Authors: Gyles Brandreth
Breaking the Code (40 page)
Today we’ve had Seb and Nicky [Coe] over for lunch in the kitchen with Simon and Beckie. Shall we all buy a house in the south of France? Tomorrow, as guests of Manweb, we’re joining Neil and Christine [Hamilton] at Glyndebourne –
Marriage of Figaro
. Then, Tuesday, Chester and the last gasps of the Euro campaign CANNOT BE AVOIDED! The PM’s new line – ‘a multi-speed Europe’, with the UK, by implication in the slow lane – doesn’t mean a lot, isn’t really realistic, but it’s gone down well with the troops.
I’m on the 4.47 from Chester getting into Euston at 7.19, on my way to a twenty-first anniversary supper in the kitchen with my darling girl. I’ve had a very funny day on the campaign trail with our Euro-candidate, the diminutive, dapper, delightful, banjo-playing David Senior. From a platform he speaks rather well – an old-fashioned Oxford Union tub-thumping style, but he is so small, bald and strange-looking that I’m afraid the troops aren’t taking him very seriously. What was most hilarious was that he clearly didn’t want to emerge from the battle-bus. We sat in the camper van and were driven from Hoylake to West Kirby to Heswall and back. Whenever the vehicle was moving David was happily blaring away on the loud-hailer, ‘This Thursday vote for David Senior, your Conservative Euro candidate’, but the moment the vehicle stopped and there was the prospect of having to get out and meet the electorate, the little fellow giggled, fell silent and stayed put.
‘Tories face crisis of confidence’. Yes, it’s a disaster, but it could have been worse. I’d say we won the campaign. At least we
had
a campaign. I went up at the crack of dawn to spend the day touring the committee rooms. Our people were fine: they don’t take
Euro elections seriously. They know MEPs don’t actually do anything (apart from collect the salary and handsome expenses), they knew our little man wasn’t going to win, they were simply going through the motions. I raced back to be at the Albert Hall for 7.30: Brian Conley and Bob Hope. Brian was the warm-up and brilliant. Bob Hope, alas, is gaga. He’s ninety. We expected a miracle. Instead we got a confused old man shuffling around the stage, with no idea quite where he was or why. The musical director kept him just about pointed in the right direction and, whenever the poor old boy started tottering towards the wings or, worse, the edge of the stage, went off to retrieve him. It was a sad sight. The surprise was Dolores Hope: great presence, glorious voice, kept under wraps for forty years she emerged from the shadows and the stole the show.
I’m speaking for Michael Forsyth at Strathblane. Back first thing for a matinee of
Love’s Labours Lost
at the Barbican. ‘The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo.’
We’re back. In the Tea Room, it’s all doom and gloom. Apparently it was our worst performance in a national election this century. In Downing Street, Christopher Meyer has had a bright idea. Get the PM to give a presidential press conference
in the garden
. We can’t change the play, but we can change the set! By several accounts, the PM was on form: sharp, rested, resilient. He’s staying and he’s going to lead from the front. That’s the message. Oh, and yes, there’ll be a reshuffle, but only when he’s ready.
For collectors of the truly ludicrous there’s a treat in the pages of
The Times
today: Sir Antony Buck,
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looking like a terminally ill scarecrow, presents his new wife to the world. ‘Tamara saw my picture in a Moscow newspaper and arrived at my doorstep unannounced.’ Happily, the paper reminds us that Sir Antony’s second marriage was to Bienvenida Perez-Blanco whose subsequent dalliance with the Chief of the Defence Staff brought his distinguished career to a rapid close. (Cue Michèle: ‘Men! They’re all the same…’) When Tony and Bienvenida flew off on Concorde for a few days’ honeymoon in Barbados, the happy groom was in prophetic vein: ‘It’s a long way to go for such a short time,’ he said, ‘but you only get married two or three times in a lifetime.’
When I first met him, years ago, I couldn’t believe that such a complete tosser could find a place in the government. But now I see how the system works.
Up at dawn to make my way to the turret off Members’ Lobby to sit in an empty room for upwards of two hours waiting to secure my next Ten Minute Rule Bill … This afternoon I present my Marriage Bill for first reading. The aim is to deregulate civil weddings, enable them to take place in venues other than register offices. I have all-party support, and high hopes.
Long letter from HRH. He’s sent me a photocopy of the serialisation of a book that’s being published in Australia: ‘Prince Philip’s torrid sex life – famous lovers named.’ It’s utterly ludicrous – they’ve thrown in everybody – Fergie’s mum, Merle Oberon, Katie Boyle, Princess Alexandra, Patti Kluge – but what does he do? His only defence is to sue for libel, but as he says, never mind the cost, think of the additional publicity it then gives the book. His idea is a sort of tribunal to which material like this could be referred. The author would then have to satisfy the tribunal that there was sufficient acceptable evidence to prove the truth of the statements.
When we know who our new Secretary of State for National Heritage is going to be I might float the idea past him. Certainly it’s maddening for the likes of HRH and Joanna [Lumley] that absolute fantasies, utter rubbish, can appear in the press and be repeated endlessly and, short of litigation, there’s nothing they can do about it. And, of course, people believe it. If it’s in the papers, it must be true. No smoke without fire. People want to believe the worst. (I was at a party and,
within earshot of the Queen,
someone was muttering to me that Prince Andrew was really the son of Lord Carnarvon. Lord Carnarvon’s actual son was also in the room at the time. I said, in a sort of desperate hushed whisper, ‘Don’t be so stupid.’ The fellow continued, ‘No, it’s true. I swear. I read it somewhere.’ I know that almost anything is possible in this world, but that the Queen has committed adultery is not.)
It’s going to be Blair. The remaining question: who gets the second spot. I’m backing Chester’s son, John Prescott,
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but Margaret Beckett has been quite impressive as acting leader these past few weeks.
Seb and I had dinner with the Chief Whip [Richard Ryder]. He was going to take us to Bucks, but there was the threat of a maverick vote on the incomprehensible Local Government (Wales) Bill (Lords), so we had a corner table in the Strangers’ Dining
Room instead. We initiated the dinner: Seb wanted to feed in his concerns that the government is doing nothing (nothing at all, at all, at all) that is likely to interest/attract/appeal to the younger voter; I wanted to remind the Chief of my charming presence, easy manner, natural eloquence, commitment and intelligence in the run-up to the reshuffle…
I’m not sure either of us had much luck. Richard is quietly charming and the evening wasn’t unenjoyable, but a) he wasn’t interested in Seb’s ideas, b) he’s the Chief Whip so with the likes of us he only gossips guardedly, c) I was so busy being careful what I said I didn’t say anything worth saying.
I’ve just come from the All-Party Media Group reception in the Jubilee Room. Unbearably crowded, stuffy, sweaty, and largely (no, entirely) pointless! Amiable if desultory small talk with Michael Grade,
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John Birt, Prince Edward. Grade asks, ‘Who will be party chairman now that Heseltine’s ruled himself out? Jeffrey Archer?’ I pull a naughty face, ‘I think
not
.’ (The activists out in the Styx may want him,
do
want him, but there’d be a riot in the Tea Room.) I said, ‘I think it’ll be David Hunt.’ ‘Is he your candidate?’ ‘No, my candidate is Jeremy Hanley.’
A congenial morning in the Chamber. The whips have a list of the willing and ambitious ready to idle away a Friday talking about nothing very much to nobody in particular in the hope of earning a couple of brownie points and a brief mention on the Saturday morning edition of
Yesterday in Parliament
. It was a debate on the leisure industry with plenty of scope for platitudes and legitimate references to the touristic charms of Chester. I also needed to be on parade at 2.30 for the formal Second Reading of the Marriage Bill.
On my way to the Tea Room just before one I encountered Kenneth Baker who said, ‘I’m having lunch with the Foreign Minister of Panama, come and join me.’ I went. There were half a dozen colleagues in Strangers’ Dining Room waiting to be dined (I presume at the Foreign Office’s expense) with our South American guest – whose name I never caught but who has invited me and Michèle to visit him as soon as we
can! I shared with the Foreign Minister my favourite palindrome – ‘A man, a plan, a canal – Panama!’ – and he revealed to me that the Panama hat comes not from Panama at all, but from Ecuador. As the Master said, you live and learn … then you die and forget it all.
John Patten has agreed to pay ‘substantial damages’ to the chief education officer he called ‘a nutter’. I imagine he’ll be gone within the month. How about Stephen [Dorrell] for Education?
I am on my way to Luton to speak for Graham Bright. In the Tea Room he is blamed for a lot of the PM’s woes: he’s not bright enough to pick up the signals, he’s not brave enough to relay them to the boss.
I’ve just returned from lunch with Tony Newton at 68 Whitehall. He is so lovely, but what a worrier! The Chancellor’s declaring that the single currency is a long-term goal. ‘True, but do we need to hear it?’ Blair’s pledge that, if elected, he will keep our education reforms couldn’t be more unhelpful: ‘It’s the sort of thing that’ll simply do for us’. Yes, Tony, but there’s not a lot we can do about it. He spent most of lunch shaking his head and lighting up. I tried to cheer him up by telling him about the file I’ve unearthed at the Treasury. I wished I’d taken it to show him. It’s wonderful: File EO 223/02 – ‘Treasury cat – subsistence allowance of ’.
The first memorandum dates from October 1930:
Rufus is unwell and should be seen by a vet. He has mange or ear-canker, I think. Authority is requested for the expenditure of a small sum on medical fees.
9.x.30
Chief Clerk
Authorised conditionally upon
(i) every effort, consistent with a speedy recovery to health, being made to keep the expenditure to a minimum;
(ii) further authority being obtained should total expenditure be likely to exceed £1;
(iii) any savings on subsistence during the period of incapacity being applied towards meeting the medical fees;
(iv) no supplementary estimate being required;
(v) a total prohibition on night wanderings during incapacity and convalescence and a partial prohibition afterwards.
20.xii.30
Following our recent talk about Rufus’ subsistence I have spoken to the office keeper and to Mrs Andrews, the Supervisor of Chairwomen. The latter has made herself responsible for the cat’s feeding and brings up cooked fish, meat etc., for him. She says that the official allowance does not cover her expenditure.
The allowance was raised from 1d to 2d a day in January 1921. The office keeper says that Rufus fully justifies his existence as a mouser: there are plenty of mice, he states, to be found from time to time in the basement parts of the office…
The allowance was raised from twopence to threepence a day.
19.i.37
Accountant
Please note that the cat, Rufus, died in the night of 18/19 January 1937.
6.iii.37
Chief Clerk
I regret that I have omitted until now to notify you officially of the appointment of the new Cat to HM Treasury to succeed the well known and much lamented Rufus. The new cat ‘Bob’ is black and I hope he will prove to be as good a mouser and custodian as his predecessor. Bob commenced his official duties on 10 February 1937.
31.xii.37
The white cat ‘Heather’ was officially appointed on 9 November 1937 as assistant to Bob.
24.ii.43
Bob refused to leave the Treasury after the building was damaged by enemy action, and is now apparently being looked after by the Staff at No. 10 who draw no ration allowance. He is a wild independent animal anyway.
Heather, unfortunately, was injured ratting or mousing in the Home Guard Store in the New Public Offices, and after treatment at the Animals Dispensary had failed to effect a cure, was destroyed.
By the early ’50s the subsistence rate had gone up to 2 shillings. On 7 July 1952, Mr Tinkler (a
Carry On
name if ever there was one) makes a successful pitch for a whopping increase – to 5 shillings:
We are told that 2 lb of horsemeat is provided at 2/- a lb in addition to cat food and milk. The cat is very efficient at its job and provision of this food in no way reduces its hunting activities. It is a born hunter and does not devour the rodents it catches.
The last entry is dated 16 September:
The Treasury no longer employs a cat in this building.
Blair, not formally elected yet, is letting it be known that he is an admirer of Mrs Thatcher’s leadership qualities. At least we can now be sure he isn’t going to get Ted’s vote.
At Health Questions I ask about suicide and, shortly after, find myself contemplating it. Well, not quite. But I got snared in one of those meaningless whip games. Antony Steen
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had a Ten Minute Rule Bill: ‘The French Language Prohibition Bill’, a riposte to some French parliamentarian who is seriously hoping to introduce legislation to outlaw English words in France. Antony suggested I might be amused to oppose the bill. I said I might. He relayed this to the whips. I then thought better of it: I have my own Ten Minute Rule Bill tomorrow – a proper one (School Leavers Community Service) where I’ve got something sensible to say. I told the whips that I wouldn’t be replying to Antony’s bill. ‘Good,’ they said, ‘We were going to stop you anyway. We need to get on with the Police and Magistrates’ Courts Bill.’