The day Michael Foot stood me up for Margaret Thatcher

Twenty years ago . . .

It was late 1990, and as a middling, slightly distracted student, I was struggling my way through a dissertation on 1930s Labour foreign policy. The conceit was nice -- was there a coherent, thought-through alternative to appeasement? -- but progress was slow and meandering.

Fortunately, for me and my 10,000 words unwritten, I was going to meet Michael Foot. Foot had been Labour leader just seven years before, but I was going to talk to him about events six decades earlier.

He was the perfect "primary source", as a founding staffer from early 1937 of Tribune (issues of which I pored through for a week at Labour's old Walworth Road HQ), but also as co-author of Guilty Men. Writing under the pen-name Cato, he and his fellow authors took apart Neville Chamberlain's foreign policy; the book was a bestseller.

It took a couple of false starts before I finally made it to Norman Shaw North, where his parliamentary office was based. On one occasion, Foot cancelled on me because he wanted to be in the House for Margaret Thatcher's final Commons appearance as leader. (Asked many years later by Channel 4 News's Jon Snow what he made of Thatcher, he looked, laughed and just said: "Unspeakable.")

I was halfway down the M1 between Leeds and London when I was stood up, but it was worth the wait and the inconvenience.

When we spoke a week or so later, Foot was articulate, deeply knowledgeable, enthusiastic and, above all, enormously generous with his time: our discussion ran across one and a half TDK C90 cassettes.

During those two hours or so, he recalled the events and minutiae of the 1930s with a clarity at odds with his Fleet Street caricature. Despite his amazing contribution, I still wouldn't recommend the dissertation, but the tapes would be worth a second listen. If only I could remember where I put them.

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Jon Bernstein, former deputy editor of New Statesman, is a digital strategist and editor. He tweets @Jon_Bernstein. 

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Why relations between Theresa May and Philip Hammond became tense so quickly

The political imperative of controlling immigration is clashing with the economic imperative of maintaining growth. 

There is no relationship in government more important than that between the prime minister and the chancellor. When Theresa May entered No.10, she chose Philip Hammond, a dependable technocrat and long-standing ally who she had known since Oxford University. 

But relations between the pair have proved far tenser than anticipated. On Wednesday, Hammond suggested that students could be excluded from the net migration target. "We are having conversations within government about the most appropriate way to record and address net migration," he told the Treasury select committee. The Chancellor, in common with many others, has long regarded the inclusion of students as an obstacle to growth. 

The following day Hammond was publicly rebuked by No.10. "Our position on who is included in the figures has not changed, and we are categorically not reviewing whether or not students are included," a spokesman said (as I reported in advance, May believes that the public would see this move as "a fix"). 

This is not the only clash in May's first 100 days. Hammond was aggrieved by the Prime Minister's criticisms of loose monetary policy (which forced No.10 to state that it "respects the independence of the Bank of England") and is resisting tougher controls on foreign takeovers. The Chancellor has also struck a more sceptical tone on the UK's economic prospects. "It is clear to me that the British people did not vote on June 23 to become poorer," he declared in his conference speech, a signal that national prosperity must come before control of immigration. 

May and Hammond's relationship was never going to match the remarkable bond between David Cameron and George Osborne. But should relations worsen it risks becoming closer to that beween Gordon Brown and Alistair Darling. Like Hammond, Darling entered the Treasury as a calm technocrat and an ally of the PM. But the extraordinary circumstances of the financial crisis transformed him into a far more assertive figure.

In times of turmoil, there is an inevitable clash between political and economic priorities. As prime minister, Brown resisted talk of cuts for fear of the electoral consequences. But as chancellor, Darling was more concerned with the bottom line (backing a rise in VAT). By analogy, May is focused on the political imperative of controlling immigration, while Hammond is focused on the economic imperative of maintaining growth. If their relationship is to endure far tougher times they will soon need to find a middle way. 

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.