Breaking the Code (81 page)

It was a nightmare for him – a miserable hour that will be followed by days of unforgiving headlines. Whoever had come on next couldn't have failed.

That said, I am happy to report that the good ladies of the WI gave me a standing ovation.

10.45 a.m.: I set off from London SW13 at the crack of dawn to get to Bournemouth [for the Conservative Party conference, the last before the 2001 general election] in good time for William Hague's unscripted question-and-answer session and here I am, four hours later, stuck on the M3 listening to
Woman's Hour.
There's been a bomb scare. On the motorway the traffic is moving at a snail's pace. On the radio a feisty
young lesbian is telling Martha Kearney that the Conservative Party needs to be more inclusive or it is doomed. Hear, hear.

1.30 p.m, Highcliff Hotel, Bournemouth: I may be late, but I have not gone unrewarded. Incredibly, as I arrived, the very first person to greet me was the feisty young lesbian. She's called Karen Gillard.
682
She wants me to come to the Tory Campaign for Homosexual Equality bash, hosted by Steve Norris (natch). ‘It's up the other end of town, near the gay guest houses, you'll like it.' I certainly like her. And she says she likes me. (Michèle often says I'm a lesbian's idea of a real man.) Next chance encounter, in the corridor, outside my room, Michael Portillo.
683

‘Gyles, my friend,' he says.

‘Michael, my hero,' I respond. He is looking sensational: full tan, full lips, full head of hair. How he makes it stand up and wave like that we'll never know. He's out to wow 'em, without notes, ‘from the heart'. He's on a roll. It can't go wrong.

7.30 p.m.: Amazing afternoon. Michael triumphed. In the press room the hacks shook their heads in wonder. ‘It's incredible how he's changed' is their line. I don't think he's changed at all. He's abandoned his hectoring style of speaking, he seems happier with himself since sharing his secret past with the wider world, but fundamentally he's the same man. People don't change. But they do grow older. Ted Heath gave me the sweetest smile and shook his shoulders in greeting, but he's not looking good. Wisely, they had him on the platform for the Health debate: Liam Fox, our Health spokesman, is a former GP.

At 4.00 p.m. I made my way to the VIP room behind the stage to join the gathering gaggle of ‘Celebrities for a Conservative Victory'. It was exactly like being in the green room before recording a daytime game show for the BBC at Pebble Mill. ‘Darling, you look wonderful. Isn't Anthony Andrews looking fantastic? How old is he now? Where's Dana?'

‘She couldn't make it. We've got Ed Stewart instead.'

‘Stewpot? Stupendous. Crackerjack!' We were happy to see one another, but listening to a couple of party workers whispering over the tea urn was not encouraging.

‘Who's that?'

‘I don't know.'

‘And that?'

‘I'm not sure. I think it's Ruth Madoc.'

‘Ruth who?'

‘You know, from
Hi-de-Hi!
'

‘Actually, I'm Nicky Stevens from Brotherhood of Man.'

‘Of course, thank you for being here.'

At 4.40 we were lined up to make our way on to the stage for the Culture, Media and Sport debate. I was supposed to be between Tim Rice and Antony Worrall Thompson (‘What about you and Delia Smith, then?' ‘Not a barrel-load of laughs, is she?' ‘She's the Mary Archer of home cooking.'), but at the last moment a distinguished-looking old boy joined the line next to me. I assumed he was our culture spokesman in the House of Lords and made appropriate small talk. The poor man looked quite bemused. ‘He's David Shepherd,' Tim hissed at me.

‘The bishop? I thought he was dead.'

‘No, world-famous artist. Paints elephants. Makes a fortune.'

‘Ah.'

I know the press will mock our line-up, but the hall was full, the mood was good and those they recognised the crowd seemed pleased to see. Mike Yarwood and Bob Champion got the loudest cheers. Patti Boulaye opened the proceedings. We are lucky to have her. She's black and beautiful – not attributes with which the Conservative Party is over-endowed.

1.00 a.m.: The celebs dinner was very jolly, with Jim Davidson in cracking form. He's going to be the warm-up act before the leader's big speech on Thursday. ‘I'm going to come on wearing a blue shirt and open my jacket and it'll be drenched – just like Blair's. What d'ya think, Gyles? Fucking great idea, ain't it?'

‘Fucking great, Jim.'

‘The Tory's Party's changing, Gyles.' It certainly is. I have agreed to be patron of the ‘Lesbians for William' campaign. (They really wanted Virginia Bottomley, but I think she demurred.)

At 10.00 p.m. we were herded onto a bus and driven across town to the Bournemouth Pavilion for the Conference Ball. Traditionally, this is a grim affair, peopled by elderly activists jitterbugging sedately to over-amplified music they neither recognise nor enjoy. Tonight it was different. Jim took command of the proceedings. ‘Did you hear about the Brad Pitt Lookalike Contest? [Pause] Robin Cook came second. [LONGER pause] Lenny Henry won.' Tim Rice and Michael Ancram did Buddy Holly duets. Jim introduced Tim as the man who has written a musical about the Prime Minister called
The Lying King
. ‘Acually,' said Tim, ‘It's called
Superstar – Jesus Christ
!'

When William and Ffion appeared on stage the room went berserk. We stamped our feet. We hollered. The girl standing next to me said, ‘I love him, I love that man.' William is a sensational performer. On that stage he was as strong, as sharp, as funny as Jim Davidson. ‘And look,' he said, ‘no sweat.'

When the Hagues departed Faith Brown took to the stage and gave us an impression of Mrs Thatcher crossed with Vera Duckworth (which we loved) followed by a joke about Jeffrey Archer that we didn't want to hear. (Jeffrey is now a nonperson. This time last year we were all over him. Tonight we don't even want to hear his name.) Faith (old trouper) fought back with a selection of Abba hits and then went into the title song from
The Full Monty
. For an alarming moment, it looked as if Jim was going to strip for us. He didn't, of course. He gets pretty close to the wire (there was a story about a suppository and the weight of the doctor's hands on his shoulders that left my neighbour a little confused), but he knows his audience and played us to perfection.

I walked back across the park. It is a beautiful night. It has been a good day. The Conservative Party seems more at ease with itself than I have known it in ten years. As I climbed the hill to the hotel I noticed a couple with their arms around each other in the car park. They were kissing. It was Penny and John Gummer.

4.00 p.m.: Jim's warm-up was a triumph, so hilarious that the laughter and applause drowned out the BBC interview with Hezza in the commentary booth. William's speech raised the roof. He is our best orator in a generation. In the press room, the verdict was that this has been our best conference in years. I rounded on one of the hacks: ‘I hope you'll say so.'

‘I will – except no one will notice.'

‘Why not?'

He pointed at the television screen. ‘It seems there's a revolution in Yugoslavia. I'm afraid your friend William is going to be wiped off the front pages. He'll be lucky to make page six.'

The man from
The Guardian
chuckled. ‘That's politics.'

Lunch at Grosvenor House, celebrating seventy years of the literary lunches founded by Christina Foyle. Margaret Thatcher was the guest of honour and in fine form. Less so Denis, who drank heavily, sneezed repeatedly and kept dropping off. At one point, he suddenly woke up, looked at Michèle across the table and said, ‘Nice titties.' He was smiling. It was meant as a compliment.

It was one of those days. Lord Longford dropped his trousers – right to his ankles. Larry Adler felt off the dais while playing his harmonica and Denis Healey arrived saying, ‘Good evening, good evening.' At the end of lunch I gave the vote of thanks and while I was speaking Denis Thatcher slumped forward onto the table. This time I really thought he was dead. I wasn't alone. Norma Major had come with Ian McColl,
684
who crept around the table and managed to get hold of Denis's wrist and take his pulse. He gave a thumbs-up and, as I sat down, Denis sat up and winked at Michèle. Mrs T. looked the other way throughout.

Brief encounter with one of the great figures of our time: Michael Jackson, in town for Uri Geller's book launch. He looked so strange – and sad. His face has been destroyed. He hobbled in on a crutch, smiled a very weird smile but wouldn't say a word. ‘It's a Monday,' one of his minders explained to me, ‘Mr Jackson never speaks on a Monday.'

Later, at Sarah Butterfield's art show in Cork Street, John Major was a lot chattier – though in despair at the state of the party and William's apparent lurch to the right. ‘I care about the party – not all the people, but the party.' He promised to give me his first post-election interview.

‘Thank you,' I said.

‘Goodnight,' he said, ‘God bless.'

It doesn't look good for William.
685
Last night, at the Yorkshire Property Awards dinner
in Harrogate, I worked the room and at not one table did I find enthusiasm for wee Willie. ‘He's a stage Yorkshireman,' sneered a Barnsley millionaire, his companions grunting in agreement.

‘He's a real Yorkshireman,' I protested.

They laughed: ‘It don't wash with us.'

Coffee with Anthea Turner at her Surrey ranch, Southfork-by-Guildford. If she isn't going to vote Conservative, who is? She claims she's got a soft spot for John Prescott. Actually fancies him.

What hope is there?

Sandwich lunch with Charles Kennedy at his flat in Victoria. He's pottering round in his socks, looking well but smaller and much thinner than I remember. He grins: ‘I'm 5 ft 9 in., I won't over-claim.' He's lost at least a stone in weight.

‘How?' I ask, ‘Exercise?'

He splutters: ‘I don't even recognise the word. No, it's being a bit more sensible about food and alcohol consumption.' Does he think he drinks too much? He smiles wanly: ‘Because you're seen to be reasonably convivial and because you're a Highlander, and people have a certain perception of Highlanders, what with the distilleries and all that … these things get said. I smoke too much, I'll admit that.'

How does he rate Blair?

‘In terms of general application to the job of being Prime Minister, I think he's a very good Prime Minister.' And Hague? ‘A lot of things are not going right for William. The Conservative Party is in an almost psychotic state, incapable of being led.'

By the end of the campaign Charles reckons he will have escaped the Ashdown shadow. His aim is to make the Lib Dems the credible party of opposition and, from there, he reckons government is eventually possible, with or without proportional representation. ‘I regard this as marathon, not a sprint.'

‘So you could be Prime Minister one day?' I asked, incredulously.

‘It is possible, yes.' He said it with an entirely straight face.

When he went to the loo, I poked about the kitchen, looking into the fridge and the cupboards for hidden stashes of booze.

I found a half-bottle of wine, nothing more.

Anthea's pin-up [John Prescott] has punched a protesting voter in the head and brought the election to life. For this relief much thanks.

Elevenses in Battersea with Neil and Christine Hamilton. Neil is looking pretty
punch-drunk himself. He becomes bankrupt next week and is to have the same trustee-in-bankruptcy as Jonathan Aitken.

Lunch in a pub in Brentwood with Martin Bell.
686
He is wearing his ludicrous crumpled white suit and when I tell him it's a gimmick he gets all uppity. Apparently, it's a ‘good luck suit' – kept the bullets off him in Sarajevo and should keep the eggs at bay in Ongar. He's put on a stone, maybe two, he's gross, but his daughter Melissa is as beautiful as ever. (His other daughter is not on hand: ‘She doesn't want to be known as my daughter. You understand.' I do.) Clearly, he's regretting not standing against Keith Vaz in Leicester, ‘but the people here asked me first'.

Tea with Glenda Jackson at the ASLEF headquarters in Hampstead. What does she make of Prescott the street-fighter? ‘Poor John. He won't have slept last night. He's a passionate man. We need him.' I tell Glenda that I feel I share the credit for her new, improved, jollier appearance. When she was standing for London Mayor, I urged her to smile more. When she does she looks quite sexy. When I say to her, ‘You could be a world-class actress, instead you're a nothing backbencher, why?' she doesn't have an answer. She's sixty-five and doesn't expect to be a minister again. It's raining, so she has called off the afternoon's canvassing. ‘I'm not daft.'

The journalists agree: the Kennedy campaign bus is the most friendly; the Blair bus, way, way, the least. En route to Orpington, the Kennedy sandwiches (white bread, dry ham) don't get my vote, but Sarah (Gurling, Kennedy's girlfriend) definitely does. She's thirty, a big girl, not a fashion plate, but 100 per cent normal. ‘We've been an item for three years,' Charles tells me.

‘Not married?' I say. ‘Do you have a commitment problem, Charles?'

‘For God's sake, Gyles. We'll get the election out of the way and turn to other issues after that.'
687

I am standing in a field on the outskirts of Shrewsbury, gazing at the open sky, awaiting
a vision from heaven. At 2.15 p.m. on the dot the Widdecombe helicopter lands and Ann comes beetling through the long grass towards me.