Alastair Campbell had a cynical term for the attempts to recruit Tories and others to Tony Blair’s big tent: ‘Operation Gobble’. In 1916, the Tories went into coalition with Lloyd George’s liberals. They gobbled them, spat out Lloyd George and reduced the Liberals to third-party status. In 1931, the Tories formed another coalition, with some Liberal and Labour MPs: also gobbled without trace. But after 1940, the wartime coalition enabled Clement Attlee to appear prime ministerial, thus helping to win Labour a huge majority in 1945. So this time, who will gobble whom? Thus far, Tory opinion is divided. A lot of MPs are delighted, especially the new ones. After 13 years of despair and wilderness, their leader is in Downing Street. Others feel that it would have been worth waiting another few months to attain real power. David Cameron could have made the Liberals an offer which was just short of acceptable. A Lib/Lab coalition would then have faltered and squabbled, failed and fallen. There will be endless material for the virtual historians, and the arguments will never be resolved. But when the early euphoria is dissipated by the economic difficulties, Mr Cameron will have to ensure that he keeps the sane right happy. He must also avoid becoming so all-immersed in governing that he forgets politics.
Canvassing is frequently exasperating. A key marginal, with every candidate spewing out literature. Some wry complaints from householders that their front door was almost jammed by political junk mail. Then you come across the professional complainer, who insists that he has heard nothing from anyone. You have to hold back on the incredulous scorn. The complainant has a vote, even if he sounds as though he would like to cast it against all the parties. Judging by my experience this time, Chris Patten’s dictum still holds true: men with tattooed forearms are safe Tory voters. Houses with gravel drives are marginals. Two more canvassing tales. An elderly woman opens the door and I go into my spiel. ‘I’ll ’ave ter ask me husband. Albert, it’s a gentleman from the Conservatives. Are we Conservative?’ A basso-profundo voice answered from within: ‘Naow. We’re Labour.’ ‘Naow, we’re Labour,’ she repeated, a little plaintively, before dropping to a whisper. ‘But I’m Conservative.’ In 1977, I was canvassing in a pub in Newcastle. There was a rheumy old fellow sitting quietly in a corner. I explained the merits of Conservatism to him, no doubt in a ghastly de-haut-en-bas tone. ‘Would you answer me one question, young man?’ ‘Of course, my dear sir,’ said I, sounding like an insufferably patronising young pup. ‘What have I got to conserve?’ There are plenty of answers to that, but my three stumps were doing cartwheels before I got the bat anywhere near the ball. I still shudder at the memory.
Coalition demands painful concessions. The Chief Secretary to the Treasury is the minister for public expenditure. Although he usually ranks low in the ranks of Cabinet precedence, that is no guide to his true importance. No modern government can function effectively without a first-class Chief Secretary. One of his principal functions is to say ‘no’ often and elegantly. A generation ago, Reg Prentice was minister of education in a Labour government. He wrote a paper making the case for increased spending on nursery schools. The Chief Secretary was Joel Barnett, a tough little Mancunian accountant. ‘Reg,’ he said, ‘brilliant paper. It was so moving; reminded me why I came into the Labour movement. Your arguments are unanswerable. And the answer’s no.’ The Tories had an excellent Chief Secretary in waiting, Philip Hammond. His job has now gone to a Liberal. Will the new Chief Secretary evolve into the subtle and ruthless spending surgeon that the times demand? If not, there will be trouble, on many fronts.
Theresa May is only the second female Home Secretary. Jacqui Smith was the first. Mrs May will be better. But she will have to raise her game. No one objects to her kitten-heels: merely to the impression she sometimes gives that she is wearing them between her ears.
A few years ago, without any obvious peg, Boris Johnson asked me to write a profile of David Cameron for this magazine. I had only one problem: finding any shade to accompany all the light. In all the years that I have known the new PM, he has not only performed his duties superbly well. He has seemed to do so effortlessly. This was a man who always had an immense amount of time to play the ball. Anyway, I tried to stay just this side of hagiography, but my efforts were ruined by Boris’s headline: ‘My Hero’ — something that I would never have written, even though it could have been justified. Some of Mr Cameron’s friends and family accused me of wrecking his prospects. Fortunately, they were Anderson-proof. I complained to Boris, who only laughed and clowned around, doing his celebrated impression of a chimp begging for peanuts. So was it simply goofery, or was Boris hoping to sabotage his younger Etonian rival? With Mr Mayor, you never know. That is equally true of every aspect of current British politics.
A traffic jam on the Embankment, and the reason for it quickly manifests itself. Police motorcyclists roar by, escorting the prime ministerial Jag. Somehow that brought it home to me even more than the television had. The Young Master has triumphed.
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