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Summer doldrums. Weather too hot, hours too long, work too hard. Everyone, particularly Tony on whom we depend so totally now that our role has been reduced to his chorus and backing group, tired and frazzled. Its all gone wrong. Serbia, a triumph that must now be paid for. Ireland a failure.
The economy condemned to slow growth and rising unemployment while Europe moves ahead thanks to its competitive devaluation. Labour people grumbling. Les heros fatigues. Half time and nothing but sour lemons waiting in the dressing room to which we’re longing to return.
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Saturday 3 July
To the Grimsby Jazz Festival. Our great annual event has been saved from the Council’s cuts only at the last minute, allowing no chance to trawl the world for top turns. It used to be the South Bank Jazz Festival until a top American jazz man came over, found it wasn’t the South Bank in London, and refused to trail north to Humberside.
Sunday 4 July
More Jazz Festival. Then a repast thrown by Mike Hurley. He’s invited 200 people, roasted an enormous pig and turned his house and gardens over to a drunken mob. My speech against the Euro ends in a shower of bread rolls and onions.
Monday 5 July
After many representations, mainly from Liberals, Tories and wild Euro-sceptics, shall I stand again at the next election? For eighteen years I’ve been avoiding sex, drugs, rock and roll, mistresses, and all the offers of highly paid consultancies to keep myself pure for power but not got any. Now Tony is only waiting to know that my mortgage is paid off and that I will go on, before offering me a job. Anne Taylor now has to give a head teacher’s report on my behaviour to the party. Behaviour "Austin Leaves a lot to be desired". European Studies "Austin has been difficult in class". Headmaster’s Comment, "Could do better. See Me." TB. I’ve devised my own system of wiping away sins and raising money for the party. The Medieval Church sold indulgencies. We should too. A £200 donation to the party for every abstention, £400 for votes against, £500 for critical references to our Great Leader on Today, £5 for the same on the Internet. This will write off our sins and provide a parliamentary counterpart for our new system of legislation in return for contributions. What a pity the poor can’t raise as much money as the anti-fox hunting lobby.
Tuesday 6 July
The Annual Fabian Local Societies Summer Tea day begins with a discussion on Labour and dissent. Fiona McTaggert explains that dissent and argument are boys’ games, not ones women play. Barbara Follet emphasises the need to be as loyal to Tony as the ANC was to Nelson Mandela. This totally cuts the ground from under the grumblers, including me. My view is that good things are happening but they’re nothing much to do with me.
Smuggle thousands of Fabians on to the terrace hoping that they won’t create a disturbance. Many ask me to take their photos. Getting into the habit I photograph a charming lady and ask her which Fabian Society she’s from. "I’m from Lincoln Conservative Association", she announces.
Wednesday 7 July
My adjournment debate on Anglian Water’s efforts to put fish merchants out of business by increasing their charges by 500% under the Waste Water Directive. Other MPs from fishing ports rally in support, quintupling the usual attendance to at least 10. Water companies are the new tyranny. They can ride rough-shod over everything. Including government. Thank God they’re only being bought by the French. If the Germans bought them the Water tanks would be rolling through the streets of Grimsby and we’d all have to sing the Horst Wasser song.
Summer is lucumen in and MPs going out to all the receptions, parties, and "do’s", which liven the summer. First to BBC Radio reception which is taken over by teenagers, apart from Christopher Bland who has had a face lift to make him look all of 28 to retain his radio cred. Radio Four is too snobbish (and probably too old) to attend, but Radio Five people tell me they’ve now got the better audience in any case.
Then to the Glaxo reception at the Tate to see Turner’s wonderful pictures of the Seine. Then the Guardian’s party at the home of Sir Anthony Blunt. Much hostile comment on my Union Jack tie attacked by Guardian gurus as Xenophobic, anti European, nationalistic, and all the things Guardian readers are not allowed to be. Even in the privacy of their own bedroom. Recount my theories of what Labour should do and how we can win the next election to Philip Gould. "Do you know, that’s exactly what Tony said to me last night" he says in amazement. Back to the House thinking I might have a role in New Labour after all..
Thursday 8 July
A normal New Labour day. Nothing happened.
Friday 9 July
The Great European Reform Conference in Church House brings together all shades of political opinion against the Euro. As co-Chairman I try to make William Hague feel at home by speaking to him in his native language but both my jokes go wrong. When I refer to the "Euro-Rouble" the radio castigates my ignorance. My jokes about presenting William at Wath on Dearne Comprehensive with a signed copy of the Grapes of Wath produces baffled silence.
Fortunately, he doesn’t need my help to give a powerful speech followed by another from Peter Shore in his best Churchillian style but my proposal to form an umbrella organisation uniting all opponents of the Euro founders when eighteen people announce that they are already running such an organisation.
Able to leave London at 2.30 before the rush-yhour, so it takes only six hours to reach home up the M1. Good to know our transport policy is working so well but disturbed to hear that a bus has been seen in the Prime Minister’s lane of the M4.
Saturday 10 July
After surgery which, contrary to Mitchell’s Law, gets bigger as the weather gets better, go to the Hospital Open Day to be thoroughly depressed, feeling the symptoms of every disease on the displays. Not rigor mortis. But come to think of it I do feel a bit stiff. Also, I’m in (grave) danger of eating something called "free radicals" from fish and chips fried in old oil. Free radicals can’t be tolerated in New Labour. Asked to describe my stools, I decide to leave. They’ll probably incorporate that in the re-selection interrogation.
On to open St. Andrew’s Church Summer Fair which I’ve opened every year for two decades. "You told us that joke last year". The photographer from the Grimsby Evening Telegraph hasn’t arrived so they ask me to take my own photos of myself speaking. Buy an enormous number of plastic toys for my grandchildren. Then forget to take them home. When I ring up to claim them they’ve been re-sold.
Sunday 11 July
The first wonderful summer day we’ve had. Decide to eat out in the garden to celebrate it. A swarm of flies settles on the food and wine.
Monday 12 July
Attend the Queen’s great "getting to know you" session for her loyal backbenchers. A brilliant idea but unfortunately an expensive one because of the cost of my wife’s new dress for the occasion.
A huge queue stands at the gate all locked out until the witching hour. Fortunately, my old friend, the man dressed in baking foil who’s been petitioning the Commons for ten years about the billions in oil rights owed to him, has now transferred his endeavours to the Queen. He promises me that when he gets the money he will build not one, but two hotels in Grimsby. The gates open.
We walk slowly and respectfully, hands clasped behind backs, across the court yard under the awed gaze of thousands of hob gobs. In the inner court yard comes the interrogation. "Are we living in sin?" "No", though my wife is loudly indignant at being called "Mrs. Austin Mitchell". "Do I have a homosexual partner?" "No, we’re Old Labour".
We are admitted to a gallery to stand nervously talking for three quarters of an hour until HM emerges. Some wives courtesy, including some New Labour women who shall be nameless. Tories bow deeply. Liberals thrust a copy of Focus into her gloved hand. I’m delighted when the Duke calls me Austin. We then stand in groups and the Queen circulates, a job she does brilliantly though because Linda has gone on to exchange dress shop addresses with a crowd of admiring Tories the Queen assumes that we’re living in sin so my partner hasn’t been allowed in. After putting her at ease I deliver my short half hour statement on New Labour’s project. She glazes over and moves on.
Take some photographs. No retribution. Which shows how much things have improved since I went on the Britannia five years ago and was manhandled overboard for producing my camera. Linda hopes that further invitations will follow quickly because we’re neighbours. Sadly, instead of being invited to stay for a knife and fork tea we end up eating at MacDonald’s.
Tuesday 13 July
The Hansard Society’s Media Conference. Media people are now blaming Commons TV for the fact that they’ve slashed political programmes and handed control to the party leaderships to exclude the maverick and the unreliable. Mainly me. To add insult to injury the Medians now want greater access to the Palace so Peter Snow can leap out with a film crew demanding our views on fox hunting and other major issues within our understanding. We come to Parliament to be protected and to hide, not to be exposed to ranting Medians asking "Have you stopped beating your wife" questions. Counter-attack by demanding a national Politics Channel like C Span. Every other section of society, from sex perverts to pornographers has their own dedicated channel. Why shouldn’t the political class?
On to the Carlton TV Party in College Gardens. The sudden vibration of a hundred Bleepers sends scores of MPs scurrying to vote all risking heart attacks to arrive three minutes late. Clive Betts tells me I should have read the Order Paper. He left the party in plenty of time but didn’t bother to tell the rest of us.
Back to the party to get sullenly drunk. Vote loyally through the night but fall asleep in the library where Bob Marshall Andrews wakens me from a deep slumber to practice cricket. He’s discovered that the library is the perfect length for a pitch. Stay on to 1.30 am only to find there’s no vote. We could all have gone home to our beds (separate ones, of course) at midnight.
Wednesday 14 July
Kodak experts advise the All Party Photography Group on new products and processes. Several hereditary peers are active in the All Party Group so we face a loss of brilliant photographers if they’re chucked out. Hereditaries can afford better equipment and go to more interesting parts of the world than real people whereas I work on the ten million monkeys taking ten million photographs theory of photography. Eventually it may produce an Ansell Adams.
Then to the Royal Society of Antiquaries which is contemplating declaring me a national treasure if I’m re-selected. Then to the Media Group, the TUC at the Atrium, and finally Barry Shearman’s dinner for the "class of ’79" at the Herbert Morrison Suite at County Hall. Not many of us left now. Only two, Frank Dobson and Jack Straw, have reached high office. Jim Callaghan gives a magnificent speech pointing out that the class of ’79 is the forgotten and unlucky generation who got 18 miserable years of opposition. Yet we did make a contribution to Labour’s achievement in making the people richer, the old better off and society fairer, a process which has now resumed and will prevail, provided we don’t forget our roots. Suddenly it all becomes worth while. Thank you, Jim. |
