Breaking the Code by Gyles Brandreth Read Free Book Online Page A

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’.
SUNDAY 6 OCTOBER 1991
    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 93 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.

MONDAY 7 OCTOBER 1991
    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