Commons Confidential

This Morgan with Gordon.

The word in Westminster is that Sarah Brown convinced her hubby it would be a terrific idea to appear on Life Stories, Piers Stefan Pughe-Morgan's ITV choke-fest. Morgan, used to interviewing D-listers such as Jordan and Vinnie Jones, couldn't believe his luck. The Mail on Sunday, which pays Morgan handsomely as a columnist, was spun the story that the PM had wept buckets about his ten-day-old daughter's death in 2002. But No 10 insisted that, while he had welled up, no tears flowed down the prime ministerial cheeks. A strategist muttered that what's good for Morgan ain't necessarily good for Labour.

The shoe repair millionaire Edward "Timmy" Timpson is feeling down at heel. The Tory MP was overheard complaining that David Cameron has barely spoken to him since the May 2008 by-election spectacular in Crewe. Now crestfallen, Timmy knows how the Tory front bench feels.

David Miliband speaks at so many Labour events that it's whispered he'd go to the opening of a milk bottle if there were party votes in it. Newly selected would-be Labour MPs receive a note of congratulations, I hear, from Ed Balls. The determined letter writers include Keith Vaz and Denis MacShane. It may be a coincidence that if Labour loses there'll be leadership and shadow cabinet ballots. Or maybe, just maybe, there's a direct connection.

New Labour's Stalinist Tendency mock the perpetually-pleased-with-himself Tony Wright's call for elected select committee chairs. Old hands recall Wright proposing his own, erm, appointment as head of the Commons reform body.

The impending departure of Gordon Brown's little helper, Nigel Griffiths, has triggered a scramble for his office. I'm told Keir Hardie once occupied his bolt-hole near the hairdressing salon. Wee Nigel was accused of cavorting with a scantily clad brunette on the sofa. A comrade mentally measuring the curtains added that he'd ask for the upholstery to be steam-cleaned.

Lurch-like Stephen Timms says the Treasury is unable to issue a constituency guide to estates benefiting from Cameron's £1m inheritance-tax giveaway. Postcodes, said Lurch, are often omitted from wills. Do the super-rich misplace mansions?

Kevin Maguire is associate editor (politics) of the Daily Mirror.

This article appears in this week's New Statesman.

 

Follow the New Statesman team on Twitter.

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.

GETTY
Show Hide image

Would you jump off a cliff if someone told you to? One time, I did

I was walking across the bridge in Matlock park, which is about 12 feet high, with a large group of other kids from my year, in the pouring rain.

Ever heard the phrase, “Would you jump off a cliff if they told you to?” It was the perpetual motif of my young teenage years: my daily escapades, all of which sprang from a need to impress a peer, were distressing and disgusting my parents.

At 13, this tomboyish streak developed further. I wrote urgent, angry poems containing lines like: “Who has desire for something higher than jumping for joy and smashing a light?” I wanted to push everything to its limits, to burst up through the ceiling of the small town I lived in and land in America, or London, or at least Derby. This was coupled with a potent and thumping appetite for attention.

At the height of these feelings, I was walking across the bridge in Matlock park, which is about 12 feet high, with a large group of other kids from my year, in the pouring rain. One of the cool girls started saying that her cousin had jumped off the bridge into the river and had just swum away – and that one of us should do it.

Then someone said that I should do it, because I always did that stuff. More people started saying I should. The group drew to a halt. Someone offered me a pound, which was the clincher. “I’m going to jump!” I yelled, and clambered on to the railing.

There wasn’t a complete hush, which annoyed me. I looked down. It was raining very hard and I couldn’t see the bottom of the riverbed. “It looks really deep because of the rain,” someone said. I told myself it would just be like jumping into a swimming pool. It would be over in a few minutes, and then everyone would know I’d done it. No one could ever take it away from me. Also, somebody would probably buy me some Embassy Filter, and maybe a Chomp.

So, surprising even myself, I jumped.

I was about three seconds in the air. I kept my eyes wide open, and saw the blur of trees, the white sky and my dyed red hair. I landed with my left foot at a 90-degree angle to my left ankle, and all I could see was red. “I’ve gone blind!” I thought, then realised it was my hair, which was plastered on to my eyes with rain.

When I pushed it out of the way and looked around, there was no one to be seen. They must have started running as I jumped. Then I heard a voice from the riverbank – a girl called Erin Condron, who I didn’t know very well. She pushed me home on someone’s skateboard, because my ankle was broken.

When we got to my house, I waited for Mum to say, “Would you jump off another cliff if they told you to?” but she was ashen. I had to lie that Dave McDonald’s brother had pushed me in the duck pond. And that’s when my ankle started to throb. I never got the pound, but I will always be grateful to Erin Condron. 

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser