Breaking the Code (47 page)

The news of the hour is that Allan Stewart
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has resigned from the government. The likeable mutton-chopped junior Scottish Office minister, who has always seemed rather
a mild man to me, appears to have taken a pick-axe to some of his constituents! You couldn’t make it up. Allan, unhappy at the disruptive antics of a group of anti-motorway protestors in his patch, decided to confront them, and sometime on Sunday turned up at their encampment with half a dozen like-minded souls all set for a confrontation. Things got out of hand. Allan says he picked up the pick-axe for self-defence. The eco-warriors tell a different story. Whether the unfortunate minister was breathalised we’ve not been told. Anyway he’s gone and he’s being replaced by George Kynoch.
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I’ve just been with Raymond Robertson who is incensed. He cannot see why
he
hasn’t been chosen. He’s hurt, upset, angry. I know the feeling. I didn’t tell him that the problem is that George
looks
ministerial (he has the suit, the posture, the slightly pompous know-all manner) while Raymond, who is really sweet, giggles too much, drinks too much, is unmarried and overweight.

While the Scottish Under-Secretary of State was brandishing his axe in Glasgow, the Chief Secretary to the Treasury was in Oxford saying his prayers. Jonathan Aitken preached at evensong at Hertford College Chapel on Sunday and he’s sent me a copy of his address: ‘My thesis to you tonight is that the gap between the Christian teachings and the honourable profession of politics is a narrow one, bridgeable by prayer.’ It’s exactly a year ago today that Stephen Milligan died and the springboard for Jonathan’s address was the quite wonderful sermon the Vicar of Hammersmith gave us at Stephen’s funeral. Jonathan quotes from it: ‘Let us affirm today the possibility of grace in political life, the marriage of vision with pragmatism, and be thankful that Stephen recognised it … Stephen would not have been ashamed to acknowledge the half forgotten truth that politics can be one way in which the Kingdom of God is advanced.’

I like Jonathan more all the time. Stephen D. doesn’t trust him.

We’ve lost another minister, but this is bizarre. Charles Wardle
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has resigned because Britain’s ‘quality of life is jeopardised by European immigration laws’. It doesn’t make sense. The PM and Michael Howard are leading a counter-offensive. Tebbit is doing his best to mix it. In the Tea Room the other ranks are confused. The whips are busy spreading the word that Wardle (an odd fish) is in the throes of some sort of mid-life crisis and he’s disaffected because his talents haven’t been fully recognised. Here, Wardle doesn’t
count for much (actually, I don’t think he counts for anything), but out there this will just add to the general sense of disarray.

Newt Gingrich’s ‘pollster’ is in town.
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We’ve just had supper with him and he’s a joy. He’s called Frank Lemt, an unlikely-looking specimen, in his twenties, sneakers, jeans, backpack. We picked him up in Central Lobby, squeezed into the ministerial car (Stephen in front, me, Danny, Frank squashed in the back) and sped across to Pasta Prego in Beauchamp Place. As we went, Frank offered his thumbnail analysis of our position: ‘You are in a fast car driving towards a brick wall. You can either stop and get out or you can continue as you are, heading for that wall, foot on the gas. If you stop and get out you might have a chance. If you don’t, then take my word for it: you’re heading for (theatrical pause)
o-bli-vion!
’

Over the meal he talked non-stop and the essence of his message is we’re doomed because a) we’re a shambles, b) we’re divided, c) nobody knows what we’re about, d) we’ve been in power for seventeen years. Because the electorate is ungrateful, our only hope is to find a way of wiping out the past. We need to create a clean slate and make ourselves credible again. As one of the authors/architects of Newt’s ‘Contract with America’, he proposed that we should come up with a UK equivalent:

We were enchanted by his manner and there’s more than something in what he’s saying. ‘Look, it worked for Newt.’

Stephen grinned, ‘I’m not sure it’s a very British way of doing things.’

‘Have you got another way out?’ enquired Frank. We hadn’t. ‘Remember the alternative,’ he said cheerily. ‘It’s
o-bli-vion!
’

The Prime Minister is telling ministers to pull themselves together and ‘toe the line’. Over breakfast Stephen, Danny and I worked up a draft memo to send to the PM. It’s Frank’s ‘Contract with Britain’, but knowing the PM’s commitment to his charters (aaargh!) we’ve called our paper ‘The Charter for Government’:

The alternative …
o-bli-vion!

Michael Foot
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(still wearing that same donkey jacket) has reassured us, ‘I was never a Soviet agent.’ Nicholas Fairbairn has died ‘from liver complications’, aged sixty-one. ‘Nicky
liked his dram’ is how the obituarists are putting it. The poor man was a sot, watching him stumbling about the corridors here, pitiable. People like Ancram and Lord James say, ‘Ah, you should have known Nicky in his prime.’ Even knowing him in his decrepitude there were still flashes of brilliance that managed to fight their way through the alcoholic haze. He listed his recreations in
Who’s Who
: ‘making love, ends meet and people laugh.’

Excellent session with Stephen and John K. at the DNH. We’ve actually got a credible (and creditable) programme of policy announcements/initiatives to set out over the next three months. March: the tourism document on the 1st; the big heritage speech on the 8th (opening up the listing system); sponsorship and the arts on the 29th. April: privacy, film and the future of the BBC. May: the Fundamental Expenditure Review, working title, ‘Growing the Audience’ (could be worse, could be better), and the big Youth and Sport launch on the 23rd. Plus some odds and sods: Stonehenge and the private finance initiative, the glories of Greenwich, the first dollops of lottery distribution.

Yes, we should have got to grips with this months ago, but at least it’s  happening now.
And
Stephen has agreed to a series of set-piece speeches on key areas, speeches that will contain both commitment and (wait for it) passion!

The PM was on a roll tonight, exhilarated by the triumph of the London-Dublin framework document. There’s going to be a Northern Ireland assembly (with PR); a North–South body with members from both the assembly and the Irish Parliament; an end to the Irish constitutional claim to NI and changes to our legislation to give the people of NI the option of staying part of the UK or voting for a united Ireland. Paisley is ranting that Major has ‘sold out the Union’, Willie Ross says it’s ‘unworkable’, but in the Chamber and the Tea Room it went down well.

The PM began the day in Belfast, then did his statement to the House, then ended up at No. 10 for our reception for the London arts community. We were fearful that with all the Irish excitement he might have to give us short shrift. In the event, though he was late, when he arrived the adrenalin was overflowing and he was at his absolute best: there was energy, easy charm, a sense of purpose. I said to him, ‘This is one of those days when you realise why you came into this, isn’t it?’ He grinned: ‘Yes.’ Then he checked himself, ‘There’s a long way to go, but at the end … just think of the prize.’

He stood in front of the fireplace on a little footstool and gave a gem of a speech. He talked about the artists who have made Downing Street what it is – he talked about the craftsmen, the furniture makers, the painters. He thanked and celebrated the artists in the room, buttered them up like nobody’s business. But they sensed he really meant it
– and I think he did. It was exactly the kind of speech Stephen should have been making for months. It was wonderful – impressive and moving. He spoke without notes (I imagine the stuff about the pictures etc. is part of his set-piece Welcome to Downing Street routine) and the effect was everything we could have wanted. I wheeled Hugh Grant over to meet Norma and the light flirtation (on both sides) was charming to behold.

At the ridiculous end of the spectrum I found myself in a corner of the green drawing room with a moist-eyed Andrew Lloyd Webber who, not having any idea who I was, said ‘Are you coming to Antigua for the weekend?’ Lady Lloyd Webber turned to Nicholas Lloyd and Eve Pollard and cooed, ‘Oh do. It’s just the Lloyd Webbers and the Frosts and the Saatchis – the home team.’

Donald Sinden was funny – as always. He asked Richard Eyre
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if it’s true that Harriet Walter is to play Hamlet at the National. Before Eyre could answer, Don went on: ‘I understand you approached Paul Scofield to play Claudius, but he said, “No – have you tried Miriam Margolyes?”’

Supper with David Willetts. I don’t think he’s enjoying the Whips’ Office. I think he thinks a lot of it’s very silly and he may be insufficiently clubable for their taste.

Under cover of the framework document, we’ve slipped out an announcement on prescription charges. They’re going up 50p to £5.25.

I took Stephen to Buckingham Palace to see Prince Philip. Not much was achieved. HRH was running late. We waited in his study – it’s very Peter Scott, long shelves of books, furniture with a distinct ’50s Erkalion feel. Just before HRH appeared, the young equerry (who I didn’t know) came in and got us to stand side by side at a certain angle at a specific point (yes, a precise spot) a third of the way into the room. He marshalled us into this awkward receiving line and we stood there like Tweedledum and Tweedledee awaiting the arrival of the King of Hearts. The whole set-up is ludicrous – but the D of E is a good man and he never stops wanting to make a positive contribution. We didn’t get very far on privacy. Stephen was fairly frank and said there isn’t much the government can do – ‘or will do’ I chirruped. HRH then set out his stall on competitive sport. It’s a hobby-horse and he rides it well and convincingly. What he says about the value of team games is exactly right and exactly what Sproatie and the PM want to see in the White Paper. In fact, it would probably have been better to take Sproat. Heigh-ho. Anyway, HRH promised to send us all sorts of thoughts and to
introduce Stephen to anyone he’d like to meet and Stephen mumbled the right sort of responses and nodded charmingly until the equerry, who had popped his head nervously around the door a couple of times, returned wide-eyed with anxiety: ‘I’m sorry Sir, but Her Majesty is waiting.’

I’ve just returned from No. 11. The Chancellor was late. He’d been in a huddle with Eddie George
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in the wake of the Barings collapse. Ken’s line: ‘It’s bad, but I’m not sure it’s as bad as Eddie seems to think.’

I said, ‘What exactly happened?’

Ken laughed, ‘I’m not entirely sure.’

It seems a Barings trader, aged twenty-six, managed to lose around £600 million trading in derivatives without anybody knowing. ‘It’s beyond belief.’ ‘You’d have thought so.’ I love the way Ken chuckles in the face of adversity. Ever-ready Eddie and his boys spent the weekend feverishly trying to put together a rescue package, but without success – so bang goes Britain’s oldest bank, 4,000 employees have lost their jobs, the pound’s got the jitters, an international banking crisis is on the cards, but our admirable Chancellor is still chortling. He’s irresistible.

The roller-coaster ride continues. Tonight we survived – with a majority of five. We knew the UUs and the Paisley boys would exact their revenge by voting with Labour. What we didn’t expect was that Norman Lamont would vote against us. I suspect his plan was to abstain, but he was tipped into voting the way he did by Douglas Hurd. I saw it happen. During Douglas’s smooth-as-alabaster wind-up Norman intervened to ask if the government believes monetary union will lead to political union. Douglas side-stepped the question, but couldn’t resist a little jesting at Norman’s expense: ‘My RHF is one of the great experts on the subject because, with the Prime Minister, it was he who negotiated our opt-out. I have always admired the skill with which they did that. I was sitting in admiration in an adjacent room at the time.’ As the laughter rolled round him, Norman’s face turned to thunder. He thought, ‘I will not be mocked. I will be revenged on the whole pack of you.’