Decline & Fall Page 3

  Monday, 27 June

  Charles Clarke made a statement about the continuing deportations of failed asylum seekers to Zimbabwe. A spectacular bout of hypocrisy from the Tories, and their leader-in-waiting David Davis, demanding that all removals to Zimbabwe cease forthwith. Who, watching this extraordinary display, would guess that this is a party that has just fought an election campaign in which the return of every last failed asylum seeker was a major plank? Davis was particularly shameless. Later, I came across him at the BBC and said that from now on I was proposing to refer to him as Shameless of Haltemprice.

  The front page headline in today’s Daily Mail is headed, apropos Zimbabwe asylum seekers, ‘FOR PITY’S SAKE LET THEM STAY’. It makes one’s stomach turn.

  Tuesday, 28 June

  Lunch with John Simpson. I like him. A mega-star making an effort to be modest. He asked about my days at the BBC and seemed genuinely interested in my opinions. John says the Americans cannot win in Iraq and that the only question is the manner of their exit. He thinks they should hand over to the UN – but who is to say that the UN won’t come under attack, too? Then to the chamber to hear Charles Clarke introduce the ID cards Bill. Never have I seen a minister more intervened upon, but to everyone he responded calmly and courteously. Deep unease about ID cards. Not so much the civil liberties implications as about whether or not the technology will work and what it will cost. A whiff of doom about the whole enterprise. No way will it go through the Lords, except by force. If there were a free vote, it wouldn’t get through the Commons either.

  This evening, my long-awaited, much rearranged audience with Jack. A glass of wine in his room at the House while a spectacular electric thunderstorm raged outside. ‘There was no animus, Chris. You just fell off the end. I know you think I could have saved you, but I couldn’t.’

  I recounted my ‘Africa envoy’ conversation, making clear that I didn’t believe that anything would come of it. Jack wanted to know The Man’s exact words. He seemed to take it more seriously than I, but is well aware of The Main Person’s tendency to scatter vague promises like confetti. ‘Tony’s like a man who says, “I love you” to seven, eight, nine, ten women and they all go away feeling happy until they start to compare notes.’ That nicely sums up The Man. For the record, Jack thinks he won’t go until ‘07 at the earliest.

  Wednesday, 29 June

  My first caller this morning was Andrew Gilligan, a man with whom one must sup with a very long spoon. He’s making a follow-up to his earlier programme on extraordinary rendition for Channel Four and is looking for evidence of British government complicity (‘We haven’t got any yet, but we’re hopeful of finding some by the time the programme goes out’).

  Dinner in the Strangers’ Dining Room with John Gilbert. He expressed disappointment that I have no interest in coming to the Lords. ‘Whatever happens you must find something to do. Otherwise slowly, inexorably, imperceptibly you will go into terminal decline.’

  I asked why we needed a new generation of nuclear weapons (a subject about which I pressed The Man at Questions today). John, needless to say, is strongly in favour.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘One word, dear boy: France. There’s not the slightest chance of our getting rid of nuclear weapons while France has them.’

  I hadn’t realised our case was so weak.

  Thursday, 30 June

  Sat through most of the Africa debate. Hilary made a brilliant opening and Andrew Mitchell for the Tories was good, too. I had intended to speak, but when Hilary left after three hours I lost the will to go on and asked the Deputy Speaker to take my name off the list. Result: most of the day wasted. I should have gone to see Mum instead.

  My meteoric downfall continues apace. According to Ann Cryer, who sits on the parliamentary committee, my name doesn’t even feature on the list of proposed members for either the foreign affairs or international development committees. All that now remains is for the Boundary Commission to take away my seat and my humiliation will be complete. If I didn’t have a family to support, I would get out . . .

  Friday, 1 July

  Sunderland

  To Penshaw, where, along with a thousand or so others, I helped to form a circle around the monument – Sunderland’s contribution to making poverty history. A light aeroplane came over and photographed us. To my surprise and mild irritation George Galloway was there, trailed by a BBC television crew. A set-up? Are we about to become extras in a broadcast on behalf of the Respect party?

  ‘What’s George doing here?’ I inquired of one of the organisers.

  ‘Oh, we wanted a fair spread across the political spectrum,’ he replied shiftily.

  ‘Why, in that case, didn’t you invite the Ulster Unionists and the Welsh Nationalists as well?’

  No reply, beyond a smirk.

  Sure enough, come the speeches, George launched into a scathing attack on the G8 and all its works. Classic, rabble-rousing, easy politics. The sort of stuff George does brilliantly, although it didn’t go down quite as well as I expected. A number of people walked away.

  Monday, 4 July

  Some fun at Defence questions. I teamed up with several Tory Friends of the Bomb in an attempt to persuade John Reid to come clean about plans for a new generation of nuclear weapons. Michael Gove, a recently elected young Tory fogey, started the ball rolling and I came in from our side, after which the exchange acquired a life of its own and Reid became slightly ratty. I have raised the subject half a dozen times so far and I’m determined to keep at it until the powers-that-be come clean. One doesn’t have to be a CNDer to entertain the possibility that there are better things to do with £10 billion or whatever they are proposing to spend on a successor to Trident. I bet a fair swathe of the military top brass take that view, too.

  Wednesday, 6 July

  To the Gay Hussar for lunch. I boarded a 24 bus, but before it had gone far it became ensnared in traffic so I got off and walked. As I reached Trafalgar Square a great cheer went up, strips of coloured paper began to shower down from the sky and the bells of St Martin-in-the-Fields began to toll: London has been chosen for the 2012 Olympics.

  Later, I ran into The Man’s Man, Keith Hill, who was in even better humour than usual. ‘This will do wonders for The Man’s street cred,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed. You know what they’re saying?’

  ‘Tell me’

  ‘Four more years.’ He held up the fingers of his right hand and disappeared down the corridor, cackling.

  Thursday, 7 July

  Olympic euphoria was short-lived. Bombs have gone off all over London, on Underground trains at Aldgate, King’s Cross and Edgware Road and on the top deck of a bus at Tavistock Square.

  I arrived at Hampstead Underground just after nine to find a jam-packed train, doors open, sitting in the station. At this stage there was no inkling of what had happened. Then a London Underground employee in a blue blazer came and announced that the station was being evacuated due to ‘a power surge’. Several people ranted. In particular a well-dressed man who said he was from Greece (as if the Greeks have anything to teach us about the smooth-running of public services) and a red-headed yob who demanded to know how he was going to get to work in Knightsbridge. The Underground man, an Asian, kept his cool admirably.

  Outside, still no clue as to what was happening, I walked down the hill and boarded a 24 bus which meandered for about a mile before being turned back at the far end of Camden High Street. Someone said something about a bomb. I got off and started walking. Gradually the traffic dried up. Euston Road was sealed. Police were letting through only ambulances and other emergency vehicles in the direction of King’s Cross. Wailing sirens everywhere. I crossed into Tottenham Court Road. People were clustered round shop windows displaying television sets which were showing scenes of chaos just a few hundred yards away. Looking left into Bloomsbury, the side streets were taped off. At Trafalgar Square I came across Sir George Young on his bicycle. ‘My visit to the Cheadle by-
election has been called off,’ he said, feigning disappointment.

  By the time I reached the House it was clear that we had a catastrophe on our hands. For a while, proceedings carried on as usual. The whips put the word around that we should string out Business questions for as long as possible in order to give Charles Clarke a chance to put his statement together, but eventually the Speaker suspended the sitting. In due course Charles appeared and delivered a short, sombre statement, thin on detail since the full facts were not yet known. No one pressed him and there was no grand-standing. It was announced that The Man was on his way back from the G8 at Gleneagles to chair COBRA (the Cabinet committee in charge of emergencies). Then back to normal business – a debate on defence. I had intended to harass John Reid on nuclear weapons, but in the circumstances decided not to. The highlight was a coruscating speech from George Galloway, the gist of which was that we had brought all the bombings on ourselves as a result of our association with the American adventures in Iraq and Afghanistan. Vintage George, delivered unfalteringly, without a piece of paper in sight. And to avoid giving ammunition to his many enemies he went out of his way repeatedly to condemn the bombings. He was heard in uncomfortable silence by all save one foolish new Tory who was contemptuously brushed aside. The problem with George’s thesis, of course, is that 9/11 preceded the occupations of Afghanistan and Iraq. Even so, it would take a brave man to assert that we would have been attacked today had we not gone into Iraq. Later, George Bush was on television, prattling about evil men who kill innocent people and I couldn’t help thinking of that picture of a distraught father grieving over the half-dozen – or was it eight – little bodies of his children after one of Bush’s bombs went astray over Kabul.

  All day long we went about our business accompanied by the distant wail of sirens. By evening St Pancras, but not King’s Cross, was reported open. There was no Underground and only a handful of buses so I set out on foot, towing my little bag behind me, through Embankment Gardens and up through the Inns of Court. At the top of Chancery Lane, a loud bang. Everyone froze – the silence audible – and then we relaxed as it became clear that it was a controlled explosion. A policeman waved us quickly across Holborn, which was sealed to traffic; so was the Euston Road. I reached St Pancras at about a quarter to seven to find it, too, was closed, but I hung around with a crowd of other pedestrians and after a while we were allowed through. From St Pancras I caught a (nearly empty) train to Doncaster by way of Sheffield, arriving at about eleven. Only half a dozen people waiting. The digital signboard indicated no more trains, but the station staff assured us they were expecting one about midnight and in due course a train appeared. Reached Durham at 1.30am and took a taxi home. The taxi driver was reporting 50 dead and hundreds of casualties. ‘The chin-wag is that it was the French,’ he said with apparent sincerity. ‘I wouldn’t put anything past that Chirac.’

  Sunday, 10 July

  Helions Bumpstead, Essex

  Mum’s 85th birthday. Probably her last. Liz laid on a magnificent spread. All four of us children and all but one grandchild showed up. As usual the girls produced their own cards. Emma’s showing Granny as Queen, a flag flying at full mast over her palace; Sarah’s showed Mum on top of Ben Nevis, which in a moment of madness she walked up 30 years ago, despite her crippled feet. Mum frail, but generally competent, although as the afternoon wore on she did lapse into occasional nonsense; by evening she was looking tired, but happy. Great heat – temperature in the thirties; it wasn’t until the shadow passed over Liz’s garden in the early evening that we were able to sit outside.

  Monday, 11 July

  To London – with trepidation since the organisers of last week’s outrages are still thought to be at large. At King’s Cross the entrance to the Underground was sealed; a sign directed passengers to Euston. On road signs and railings around the station home-made posters of the ‘missing’ put up by desperate relatives. One a picture of a bright-faced, dark-haired young woman called Miriam, no doubt the apple of her parents’ eye, ‘last heard of being evacuated from King’s Cross . . .’

  At four The Man made a statement which was greeted by a huge bout of me-too-ism from all sides. Even Michael Howard was lavish in his praise. After an hour one almost longed for a George Galloway to get up and puncture the complacency.

  At the meeting of the parliamentary party the names of the new select committee members were read out by Hilary. As expected, mine was not among them. Despite the improvements prompted by last year’s uprising, the selection process remains deeply unsatisfactory; the executive still has the biggest say as to who will scrutinise it.

  This evening in the Tea Room, John Prescott remarked that our Olympic bid is seriously underfunded. ‘I warned them that if we got it, we’d have to find a lot more money.’ He said that the sports minister, Richard Caborn, had asked ministers in several countries that had recently hosted the Olympics what they would have done differently and they all said they should have got the budget right to start with.

  Tuesday, 12 July

  A young man called Abdul came to help resolve a glitch in my printer. He said that all the IT on the parliamentary estate is soon to be upgraded. I asked what will happen to the old stuff. His reply was shocking: ‘It will be thrown away.’

  ‘Recycled, surely?’

  ‘No. It’s not worth sending to the Third World and the parts aren’t worth re-using. It will go into landfill. The same happens with old mobile phones. There are two for every adult in Europe.’

  In-fucking-sanity. We will be cursed by future generations.

  The police appear to have identified three of the four perpetrators of last week’s bombings. All British citizens, born and bred in Leeds; two of them young. The implications are not hard to grasp – the virus of Islamist terror has taken root in British soil.

  Wednesday, 13 July

  Another blazing-hot day.

  With Sheila Williams to Hampstead to see dear old Michael Foot. We found him seated at the table in his basement, French doors opened onto a secluded, sunny garden. One-eyed, lopsided, wild-haired, but absolutely sound of mind. Books, old and new (letters and cuttings protruding), piled on tables, sideboard, floor, everywhere. No effort to disguise his disenchantment with the regime – a half-page newspaper photograph of Gordon Brown was taped to the mantelpiece behind him. He greets me like a long lost friend. Odd that he should take such a shine to me after the battles of the eighties. I owe Sheila for putting him right. He commiserates over my loss of office. ‘You were just about the only member of the government who I haven’t heard say something stupid.’ Half an hour is spent bemoaning the Daily Mail (‘the forger’s gazette’), which recently serialised a salacious biography of Jill. Sheila urges him not to respond, but he is clearly tempted. Later Ian Aitken rings with the same advice, but Michael keeps returning to the subject, clearly upset. He also complains about a book on H. G. Wells which makes the great man out to be bitter and curmudgeonly in his final years. ‘Nonsense. I knew him very well. He wasn’t like that at all.’

  What a wonderful arrangement this is. Michael, 92 next week, is determined to die in his own home, surrounded by his books, papers and mementoes. A succession of carers look after him, working ten-day shifts. Molly, who once worked in the Cabinet Office, is on duty today. Sheila showed me his library upstairs, full of rare first editions. And Jill’s study, also piled high (even the fireplace is book-lined). Incredibly, Michael still sleeps on the third floor and climbs up and down by himself every day; no sign of a stairlift.

  If only we could have done this for Mum. I curse myself for not trying harder.

  Monday, 18 July

  Ted Heath has died. In later years at least he was a sad, grumpy old bugger, but unlike many of his contemporaries right about some big issues – fascism in the thirties and in the seventies British membership of the EU. In later life he had a blind spot about China though, prompted perhaps by large amounts of dosh from his Chinese business interests. Latterl
y, according to one of the Special Branch men who accompanied me to Pakistan, he whiled away the evenings drinking alone in country pubs around Salisbury, with only his minder for company.

  Tuesday, 19 July

  A call from Number 10 to discuss how I might be useful in Africa. Well, well. What prompted this? A word from Jack perhaps. I remain sceptical, but you never know.

  A minister whispered in the Tea Room that 11 soldiers, one a colonel, are to be court-martialled in connection with the abuse – and in two cases killing – of prisoners in Iraq. Several have been charged with ‘war crimes’, which seems a bit over the top. Needless to say the military top brass are mightily upset and John Reid is not best pleased either. The Mail and the Telegraph are already gearing up for a big offensive. ‘It’s going to be horrendous,’ he said. He added that the courts martial process was deeply flawed. Apparently the three soldiers convicted of abusing prisoners last year have quietly had their sentences reduced by their commanding officer and upon release they are to be taken back into the army. All this without any announcement, despite the enormous publicity that attended the original sentencing.

  Wednesday, 20 July

  A robust exchange of emails with the Deputy Serjeant at Arms over the treatment of the House of Commons cleaners who are on strike over their disgraceful terms and conditions – they are paid little more than the minimum wage and receive only 12 days’ holiday a year. They are almost all contract cleaners. There is also the little point that, in this age of jihad, it may not make sense to outsource the cleaning of Parliament to demoralised, alienated workers of mainly Third World origin. This is the one argument that might just cut some ice with the foolish gentry who run this place.