Commons Confidential: Mickey Gove's Schooldays

Plus: the hard life at Grauniad Towers.

A Gordonian gets in touch. The snout isn’t a devoted follower of Gordon Brown but a near contemporary of Michael Gove who attended the private Robert Gordon’s College (current fees: £11,185) in Aberdeen. Now a senior academic at a renowned British university, my source recounts an incident from Mickey Gove’s schooldays: “I was at the same school as Michael Gove, albeit several years below. As I’m sure is the case at every school, heavy snowfall was an occasion for much fun.
 
“At our school, things were very democratic – the first years, third years and fifth years would line up against the second years, fourth years and sixth years in a school-wide snowball fight.” So far, so good . . .
 
The Sunday Telegraph poacher-turned-Labour gamekeeper Patrick Hennessy’s defection from the (cough) noble world of journalism to political spinning leaves, by the way, only one Old Etonian in Her Majesty’s Press Gallery: the BBC’s James Landale. The Sun’s Tom Newton Dunn is widely cited, incorrectly, as an OE.
 
Tom Neutron Bomb went not to Cameron’s old school but Marlborough, the alma mater of Dave’s wife, Samantha and the Middleton sisters. These things matter, especially when Downton Abbey is back on the box. 
 
Let’s return for a moment to Mickey Gove’s schooldays: “As deputy head boy, Gove was tasked by the headmaster one morning with breaking up one such snowball fight. Accordingly, he strode from the prefects’ office to the middle of the playground and announced to the 500 or so boys, in the pompous manner that we are all now accustomed to, that all snowball-throwing must immediately cease. At which point, both sides turned on him.” Sounds like Labour and Lib Dem MPs in the Commons. 
 
Damian McBride shunned a lucrative approach, I hear, from an emissary of Rupert Murdoch to publish his confessions of a spin doctor with HarperCollins, the book tentacle of the Dirty Digger’s meeja empire.
 
The mogul’s senior executive allegedly offered to chuck in a column in the Times in a failed attempt to clinch the deal. Murdoch must really hate Ed Miliband and Labour if he plotted to delay detonation until nearer the election. It could have been worse, much worse, for Labour.
 
And what became of Gove? “My last memory is of him curled up on the ground as the majority of the school lined up to kick snow and ice in his face,” remembers the snout.
 
“Every time I see him on the telly, announcing some silly new reform, I can’t help but feel that Gove’s attitude to the education system may have been shaped, in small part, by this experience.” 
 
Could the Guardian’s impecunious scribes denounce Wonga from expensive experience? The London Capital Credit Union helped 17 wage slaves on the Lib Dem paper clear payday loans. Life’s tough in Grauniad Towers. 
 
Kevin Maguire is the associate editor (politics) of the Daily Mirror
Michael Gove's snowball effect. Montage: Dan Murrell/NS

Kevin Maguire is Associate Editor (Politics) on the Daily Mirror and author of our Commons Confidential column on the high politics and low life in Westminster. An award-winning journalist, he is in frequent demand on television and radio and co-authored a book on great parliamentary scandals. He was formerly Chief Reporter on the Guardian and Labour Correspondent on the Daily Telegraph.

This article first appeared in the 30 September 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The Tory Game of Thrones

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Rarely has it mattered so little if Manchester United won; rarely has it been so special they did

Team's Europa League victory offers chance for sorely needed celebration of a city's spirit.

Carlo Ancelotti, the Bayern Munich manager, memorably once said that football is “the most important of the least important things”, but he was only partly right. While it is absolutely the case that a bunch of people chasing around a field is insignificant, a bunch of people chasing around a field is not really what football is about.

At a football match can you set aside the strictures that govern real life and freely scream, shout and cuddle strangers. Football tracks life with such unfailing omnipresence, garnishing the mundane with regular doses of drama and suspense; football is amazing, and even when it isn’t there’s always the possibility that it’s about to be.

Football bestows primal paroxysms of intense, transcendent ecstasy, shared both with people who mean everything and people who mean nothing. Football carves out time for people it's important to see and delivers people it becomes important to see. Football is a structure with folklore, mythology, language and symbols; being part of football is being part of something big, special, and eternal. Football is the best thing in the world when things go well, and still the best thing in the world when they don’t. There is nothing remotely like it. Nothing.

Football is about community and identity, friends and family; football is about expression and abandon, laughter and song; football is about love and pride. Football is about all the beauty in the world.

And the world is a beautiful place, even though it doesn’t always seem that way – now especially. But in the horror of terror we’ve seen amazing kindness, uplifting unity and awesome dignity which is the absolute point of everything.

In Stockholm last night, 50,000 or so people gathered for a football match, trying to find a way of celebrating all of these things. Around town before the game the atmosphere was not as boisterous as usual, but in the ground the old conviction gradually returned. The PA played Bob Marley’s Three Little Birds, an Ajax staple with lyrics not entirely appropriate: there is plenty about which to worry, and for some every little thing is never going to be alright.

But somehow the sentiment felt right and the Mancunian contingent joined in with gusto, following it up with “We’ll never die,” – a song of defiance born from the ashes of the Munich air disaster and generally aired at the end of games, often when defeat is imminent. Last night it was needed from the outset, though this time its final line – “we’ll keep the red flag flying high, coz Man United will never die" – was not about a football team but a city, a spirit, and a way of life. 

Over the course of the night, every burst of song and even the minute's silence chorused with that theme: “Manchester, Manchester, Manchester”; “Manchester la la la”; “Oh Manchester is wonderful”. Sparse and simple words, layered and complex meanings.

The match itself was a curious affair. Rarely has it mattered so little whether or not United won; rarely has it been so special that they did. Manchester United do not represent or appeal to everyone in Manchester but they epitomise a similar brilliance to Manchester, brilliance which they take to the world. Brilliance like youthfulness, toughness, swagger and zest; brilliance which has been to the fore these last three days, despite it all.

Last night they drew upon their most prosaic aspects, outfighting and outrunning a willing but callow opponent to win the only trophy to have eluded them. They did not make things better, but they did bring happiness and positivity at a time when happiness and positivity needed to be brought; football is not “the most important of the least important things,” it is the least important of the most important things.

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