A Journey (6 page)

Right from the beginning I discovered one thing about Alastair: he had a great ability to instil loyalty. His communications team were a mixture of civil servants and special advisers, and within weeks they were welded together into an immensely effective operation. They adored him and he stood by them and inspired them with that odd combination of humour, forthrightness and bravado.

Kate Garvey was the gatekeeper, the custodian of the diary. There is a whole PhD thesis to be written by some smart political student about the importance of scheduling to a modern prime minister or president. To call it being ‘in charge of the diary’ is like calling Lennon and McCartney people who ‘wrote songs’: it is true, but it fails to convey the seminal importance of the product. How time is used is of the essence, and later I describe how it was done for me. Kate was charming and fun, which concealed a very tough streak. She ran the diary with a grip of iron and was quite prepared to squeeze the balls very hard indeed of anyone who interfered, but with a winning smile, of course.

There was Liz Lloyd, who had come to me fresh out of university as a researcher and who then worked her way up until she was deputy chief of staff. She looked like an English rose, was very intellectually able, could be blue stocking or red stocking according to the occasion, but most of all was so transparently honest and fair to everyone that she exerted a calming influence on the madhouse.

There was James Purnell, incredibly bright, invaluable on policy issues and all the time learning the trade of politics for the future career I was anxious for him to have.

There was David Miliband as head of policy, who did look about twelve at the time. David did a masterful job of putting the government programme together, keeping ministers happy even while guiding them, sometimes fairly forcefully, towards a direction other than the one they intended. He was perfect for the first term: really clever, plainly, and with good party politics. More in the same camp as Sally and Alastair, but New Labour nonetheless.

Pat McFadden did party organising, but it was obvious at a very early stage that he had outstanding political gifts and also the intellect to be a first-class minister.

There was Peter Hyman, who had a roving policy and communications brief, always bright, bubbling with new ideas, utterly unafraid to speak his mind and take issue with me or anyone else, but a lovely character who went off to be a teacher (and a very good one).

Tim Allan was an excellent foil for Alastair as his deputy in the press office, and obviously destined for great things (he should have been in politics, but he decided to start a successful business).

Sarah Hunter, the daughter of a friend of the Lord Chancellor Derry Irvine, and Jonathan Pearse both came with me young, from my time as Leader of the Opposition, to help in the office, and fortunately stayed with me until Sarah went off to have children. Both were hard-working and great people to be around. Hilary Coffman, who had served every Labour leader from Michael Foot onwards, was also part of the team and was incredibly experienced and calm; and since she often had to deal with the (frequent) personal issues in the media, she was the recipient of the most horrendous nonsense from all sides as she sought to sift the slender stalks of wheat from the vast accumulation of chaff.

The two who were in a category
sui generis
were Anji and Derry. Anji was my best friend. We had known each other since the age of sixteen when I had tried climbing inside her sleeping bag at a party in the north of Scotland (without success!). She had looked after me at university, turned up in my life again when I was an MP and had been with me ever since. She was sexy and exuberant and used both attributes to devastating effect, but you underestimated her at your peril. She had perhaps the most naturally intuitive political instinct of anyone I ever met, was very, very clever, and could be ruthless beyond any of us, if she felt it necessary to protect me or the project.

Derry, as with Peter Mandelson and Philip Gould, was outside the office but inside the core team. In those early days, the essential thing Derry brought was a rigorous analytical ability that was put at the disposal of anyone who had a problem that required it. As I used to say – because occasionally people would query my reverential and deferential tone with Derry – he has a brain the size of a melon. When he dies, they will put it in a museum. It’s the one Dr Frankenstein should have stolen. He could be politically blind, but intellectually he could see it all and with a clarity and focus that in the ambiguous and often sloppy world of politics was a precious quality, greatly to be prized. If anyone, whether an outsider or from the Civil Service, got intellectually uppity in those early days and became patronising, I would wheel Derry in and watch them quail as he worked on them like some finely tooled industrial moulding machine, stamping and beating down on them till they were bashed into shape and spat out the other end.

Peter Mandelson was my close friend and ally. He was clever, charming and fun, all of those things that make for someone who is wonderful company. He had two attributes that marked him out as an outstanding political
consigliere
. He could spot where things were going, not just where they were. As Gordon used to say, Peter could tell you not merely what people were thinking today, but what they would think tomorrow. For political strategy, that is pretty invaluable.

The other attribute was his nerve under fire. Where his own feelings were concerned, like all of us he could be deeply emotional; but put him in the front line, in the heat of the political battle, and he was like a Roman phalanx, calm, disciplined and extraordinarily effective. When the enemy was running amok, he would be imperturbable, rallying the troops and often the generals, looking for the point of counter-attack and all the while seeming rather to enjoy himself. Such a quality is very, very rare. And when you find it, you treasure it.

Philip Gould was the final part of the inner team. He was the one with the divining rod. His job was precisely to tell us what it was like in the instant. In that he was typical of a very good pollster. But over time, I noticed something else: he was actually a great synthesiser of the public mood. He would analyse it, explain it and predict its consequences with an insight that rose above the mundane expression of ‘they like this’ or ‘they hate that’. It would get to where the public might be brought, as well as to where they presently felt comfortable. In this, he became a strategist not a pollster.

He was also critical to the process of my big, set-piece, annual party conference speech. Every year, for thirteen years, this process produced agony, consternation, madness and creativity in roughly equal proportions amongst my staff and me. I would immerse myself in it for a week beforehand, and there would frequently be fifteen or twenty drafts. Each year I hoped it would be easier. Each year it was as hard as ever. And 2006 – the best speech of all in my opinion – was as hard as any.

In 1995, still in Opposition, I decided on the Monday before the Tuesday speech that it was all hopeless, the draft was useless, my brain had finally become scrambled and I would have to resign on grounds of incapacity. I had also agreed to do a photo-opportunity that morning at a school with Kevin Keegan, then manager of Newcastle United (my team). On arriving, I was in such despair that when Kevin said, let’s do a heading session in front of the kids (and mass media), to the complete horror of Alastair and my staff I said, ‘Sure, fine, whatever.’ By then I was beyond caring. It was, of course a monumental risk as it always is when a political leader plays sport in public. No one expects you to be brilliant, but you can’t afford to be absolutely rubbish, otherwise you are plainly not fit to run a nation. This wasn’t kicking the ball – quite difficult to mess up completely – but head to head. That’s a very easy way to make a total idiot of yourself.

However, I was so beyond it all, and of course Kevin was such a professional and could head the ball back to where I could get it, that we did twenty-nine headers on the go, which was impressive (and probably got more publicity than the speech!).

The worst sporting challenge was some years later when I agreed to play a charity game with Ilie Nastase, Pat Cash and the author and comedian Alistair McGowan at the Queen’s Club. Tennis is a game which you can play well, badly or, if too nervous, in a manner in which your arms refuse to obey your brain. I have played in all three styles. I was prime minister, therefore busy. I had never been to Queen’s and had not played on grass since university. I arrived feeling casual, then realised my match was straight after the annual Queen’s final, in which Tim Henman was playing, in front of a crowd of 6,000. Casual gave way to panic. Panic is the worst mindset in which to play tennis, certain to produce collapse. I was only saved from humiliation by the fact that Tim’s final went on longer than expected. Ilie Nastase kindly agreed to knock-up with me. We ended up playing for almost two hours before we got on court. By then I was so warmed up, the panic subsided and I played fine. But I swore not to take the risk again!

Anyway, I digress. Philip’s role in my conference speeches was to help me define my message. So into the competing sounds and chaos of the orchestra tuning up would come a strong, clear note of harmony. I can’t tell you how many times he rescued the speech and gave it lift and power.

You will see from all of the above that I was rather proud of the team. They were an unusually talented group of people. The thing I liked most about them? They defied category. They were one-offs. Very normal; but not very conventional. Very human; but with that touch of the magic potion that distinguishes those who strive from those who merely toil, those who take life as it comes from those who live life like an adventure. I was lucky indeed to have them with me.

The first hundred days of government were in one sense remarkably productive. We were storming through the announcements, which, ultimately added up not just to a change of government, but to a change of governing culture.

On 2 May, we announced the abolition of state-funded assistance for private schools, in order to put the money into better state provision for infants.

On 3 May, we created the new Department for International Development, separating aid from the Foreign Office. It was not popular with the Foreign Office, who thereby lost control of the largest slice of their budget, and some of their objections gained my sympathy over time. Clare Short was the Secretary of State for the new department. Under her leadership, it led the way globally in terms of development policy, and people just queued up to work in it. It resembled a non-governmental organisation (NGO) inside government and this caused significant problems from time to time, but all things considered, I thought it worth it and it gave Britain huge reach into the developing world. Though I can see Alastair’s look of disgust as I write this (he couldn’t stand her), I did think she had real leadership talent; the trouble was she thought people who disagreed with her were wicked rather than wrong – a common failing of politicians – and when she turned sour, she could be very bitter indeed. But we should be proud of our aid record and she of her part in it.

On 6 May, Gordon announced the independence of the Bank of England.

On 9 May, we reformed Prime Minister’s Questions (PMQs) to make it one weekly half-hour session, not two sessions of fifteen minutes.

On 11 May, we announced compensation for Gulf War veterans.

On 12 May, we announced reforms to the National Lottery to allow the proceeds to go into health and education, and Gordon cut VAT on fuel to 5 per cent to help with heating bills.

On 14 May, we affirmed our commitment to ban tobacco advertising.

On 15 May, we restored trade union rights to GCHQ staff, reversing a Tory decision to deny intelligence workers – even those way down the chain – the right to join a trade union.

On 16 May, bills for referenda on Scottish and Welsh devolution were introduced, and we announced a seven-point plan to revive the British film industry.

In week four, we banned the production or export of landmines, and moved to a free vote for a ban on handguns, following the massacre in Dunblane in Scotland in which seventeen people were killed.

At the end of May, Defence Secretary George Robertson set up the strategic defence review, and the following week we appointed the head of the Low Pay Commission, which was to be charged with setting Britain’s first ever minimum wage.

By the end of week six, we had started to put in place the literacy and numeracy strategy to raise standards of performance for primary-school children in reading, writing and maths.

On 16 June, we signed up to the European Social Chapter. For over a decade this had been a dividing line with the Tories, who thought it would hinder our competitiveness. We thought it was about basic employment rights like paid holidays and was a necessary feature of a just society. I had actually used our support for the Social Chapter to drop our support for the closed shop (the obligation in certain trades to join a designated union). When we signed it, Robin Cook, the Foreign Secretary, announced triumphantly that we had done so, and it was a cause of much jubilation among party members and unions (who by then had forgotten the closed shop).

On 2 July, Gordon gave his first Budget, including a welfare-to-work package funded by a windfall levy on the privatised utilities. Two days later, Derry announced what became our plans for the Human Rights Act, the enactment into UK law of the European Convention on Human Rights. Tessa Jowell, a new minister in charge of public health, set out proposals to tackle health inequality. And so it went on, with actions, announcements and aspirations too many to mention.