An Unexpected MP (22 page)

The EU can be a perverse organisation. The Commission and their support staff don’t live in ivory towers; rather, they hover on fluffy white clouds suspended way above us mere mortals. They are the Euro Volturi, utterly committed to enforcing the doctrine of political unity. There is the beginning of a groundswell among the northern nations suggesting that there will have to be revision of this thought process, as a lot has changed since the Treaty of Rome, particularly with mass migration from the poorer countries. The challenge for change is not just for Britain but for all member states. So let’s have more openness, transparency and democracy. But this doesn’t go anywhere near solving the awful truth that none of us want to publicly admit: the Commission’s doctrine of political unity has a point. The reason the euro has been a catastrophic failure is because there is not a central fiscal policy, as the only way that that can be achieved is through some form of political unity. Member states have been able to get away with lying about their level of debt and the inevitable has happened. There is a respectable argument that Greece should leave the euro and go back to the drachma. There is only one question: who picks up the bill? Sadly, the European way of dealing with these crises is to brush them under the carpet and hope that they go away. This one won’t. And if the Greeks, the Spanish, the Portuguese and particularly the Italians revert to their old ways, our perilous recovery will hit the skids.

But back home, politics is as poisonous as ever and
politicians
have never been more distrusted by the public. Historically, the Tory Party only seem to have three gears: complacency, panic and self-destruct. We’ve had the first two and have been teetering on the brink of the latter. I was
genuinely shocked when backbenchers in the early part of 2013 were almost queuing up to tell me how much they wanted to get rid of Cameron at any price. Even if it meant
annihilation
at the election. Amazingly, before the economy began to pick up there was a genuine prospect of an Adam Afriyie (a wealthy Tory backbencher from Windsor) challenge and
serious
promises of a forced vote. At the moment this has been whittled down to a hard core of about fourteen. But the
situation
is still remarkably fragile. And Afriyie is still courting the disaffected. One minister, sacked in the most recent reshuffle, told me that he had been offered a place in an Afriyie Cabinet. This may be in the territory of Walter Mitty but there still remains a seething discontent. Quite what Cameron is meant to do to quell this, apart from agreeing to stop breathing, is a mystery. He has tried every weapon in the prime ministerial arsenal. Knighthoods are being showered like confetti, and backbenchers and their wives and partners are invited in for cosy chats, drinks and even lunches at Chequers. But rather than lap it up, many tell me they rather resent it. ‘He’s just patronising us,’ they squeal. Leading the Conservative Party is a thankless, joyless grind.

What should encourage the party is that Labour has had only a consistent lead of about six points, which at this stage of the game borders on the disastrous for them. Cameron has a healthy lead personally on who would make the best Prime Minister, most able to take tough decisions and run the
economy
. Where he will be in danger is if there is another hung parliament. Backbenchers want more of a say in any
negotiations
, and if press reports are true (discuss) he has presented Graham Brady, the chairman of the 1922 Committee and a
well-known Cameron hater, with a big red button with ‘NO’ engraved on it. But the irresistible temptation to press it would not only explode any prospect of another coalition but would detonate the explosive jacket that Cameron appears to have voluntarily donned.

And the consequence of this mutually assured destruction? Why, governing in partnership with the DUP and any other minority mad hatter’s tea party, with the prospect of St Boris descending to earth to save us all.

To normal, sentient people who actually care about growth, employment and improving the standard of living for everyone, this borders on the criminally insane. But it provides more than just a greater frequency of night emissions for the Tory right; it gives them hope. Hope that Cameron will be sent packing and hope that the Lib Dems will be driven into the arms of Labour. But not as much hope as it gives to the man who sends
shivers
down the spines of Ed Miliband, Ed Balls and the Young Pretender, Chuka Umunna: Tristram Hunt. He is dismissed as just too good-looking, just too bright, just too inexperienced and just too good to be true. Maybe. I’ve seen the future and it has perfect white teeth. The question is: ‘When?’

In 2013 I appeared on
Question Time
with Tristram. He had just been appointed as a spokesman on higher education. After the show we had a chat over a glass of wine.

‘So, what are your policies?’ I politely enquired, expecting the usual gushing, starry-eyed five-point plan delivering universal happiness that tends to be beloved of the newly appointed. Instead he just paused, scratched his head, smiled and said, ‘I haven’t got a fucking clue.’ I tell that story in his favour as I found it rather refreshing.

I just wonder whether the country has had enough of the old party system. They are all dying on their feet, with a dwindling band of ancient retainers shuffling round their constituencies knocking on doors and raising money before their final death rattle, which usually means the end of another branch. And who funds them? The Tories seem to receive their cash from betting empires, cheap loan companies and wealthy eccentrics. Labour is funded by the Jurassic Park of the unions, while the poor Lib Dems accept anything from anyone willing to slip them a few bob.

This addiction to donors disfigures British democracy. That a party that loses a general election faces bankruptcy and is often driven into the financial arms of those it would not normally cuddle up to is clearly troubling. And forget about the public paying for their political games. It is a non-runner.

There are the beginnings of a solution. At the moment, the amount spent in each constituency at election time is strictly capped, with serious consequences if there is an overspend. Yet the amount spent by the parties nationally knows no bounds; ‘Who Spends Wins’ is not a bad rule of thumb. Why not have a ceiling on all election spending? This will be resisted by all the main parties, particularly those who are attracting the most money. But with 24-hour news, do we need glitzy party broadcasts? Apart from political anoraks and the press, who actually watches them? And is anyone really swayed by them? And what is the point of spending a small fortune on buying up poster sites before an election? Does it really make a
difference
? I very much doubt it.

One day someone is going to wrestle with the simple
question
of whether the public have outgrown two-party politics.
Both main parties are hopelessly split. What do the Tory modernisers have in common with the hard right? Nothing except for a large umbrella with the word
Conservative
written on it. And what do the Milibanders have in common with the Blairites? Nothing except for a large umbrella with the word
Labour
written on it. They have even excised the word
New
. And within the Lib Dems, what do the orange bookers have in common with the wild and woolly left? Nothing at all, not even an umbrella.

So, what binds all the main parties together apart from fear of the unknown and habit?

But there is the potential for a realignment based on reason, pragmatism and basic decency. At that I can hear the
collective
groan from political correspondents that I have finally taken leave of my senses. Yet Conservative modernisers, the Blairites, and the orange bookers could be a formidable force for good in British politics if they joined forces. They have more to unite than to divide them. David Cameron has far more in common with Alan Milburn and John Reid than with John Redwood and Iain Duncan Smith. And what does Nick Clegg have in common with Vince Cable and Tim Farron apart from mutual loathing?

When the next election campaign finally descends into a poisonous, vicious brawl, rough-and-tumbling into personal abuse and making the seventh circle of hell seem like a quiet night at the Rovers Return, the time might be right for a new politics. Oh dear, I can hear another groan from the political correspondents. Whether there would be enough good men and women with the courage to break free from a system that is hopelessly out of sync with the electorate and is on
the cusp of moral questionability is probably an ask too far. I suspect that the resolution will be typically British. We will just muddle through. How mind-numbingly depressing.

T
his may just be me slipping into my anecdotage, but politics is not as dull as many people make it out to be. It is just different. There is still the same naked ambition,
treachery
, bitterness among MPs. And of course the same deluded flotsam and jetsam bobbing along in a sea of self-induced fantasy that one day they will lead their party. But, by and large, they are in the anguished minority. The majority of MPs don’t spend every hour plotting and scheming, desperate to be invited to shine on a heavyweight radio or television show. They are hardworking, underpaid, stressed and spend their days working in the best interests of their constituents. They have to deal with a 24-hour instant-reaction media, Twitter, Facebook and flotillas of emails from constituents who want an immediate response, not just about personal problems but about policy. So the workload has increased. This can be a problem because policies can be a bit transient. Remember the wonderful vote-catching policy of selling off the forests? There would have been a CCHQ brief with a line to take and probably a draft letter to write or ping. So poor old Tory
backbenchers
would have had to send off another line to take while the smell of burning rubber was still searing their nostrils. All
horribly embarrassing. And worse for Labour, whose idea of policy is a moveable feast. The humble pie is not a popular dish with MPs.

But social media is a serious nightmare. If MPs think that they have so many followers because of their personal
popularity
, they are in need of a prefrontal lobotomy. Journalists, opponents and all-round loons are just hoping for them to say something really daft. My heart went out to dear old Jack Dromey, whose computer went haywire and put down as a favourite ‘Big Black Cock’, not a website he would have even heard of. The biggest dangers to MPs are irony and sitting in front of their terminals after a stressful, frustrating day. And if they have been victims of a good dinner or a refreshing
reception
they can land themselves in serious trouble.

UKIP are the brand leaders in telling the world and his wife what they
really think
and sharing the dark teatime of their souls. As a party, they have double firsts in toss-pottery pure and applied. The run-up to the European and general
elections
is going to be a gold mine for the press and CCHQ.

The real difference in modern politics is that the boozy phallocracy is not so widespread. Much of this is due to
tireless
campaigners such as Harriet Harman. She unfairly gets a terrible press as a humourless harpy. Nothing could be further from the truth. I have always found her warm, witty and sincere. Many years ago I had her young children sat on my lap when I was dressed as Captain Hook at the press gallery Christmas party. Nowadays I would probably find myself on a register.

There is also a myth that MPs have all become worker drones and that the larger-than-life characters have all but
disappeared. Not so. There are still dogged and tenacious campaigners who stick their heads above the parapets at great personal political risk. Rob Halfon, my successor in Harlow, is a name that springs to mind. He is doing a really great job. And Labour has the splendid Steve Pound, witty, charming, with the gift of being able to reduce the chamber to howls of laughter with a pithy one-liner. And you could hardly call the Lib Dems’ Sir Bob Russell a shy and retiring flower.

So I am optimistic for the future. Being an MP should never be seen as a career, rather a vocation. Even the safest seats can evaporate at the stroke of a boundary review pen. But it would be far more sensible if we selected those with more experience of life, those who can relate to their constituents. Yet it is a wickedly traduced job. Never have they been more disbelieved and despised. And the expenses scandal still hangs in the air like a stale fart in a lift. It will take a generation to ventilate it. But if you really care about people and doing your very best for them, it is a noble occupation.

And as for me? I just don’t know. Many people are trying to persuade me to stand again. It’s tempting but it no longer offers the excitement that it once had. Although the red benches would be fun, I have got to be realistic. There is a mile-long queue of very well-qualified people who would bite their hand off for it.

So I content myself with blogging and a bit of media. I greatly enjoy clashing swords every Friday night with Mohammed Shafiq and Stephen Nolan on 5 Live. Stephen is a great broadcaster with heart and a smile. He is a name to watch. I just wish he wouldn’t eat quite so many sweets. A few weeks ago I brought him in a bag of healthy snacks.
It was as if the devil had entered the room and offered him a vial of poison. His brow furrowed and in his most menacing Belfast accent he warned, ‘Argh, I can’t eat that. It will make me physically sick.’ And I think that he meant it.

And Mohammed? Sometimes I could strangle him. But he is a lovely guy and one of the few Muslims who dare to speak out about extremism in their community, sometimes putting himself in physical danger.

Friday nights are great, great fun.

And to the young who are considering standing? Go for it. Expect disappointment, frustration and the lunacy of the system. But the rewards and satisfaction are incalculable. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.