellent idea.’

‘And while you’re about it, why not give his magazine
Punch
a bit of a plug? I am quite a fan.’

‘I will do it straight away. Always wonderful to speak to you, Jonathan.’

The remarkable thing is that Dempster did start writing some nice things about Mo and gave some great publicity to
Punch
, until Steen printed the transcript of the conversation. And why didn’t Paul Dacre, the editor of the
Daily Mail
, smell a rat when Dempster started love bombing Mo? Because he thought that he had had a cosy chat with Rothermere too. I rather like Paul. I always used to tease him about how rotten the
Mail
was about Major. Sadly, it always tended to be when his rag had just won Newspaper of the Year. He really is a bit like a Wagnerian opera; not as bad as he sounds.