Authors: Gyles Brandreth
‘That’s what you need,’ he said. ‘You don’t mind my telling you, do you?’
‘Britain remains sceptical about single currency, says Lamont.’ Seems quite a good idea
to me – and inevitable. But what do I know? I know that Saethryd has come to Chester and I’m feeling guilty because I’m taking her to the Chester Regatta and Flower Show and there’s a photo call and I’m making sure she’s in it because the word is that my Labour opponent’s marriage is in a rocky state and we can’t expect too many happy family snaps during
his
campaign.
The birthday lunch for Prince Philip was a complete success. It was Ladies Only (apart from HRH) so I sat in a cupboard in a corner and watched the proceedings through a crack in the door. Michèle was perfect and Joanna [Lumley] was a dream – completely over the top and absolutely right. I allowed myself to attend the drinks beforehand and HRH was genuinely amused by the women-only idea. I told him Jane Asher had done a special birthday cake.
‘Didn’t she used to go out with Paul McCartney?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think she likes to be reminded of that.’
‘Pity. He’s good news.’
‘She’s good news.’
‘Yes, but Paul McCartney’s quite special.’
I was convinced the first thing he’d say to Jane was ‘Didn’t you use to go out with Paul McCartney’ but he didn’t. When irritated (or sometimes, I suspect, just for the hell of it), he can be perverse. His office get you to provide reams of speech notes which are
never
used. I was convinced he wouldn’t use the script provided for the moment when he had to ‘Challenge Anneka’ to build the playground at Birmingham Children’s Hospital within the week – but, apart from calling her ‘A-knee-cur’ he was spot-on.
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It’s our eighteenth wedding anniversary and for a special treat I take my wife to the City of Chester Conservative Association Annual Salmon Supper at Eaton Hall – courtesy of Their Graces the Duke and Duchess of Westminster, both of whom are on parade, which is jolly decent of them. If I were the richest in the land, is this what I would be doing with my Saturday night? In truth, the event isn’t so much at Eaton Hall itself as
in the garage at Eaton Hall. We huddle together for warmth as we dine alfresco in a cobbled yard bordered by garages and stables and we are very grateful to be adjacent to such grand surroundings despite the wind and the rain! I sit next to Her Grace and my banter comes across as over-familiarity and as she glazes over I can’t think what more to say so I decide to go for votes and work the tables. I then feel ashamed when we get to the auction and she bids a thousand pounds for one of my jumpers! Vanessa forces me to bid 300 plus for an art deco lamp we neither want, need nor can afford.
Poll puts Labour ten points ahead. Major defends ‘unchanged’ Euro policy. Brandreth beetles off to Birmingham to be in attendance upon HRH as he arrives at Birmingham Children’s Hospital to open Anneka’s playground – genuinely built from scratch in forty-eight hours flat.
Last night I was at the Northcott Theatre, Exeter, giving the Hans Andersen show as part of the Exeter Festival. The house was full of people expecting Tommy Steele at least, Danny Kaye at best. Instead they got me and I felt – and shared – their disappointment. Tonight we were at supper in Sheen with Tim and Alison Heald
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and Tim’s old chum from his Oxford days, Chris Patten.
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Clearly Tim assumed that as a prospective candidate I would know Chris and Lavender, know them well, but, of course, I’d never met the chairman of the party and I rather sensed he’d never heard of me. Anyway, we each affected to know one another and the evening was reasonably jolly – except I felt I had to be on my best behaviour in the presence of the ‘boss’ and I think CP felt he had to be circumspect in the presence of an ‘unknown’.
The Hilary Howarth Nursery School, the Cherry Grove Primary School, the Blacon Project Adventure Playground, the Farmer’s Party at Hatton Hall and, finally, the
Euro-constituency AGM – a quiet affair. Up at Westminster Ted Heath is raging at Thatcher’s speech on the Union and challenging her to a TV debate (which would be fun) but here in Chester the Euro debate is rather less lively. I toe the line, strike the balance, go for the middle way, but I don’t think they’re terribly interested.
We’re flying to Venice today. I have mixed feelings about this both because of all the ‘vital events’ Jill Everett
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tells me I’m missing in Chester between now and the end of the month and because of my ding-dong with Prince Edward. He sent a pompous letter essentially berating the [Duke of Edinburgh seventieth] Birthday Committee for not pulling our weight – so I called the Palace and spoke to his office and said I thought he had a cheek. Edward called back and I didn’t let him get a word in: I just banged on about his pompous letter, reminded him we were all volunteers and said that I didn’t like being patronised or cajoled by someone several years my junior when I working my socks off for the good of the cause! He bleated an apology and I felt a whole lot better – but, of course, my response was quite as pompous and uncalled for as his letter. And now I’m leaving the country and I won’t even be at the wretched birthday celebrations. Michèle says no one will notice and, of course, she’s right.
We bought an English paper and there’s the picture of Prince Philip and Prince Edward at the birthday bash meeting Harry Connick Jr, ‘the new Frank Sinatra’, who pronounced the Duke ‘a real cool dude’.
As arranged, at 12 noon, as the clock struck, we met up with Jo and Stevie at the Caffè Florian. The Brandreths and the Barlows took Bellinis in the drawing room of Europe and we raised our glasses to absent royalty and agreed that Michèle had been right – as usual. Tomorrow we are lunching on Torcello, at my favourite restaurant in all the world. Ain’t life grand?
Returned to find ‘Dear Gyles’ letter from Prince Edward: ‘In spite of all the crossed
wires (for which I apologise) and the bleak economic background, I felt that last weekend’s celebrations were a tremendous success. I know there were problems and that egos were bruised along the way … I trust there are not too many hard feelings about my earlier letter. It may have been a bit heavy handed, but there were a few worried people just prior to the event. Thank you for rallying round; I’m sure it made all the difference.’
Now I feel guilty.
At 12 noon we gathered at Puddington for ‘Peter Morrison’s Annual Pimm’s Party’. This is a gala event in the Association’s calendar. Sir Peter provides the Pimm’s and the Conservative ladies provide ‘the bites’. Until I came to Chester I’d never heard of ‘bites’ – now I eat almost nothing else. You are what you eat and there are weekends at the end of which I think I’ve turned into a damp bit of bread and butter rolled round a limp inch of asparagus. The first – fleeting – moment of ‘tension’ between us and the activists came about because of the bites. Michèle got a message from Jill [Everett] saying she was expected to bring sixty ‘bites’ to an event and what would Michèle be bringing – sausages on sticks, celery filled with cream cheese, curried stuffed eggs? ‘Stuff yours’ was my darling wife’s reaction. That’s not what she said to Jill, of course. That’s what she said to me. She also made me phone the hotel and order three trays of canapés as our contribution. We’ve not been asked for ‘bites’ since.
The party was fine. We worked the marquee and listened to (but didn’t join in) the gossip about our host. Peter’s workers fall into two distinct camps: a minority think he’s past his sell-by date, that he’s let himself go, that he’s out of touch, that he gives out all the wrong signals, that he’s ‘let the seat slide’. The majority simply love the grandeur of the man. ‘Have you seen inside the lavatory? The pictures of Peter at Eton. Aren’t they
wonderful
?’
Lunch at the Old Bailey as a guest of the Sherriff. After we’d eaten we processed along the corridor back towards the courts. I walked at the front with the judge who’d been sitting next to me. We came to a door which was opened by a court flunkey. Thinking that, as a guest, it was appropriate that I should lead the way, I did – and suddenly
found myself on the judge’s bench in Court No. 1 with the clerk instructing all to be upstanding for Mr Justice Whatever-he-was-called – who followed me in, apparently amused, and invited me to sit next to him on the bench. It was a gripping case – fellow dead in a police cell and the brilliant barrister (Mr Nasty and Mr Smooth all rolled into one) making us believe it wasn’t his ugly-looking client, it was the police wot done it. As I left I told one of the clerks how impressed I’d been by the barrister (I believed him completely) and he said: ‘He’s famous. He’s Mr Mansfield.
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Looks after the IRA and all that sort.’
Last night’s Granada drama on the downfall of Mrs T. –
Thatcher: The Final Days
– was gripping stuff. Sylvia Syms was a bit unlikely as Mrs T. and they should certainly have had Martin [Jarvis] as Heseltine – but for us, of course, the fascination was in the characterisation/demonisation of poor Peter M. If it hadn’t been for his complacency, his ineffective campaign on her behalf, his somnolence on the watch etc., she might have survived. That was the gist of it – and in the papers the knives are out for him.
This helps explain why he’s getting out. It may explain the drinking too. Of course, the programme didn’t portray him as either a lush or an old queen, though we can see he’s the one and we assume he’s the other. I think Jeremy Hanley takes credit for coming up with the line – at the time of Peter’s appointment as Mrs T.’s PPS – ‘Ah, at last Margaret’s got herself an aide who knows how to carry a handbag.’ At Sunday’s do at Peter’s place one or two were whispering behind their hands about his alleged sexual preferences – but I don’t think any of them is aware that Michèle and I have been told
several times
on the doorstep – in no uncertain terms – that the MP is ‘a disgusting pervert’ who is ‘into little boys’.
Peter invited me to sit in on his regular NFU meeting. On a Sunday morning about four times a year he has six to ten farmers from our part of Cheshire come to his house to tell him of their travails. Peter says whether it’s eggs, wheat, beef, poultry, horticulture, they’re never happy, but they always arrive in Jaguars. The meeting lasted an hour. The farmers, all looking the part, sat awkwardly, in armchairs and on low sofas. Peter,
the patrician Tory grandee, sat centre-stage, bolt upright on a dining room chair. He took careful notes throughout, nodded a lot, grunted once or twice, but said nothing and gave nothing away – until the end when he gave us all massive gins and tonics in huge cut glass tumblers. It was a masterly performance: he committed himself to nothing at all and had them eating out of the palm of his hand.
This afternoon, as I was working on my debut speech for the party conference, Francis Maude
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telephoned. I’ve not met him – I’ve met hardly any of them – but he was cordial, businesslike. He explained that he’s Financial Secretary to the Treasury (which I know), that he’s replying to Thursday’s debate on the Citizen’s Charter (which I also know), that the Prime Minister regards it as one of the key debates of the conference (which I doubt), and is there any pre-briefing that I need from him or anything that I am planning to say that he should know about so he can respond to it from the platform? I couldn’t think what to say or ask, and I didn’t like to admit that I’ve never been to a party conference before so I don’t really know the form. I just mumbled thanks and felt wrong-footed.
The moment I put the phone down I went back to the speech. It’s four minutes maximum. After three minutes they flash an amber light. After four the light turns red and they haul you off the podium. There really isn’t much time to develop an argument. I am trying to give what little I’ve got to say a bit of shape and substance, but it’s still a terrible mishmash of cliches and tub-thumping.
I’m impressed by Maude taking the trouble to call and I’m impressed by the way the whole conference is rigged. There are 1,411 motions submitted by Conservative associations across the land, 98 per cent of them pure grovel (‘This conference congratulates Her Majesty’s government…’, ‘This conference agrees with Her Majesty’s government…’, ‘This conference warmly welcomes…,’ ‘This conference wholeheartedly commends…’ etc.), 2 per cent mad maverick (Bring back Matron! Bring back hanging! Let’s hear it for the birch!), and the ones selected for debate are (quite properly) the ones that will provide the best opportunity for setting out and saluting the government’s achievements. All the speakers from the floor are carefully screened and, if you have plans for a future within the party, you’ll make sure your contribution does the two essentials: cheers the leader and toes the line.
Apparently in the run-up to a general election they always do their best to give opportunities to prospective candidates. I simply got a call from Central Office saying that my spot would be Thursday at 9.30 a.m.; my theme, the Citizen’s Charter; and my position, considered adulation. I didn’t argue.
I’m grateful.
I spent two more hours fine-tuning the speech (two more hours on a four-minute speech – and on the Citizen’s Charter to boot!) and then set off to be on parade for the Association’s Autumn Lunch, scheduled for 12 noon. (Vanessa is impressing on me that I must start turning up for things on time: if it says 12 noon all the old ladies will be there, ready and waiting, by 11.45 at the latest). Our guest of honour was William Hague,
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PPS to Norman Lamont, and excellent value: good jokes and a clear message. He also had energy and I’m coming to think that may be the secret of success in this game: controlling, maintaining, sustaining energy. We think we know one another because I was President of the Union about ten years before he was and he seems to recall several of my older jokes. The activists know him because he wowed the party conference as a boy orator aged fifteen. He doesn’t look much older now.