Clegg: “My kids don’t know I smoke, so please don’t tell them”

The Deputy PM on AV, broken promises, emotion and the dreaded weed.

There are some interesting nuggets in Andrew Rawnsley's interview with Nick Clegg in this morning's Observer. Rawnsley himself picks out Clegg's comments on the AV referendum for his own column – David Cameron and George Osborne panicked that a Yes vote would cause trouble with the Tory right and so decided to "throw the kitchen sink" at keeping the current electoral system – but some of the softer, more human, stuff is likely to get greater pick-up.

As we discovered with Jemima Khan's recent interview with the Deputy PM, it's the personal, not the political, that intrigues – "Why are the students angry with you, Papa?" and "he cries regularly to music" compelled in a way that Clegg's views on the Arab spring did not.

In the same vein, take this exchange on Clegg's well-known smoking habit:

Is he still smoking? "A little bit." That sounds like the sort of fib people tell to their doctors or partners. How much is a little bit? "Not much. No, not much. Three. Maybe three. Sometimes four. I never have smoked that much. I smoke only in the evenings, out of sight, when the children are asleep."

They don't know he smokes?

"No, no. So please don't tell them."

You hide in the garden?

"Yes, I hide in the garden. No, hide is the wrong verb. I cower. I cower."

Miriam gives him a hard time about his habit. Has he tried to quit? "Not much. Not right now." He pulls a face which begs for mercy. "Can I please have one little private sin which I can keep to myself?"

As Rawnsley notes, a "less open and more artful politician would have not allowed himself to be drawn into conversation about his smoking". This candidness – the anti-politician – was part of the Clegg charm that worked so well a year ago.

That it works less well 12 months on is, of course, more to do with what voters perceive as his broken promises. The central motif for this has been the picture of Clegg holding a large "No to tuition fees increase" pledge card. But perhaps this party political broadcast, from 13 April 2010, sums up the sense of betrayal best, featuring as it does a high-minded Clegg declaring "an end to broken promises and the beginning of a new hope".

If you want to know how Lib Dem HQ feels about this broadcast, try to embed the official version on to your own blog. You can't. "Embedding disabled by request," YouTube tells us.

No prizes for guessing why.

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

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If there’s no booze or naked women, what’s the point of being a footballer?

Peter Crouch came out with one of the wittiest football lines. When asked what he thought he would have been but for football, he replied: “A virgin.”

At a professional league ground near you, the following conversation will be taking place. After an excellent morning training session, in which the players all worked hard, and didn’t wind up the assistant coach they all hate, or cut the crotch out of the new trousers belonging to the reserve goalie, the captain or some senior player will go into the manager’s office.

“Hi, gaffer. Just thought I’d let you know that we’ve booked the Salvation Hall. They’ll leave the table-tennis tables in place, so we’ll probably have a few games, as it’s the players’ Christmas party, OK?”

“FECKING CHRISTMAS PARTY!? I TOLD YOU NO CHRISTMAS PARTIES THIS YEAR. NOT AFTER LAST YEAR. GERROUT . . .”

So the captain has to cancel the booking – which was actually at the Salvation Go Go Gentlemen’s Club on the high street, plus the Saucy Sporty Strippers, who specialise in naked table tennis.

One of the attractions for youths, when they dream of being a footballer or a pop star, is not just imagining themselves number one in the Prem or number one in the hit parade, but all the girls who’ll be clambering for them. Young, thrusting politicians have similar fantasies. Alas, it doesn’t always work out.

Today, we have all these foreign managers and foreign players coming here, not pinching our women (they’re too busy for that), but bringing foreign customs about diet and drink and no sex at half-time. Rotters, ruining the simple pleasures of our brave British lads which they’ve enjoyed for over a century.

The tabloids recently went all pious when poor old Wayne Rooney was seen standing around drinking till the early hours at the England team hotel after their win over Scotland. He’d apparently been invited to a wedding that happened to be going on there. What I can’t understand is: why join a wedding party for total strangers? Nothing more boring than someone else’s wedding. Why didn’t he stay in the bar and get smashed?

Even odder was the behaviour of two other England stars, Adam Lallana and Jordan Henderson. They made a 220-mile round trip from their hotel in Hertfordshire to visit a strip club, For Your Eyes Only, in Bournemouth. Bournemouth! Don’t they have naked women in Herts? I thought one of the points of having all these millions – and a vast office staff employed by your agent – is that anything you want gets fixed for you. Why couldn’t dancing girls have been shuttled into another hotel down the road? Or even to the lads’ own hotel, dressed as French maids?

In the years when I travelled with the Spurs team, it was quite common in provincial towns, after a Saturday game, for players to pick up girls at a local club and share them out.

Like top pop stars, top clubs have fixers who can sort out most problems, and pleasures, as well as smart solicitors and willing police superintendents to clear up the mess afterwards.

The England players had a night off, so they weren’t breaking any rules, even though they were going to play Spain 48 hours later. It sounds like off-the-cuff, spontaneous, home-made fun. In Wayne’s case, he probably thought he was doing good, being approachable, as England captain.

Quite why the other two went to Bournemouth was eventually revealed by one of the tabloids. It is Lallana’s home town. He obviously said to Jordan Henderson, “Hey Hendo, I know a cool club. They always look after me. Quick, jump into my Bentley . . .”

They spent only two hours at the club. Henderson drank water. Lallana had a beer. Don’t call that much of a night out.

In the days of Jimmy Greaves, Tony Adams, Roy Keane, or Gazza in his pomp, they’d have been paralytic. It was common for players to arrive for training still drunk, not having been to bed.

Peter Crouch, the former England player, 6ft 7in, now on the fringes at Stoke, came out with one of the wittiest football lines. When asked what he thought he would have been but for football, he replied: “A virgin.”

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 01 December 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Age of outrage