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The bugger, bugged

After a chance meeting with a former News of the World executive who told him his phone had been hacked, Hugh Grant couldn’t resist going back to him – with a hidden tape recorder – to find out if there was more to the story. . .

When I broke down in my midlife crisis car in remotest Kent just before Christmas, a battered white van pulled up on the far carriageway. To help, I thought. But when the driver got out he started taking pictures with a long-lens camera. He came closer to get better shots and I swore at him. Then he offered me a lift the last few miles to my destination. I suspected his motives and swore at him some more. (I'm not entirely sympathetic towards paparazzi.) Then I realised I couldn't get a taxi and was late. So I had to accept the lift.

He turned out to be an ex-News of the World investigative journalist and paparazzo, now running a pub in Dover. He still kept his camera in the car's glove box for just this kind of happy accident.

More than that, he was Paul McMullan, one of two ex-NoW hacks who had blown the whistle (in the Guardian and on Channel 4's Dispatches) on the full extent of phone-hacking at the paper, particularly under its former editor Andy Coulson. This was interesting, as I had been a victim - a fact he confirmed as we drove along. He also had an unusual defence of the practice: that phone-hacking was a price you had to pay for living in a free society. I asked how that worked exactly, but we ran out of time, and next thing we had arrived and he was asking me if I would pose for a photo with him, "not for publication, just for the wall of the pub".

I agreed and the picture duly appeared in the Mail on Sunday that weekend with his creative version of the encounter. He had asked me to drop into his pub some time. So when, some months later, Jemima asked me to write a piece for this paper, it occurred to me it might be interesting to take him up on his invitation.

I wanted to hear more about phone-hacking and the whole business of tabloid journalism. It occurred to me just to interview him straight, as he has, after all, been a whistleblower. But then I thought I might possibly get more, and it might be more fun, if I secretly taped him, The bugger bugged, as it were. Here are some excerpts from our conversation.

Me So, how's the whistleblowing going?
Him I'm trying to get a book published. I sent it off to a publisher who immediately accepted it and then it got legal and they said, "This is never going to get published."
Me Why? Because it accuses too many people of crime?
Him Yes, as I said to the parliamentary commission, Coulson knew all about it and regularly ordered it . . . He [Coulson] rose quickly to the top; he wanted to cover his tracks all the time. So he wouldn't just write a story about a celeb who'd done something. He'd want to make sure they could never sue, so he wanted us to hear the celeb like you on tape saying, "Hello, darling, we had lovely sex last night." So that's on tape - OK, we've got that and so we can publish . . . Historically, the way it went was, in the early days of mobiles, we all had analogue mobiles and that was an absolute joy. You know, you just . . . sat outside Buckingham Palace with a £59 scanner you bought at Argos and get Prince Charles and everything he said.
Me Is that how the Squidgy tapes [of Diana's phone conversations] came out? Which was put down to radio hams, but was in fact . . .
Him Paps in the back of a van, yes . . . I mean, politicians were dropping like flies in the Nineties because it was so easy to get stuff on them. And, obviously, less easy to justify is celebrities. But yes.
Me And . . . it wasn't just the News of the World. It was , you know - the Mail?
Him Oh absolutely, yeah. When I went freelance in 2004 the biggest payers - you'd have thought it would be the NoW, but actually it was the Daily Mail. If I take a good picture, the first person I go to is - such as in your case - the Mail on Sunday. Did you see that story? The picture of you, breaking down . . . I ought to thank you for that. I got £3,000. Whooo!
Me But would they [the Mail] buy a phone-hacked story?
Him For about four or five years they've absolutely been cleaner than clean. And before that they weren't. They were as dirty as anyone . . . They had the most money.
Me So everyone knew? I mean, would Rebekah Wade have known all this stuff was going on?
Him Good question. You're not taping, are you?
Me [slightly shrill voice] No.
Him Well, yeah. Clearly she . . . took over the job of [a journalist] who had a scanner who was trying to sell it to members of his own department. But it wasn't a big crime. [NB: Rebekah Brooks has always denied any knowledge of phone-hacking. The current police investigation is into events that took place after her editorship of the News of the World.]
It started off as fun - you know, it wasn't against the law, so why wouldn't you? And it was only because the MPs who were fiddling their expenses and being generally corrupt kept getting caught so much they changed the law in 2001 to make it illegal to buy and sell a digital scanner. So all we were left with was - you know - finding a blag to get your mobile [records] out of someone at Vodafone. Or, when someone's got it, other people swap things for it.
Me So they all knew? Wade probably knew all about it all?
Him [...] Cameron must have known - that's the bigger scandal. He had to jump into bed with Murdoch as everyone had, starting with Thatcher in the Seventies . . . Tony Blair . . . [tape is hard to hear here] Maggie openly courted Murdoch, saying, you know, "Please support me." So when Cameron, when it came his turn to go to Murdoch via Rebekah Wade . . . Cameron went horse riding regularly with Rebekah. I know, because as well as doorstepping celebrities, I've also doorstepped my ex-boss by hiding in the bushes, waiting for her to come past with Cameron on a horse . . . before the election to show that - you know - Murdoch was backing Cameron.
Me What happened to that story?
Him The Guardian paid for me to do it and I stepped in it and missed them, basically. They'd gone past - not as good as having a picture.
Me Do you think Murdoch knew about phone-hacking?
Him Errr, possibly not. He's a funny bloke given that he owns the Sun and the Screws . . . quite puritanical. Sorry to talk about Divine Brown, but when that came out . . . Murdoch was furious: "What are you putting that on our front page for? You're bringing down the tone of our papers." [Indicating himself] That's what we do over here.
Me Well, it's also because it was his film I was about to come out in.
Him Oh. I see.
Me Yeah. It was a Fox film.
[A pause here while we chat to other customers, and then - ]
Him So anyway, let me finish my story.
Me Murdoch, yes . . .
Him So I was sent to do a feature on Moulin Rouge! at Cannes, which was a great send anyway. Basically my brief was to see who Nicole Kidman was shagging - what she was doing, poking through her bins and get some stuff on her. So Murdoch's paying her five million quid to big up the French and at the same time paying me £5.50 to fuck her up . . . So all hail the master. We're just pawns in his game. How perverse is that?
Me Wow. You reckon he never knew about it?
Him [pause] I don't even think he really worried himself too much about it.
Me What's his son called?
Him James. They're all mates together. They all go horse riding. You've got Jeremy Clarkson lives here [in Oxfordshire]. Cameron lives here, and Rebekah Wade is married to Brooks's son [the former racehorse trainer Charlie Brooks]. Cameron gets dressed up as the Stig to go to Clarkson's 50th birthday party [NB: it was actually to record a video message for the party]. Is that demeaning for a prime minister? It should be the other way round, shouldn't it? So basically, Cameron is very much in debt to Rebekah Wade for helping him not quite win the election . . . So that was my submission to parliament - that Cameron's either a liar or an idiot.
Me But don't you think that all these prime ministers deliberately try to get the police to drag their feet about investigating the whole [phone-hacking] thing because they don't want to upset Murdoch?
Him Yeah. There's that . . . You also work a lot with policemen as well . . . One of the early stories was [and here he names a much-loved TV actress in her sixties] used to be a street walker - whether or not she was, but that's the tip.
Me and Chum MLTVA?!
Me I can't believe it. Oh no!
Chum Really??
Him Yeah. Well, not now . . .
Chum Oh, it'd be so much better if it was now.
Him So I asked a copper to get his hands on the phone files, but because it's only a caution it's not there any more. So that's the tip . . . it's a policeman ringing up a tabloid reporter and asking him for ten grand because this girl had been cautioned right at the start of his career. And then I ask another policemen to go and check the records . . . So that's happening regularly. So the police don't particularly want to investigate.
Me But do you think they're going to have to now?
Him I mean - 20 per cent of the Met has taken backhanders from tabloid hacks. So why would they want to open up that can of worms? . . . And what's wrong with that, anyway? It doesn't hurt anyone particularly. I mean, it could hurt someone's career - but isn't that the dance with the devil you have to play?
Me Well, I suppose the fact that they're dragging their feet while investigating a mass of phone-hacking - which is a crime - some people would think is a bit depressing about the police.
Him But then - should it be a crime? I mean, scanning never used to be a crime. Why should it be? You're transmitting your thoughts and your voice over the airwaves. How can you not expect someone to just stick up an aerial and listen in?
Me So if someone was on a landline and you had a way of tapping in . . .
Him Much harder to do.
Me But if you could, would you think that was illegal? Do you think that should be illegal?
Him I'd have to say quite possibly, yeah. I'd say that should be illegal.
Me But a mobile phone - a digital phone . . . you'd say it'd be all right to tap that?
Him I'm not sure about that. So we went from a point where anyone could listen in to anything. Like you, me, journalists could listen in to corrupt politicians, and this is why we have a reasonably fair society and a not particularly corrupt or criminal prime minister, whereas other countries have Gaddafi. Do you think it's right the only person with a decent digital scanner these days is the government? Whereas 20 years ago we all had a go? Are you comfortable that the only people who can listen in to you now are - is it MI5 or MI6?
Me I'd rather no one listened in, to be honest. And I might not be alone there. You probably wouldn't want people listening to your conversations.
Him I'm not interesting enough for anyone to want to listen in.
Me Ah . . . I think that was one of the questions asked last week at one of the parliamentary committees. They asked Yates [John Yates, acting deputy commissioner of the Metropolitan Police] if it was true that he thought that the NoW had been hacking the phones of friends and family of those girls who were murdered . . . the Soham murder and the Milly girl [Milly Dowler].
Him Yeah. Yeah. It's more than likely. Yeah . . . It was quite routine. Yeah - friends and family is something that's not as easy to justify as the other things.
Me But celebrities you would justify because they're rich?
Him Yeah. I mean, if you don't like it, you've just got to get off the stage. It'll do wonders.
Me So I should have given up acting?
Him If you live off your image, you can't really complain about someone . . .
Me I live off my acting. Which is different to living off your image.
Him Yeah, but you're still presenting yourself to the public. And if the public didn't know you -
Me They don't give a shit. I got arrested with a hooker and they still came to my films. They don't give a fuck about your public image. They just care about whether you're in an entertaining film or not.
Him That's true . . . I have terrible difficulty with him [points to pap shot of Johnny Depp]. He's really difficult. You know, I was in Venice and he was a nightmare to do because he walks around looking like Michael Jackson. And the punchline was . . . after leading everyone a merry dance the film was shot on an open balcony - I mean, it was like - he was standing there in public.
Me And you don't see the difference between the two situations?
Chum He was actually working at this time? As opposed to having his own private time?
Him You can't hide all the time.
Me So you're saying, if you're Johnny Depp or me, you don't deserve to have a private life?
Him You make so much more money. You know, most people in Dover take home about £200 and struggle.
Me So how much do you think the families of the Milly and Soham girls make?
Him OK, so there are examples that are poor and you can't justify - and that's clearly one of them.
Me I tell you the thing I still don't get - if you think it was all right to do all that stuff, why blow the whistle on it?
Him Errm . . . Right. That's interesting. I actually blew the whistle when a friend of mine at the Guardian kept hassling me for an interview. I said, "Well if you put the name of the Castle [his pub] on the front page of the Guardian, I'll do anything you like." So that's how it started.
Me So, have you been leant on by the NoW, News International, since you blew the whistle?
Him No, they've kept their distance. I mean, there's people who have much better records - my records are non-existent. There are people who actually have tapes and transcripts they did for Andy Coulson.
Me And where are these tapes and transcripts? Do you think they've been destroyed?
Him No, I'm sure they're saving them till they retire.
Me So did you personally ever listen to my voice messages?
Him No, I didn't personally ever listen to your voice messages. I did quite a lot of stories on you, though. You were a very good earner at times.

Those are the highlights. As I drove home past the white cliffs, I thought it was interesting - apart from the fact that Paul hates people like me, and I hate people like him, we got on quite well. And, absurdly, I felt a bit guilty for recording him.

And he does have a very nice pub. The Castle Inn, Dover, for the record. There are rooms available, too. He asked me if I'd like to sample the honeymoon suite some time: "I can guarantee your privacy."

-- Listen to the audio now --

This article first appeared in the 11 April 2011 issue of the New Statesman, Jemima Khan guest edit

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Moscow, my family and me

To grow up in the Communist Party of Great Britain was to be on the side of the future . . . or so it seemed.

On Sundays when I was a small boy my family would sometimes go to Halifax for lunch with the Thompsons. On other Sundays they might come to lunch in Leeds with us. I enjoyed playing with the Thompson children in their garden, which I think had a swing and trees, while the grown-ups talked politics, literature and history indoors. One day in 1957 I asked my mother: “When are we going to go and see the Thompsons next?” I was seven at the time. “I’m not sure,” my mother rep­lied, and changed the subject.

My parents never visited Edward and Dorothy Thompson again. In fact, I’m not sure whether the four of them met at all after 1957; for there had been a parting of the ways. The Thompsons had been friends of my parents, Arnold and Margot, since their student days in the late 1930s. My mother had briefly lived in the same flat as Edward’s brother Frank, who was killed by the Nazis in Bulgaria during the war. But the Thompsons left the Communist Party over the 1956 Soviet invasion of Hungary, while my parents stayed; and that was that.

In the 1990s, Dorothy Thompson told me that there had been emotional rows between the two sides on the platform of Leeds Station as those who had attended crisis party meetings in London returned to Yorkshire. After my father’s death, I learned that he had voted against the pro-Soviet resolution in a minority of two on the party executive committee. Yet he believed in the party’s “democratic centralism” – under which the minority carried out the majority position – so he never mentioned it, including to his friend Dorothy.

The break was profound. The book that Edward and Arnold had been planning to write about William Blake was abandoned. Many years later, Edward did write a book about Blake and sent a copy to my father, who was moved to tears when he read the note that came with it.

No glimpse of this kind into what Raphael Samuel, in the best book on the subject, called “the lost world of British communism” can tell the full story. But such glimpses are the best we’ve got. Today British communism feels as much a relic of the past as the Soviet Union itself – and for many of the same reasons. The Communist Party of Great Britain (CPGB), as it eventually came to call itself, would not have existed were it not for the Russian Revolution of 1917. When the party dissolved itself in 1991, the year in which the Soviet Union died, it was because Lenin’s revolution was exhausted, too. As a certain kind of left-wing orator used to be trained to say: comrades, this was no accident.

British communism had small ­pre-Soviet predecessors, and spawned a variety of tiny post-Soviet successors that still squabble over its legacy. But the essence of the CPGB – as the convulsions over Hungary dramatically proved in 1956 – was its identification with the Soviet Union. The party was founded in 1920 by revolutionaries who wanted to defend the workers’ state. Crucially, it was also created because Lenin himself wanted such a party to exist in imperialism’s heartland. Moscow remained the British party’s political guiding star ­until at least the 1950s. Although this fidelity wavered in the 1960s, Russia continued to help keep the party financially afloat almost until the end.

The Russian connection also meant that the party spent much of its first 20 years being harassed and attacked by the police. Its offices were raided and its members were often on trial or in jail. Because of its umbilical link with Moscow, it spent most of its life under remarkably effective surveillance; by 1952, MI5 knew the identities of 90 per cent of the CPGB’s members. Some of the files on them, including a few on my father, have been released in the National Archives, and I am often contacted by other children of Communists of that period to ask if files on their parents can be published (which is entirely up to MI5).

The CPGB’s loyalty to Moscow also triggered its morally darkest moments – the switches of line dictated by the Communist International (Comintern) in the 1920s and 1930s; the U-turn following the Nazi-Soviet pact in 1939, which arguably did more damage to the party than any other event in its history; and the crisis over Hungary, which drove many prominent members, including the Thompsons and Samuel, to resign. All of these played a big part in ­denying the postwar CPGB the electoral success it craved.

A few secret Communists spied for Russia. Many others made enthusiastic visits to the USSR and its postwar satellites. Yet most Communists drew much of their political energy from sources closer to home. Yes, Communists were internationalists with global political horizons. Yes, they were often naive and disbelieving about Stalin’s crimes, Soviet interests and, indeed, the global revolutionary project more generally, but it was not the Soviet Union alone that made them get up each day and lead such prodigiously consuming political lives. In most cases it was industrial, community, anti-fascist and anti-imperial campaigns at home that made them communists and continued to refresh their commitment.

Anyone who is tempted to be patronising about British Communists should also remind themselves that it was commonplace for Communist lives and careers to be thwarted by blacklisting and political bans.

Few of us who knew it or grew up in it would quarrel with the accounts of writers such as Raphael Samuel, David Aaronovitch and Kenneth Newton. They all depict the British party, with its foibles and pre­occupations, as an amalgam of immense political commitment and pragmatism of a very British kind.

The CPGB was a party with a moral code that owed more to the Bible than the Bolsheviks. This was encapsulated in one British delegate to an early meeting of the Communist International standing up and objecting to a proposal because to endorse it would involve lying. He was greeted with laughter by the other Comintern delegates.

Although he was frustrated by official suspicions of his research at almost every turn, Newton in 1969 attempted to write one of the few scholarly surveys of the Communist Party. His rather dry account, The Sociology of British Communism, concluded that the British Communists “are certainly committed to a cause and an ideology, but they tend to be pragmatic, tentative, humanitarian and sometimes surprisingly cautious in their opinions”. This feels truthful to me. It may seem as if the Communists were exotic and rather romantic, and in some ways they were, but they were also ordinary in other respects.

As someone who grew up in a middle-class Communist family before moving away from the party in my twenties, I find this all corresponds with my own experience. My parents were born in 1916 and died in 1986 and 1995 respectively. Their life­spans were thus coterminous with those of the Soviet Union and the CPGB. Yet I often remember them saying, as the hopelessness of the cause grew in the late 20th century, that their primary loyalty was to the party, and to their friends within it, rather than to the Soviet Union. That loyalty was often reciprocated by a party that was not as ­monolithic in practice as it was in theory, as the late Eric Hobsbawm, among others, would have attested.

This is not to say that the Soviet Union was marginal to the British Communists’ world-view. It wasn’t. It was always there in the background. That my first childish memory of any public event was of Stalin’s death – in my mind’s eye I can still see my mother reading about it in the Daily Worker – underscores that fact. My contemporaries are more likely to remember the coronation or the Stanley Matthews FA Cup final of 1953. I cannot recall knowing about either of them at the time, but I don’t think I felt deprived by the ignorance. On the contrary, I felt curiously privileged.

Most of the Communists I knew while I was growing up in the 1950s still saw the USSR as a new kind of society that they hoped – and mostly believed – would eventually get better. Communists were optimists. They believed in progress. They were pilgrims on a long march. The laws of history, as they understood them, were on their side, because Marxism told them so. They thought of themselves as modern, well ­informed, and on the side of rationalism, science and the future.

When I was taken to the funeral of the party leader Harry Pollitt in 1960, where Paul Robeson sang “Joe Hill”, or to that of the former CPGB MP Willie Gallacher in Paisley in 1965, where crowds giving the clenched-fist salute lined the streets, the party’s day had passed. But I believed it belonged to the future.

At least into the mid-1960s, this was not an implausible view. It was embodied more than anyone by Yuri Gagarin, whose poster I proudly stuck on my bedroom wall in 1961. The belief that Russia might own the future was shared by some of communism’s rivals as well as its more unquestioning devotees. If you reread Harold Wilson’s “white heat of technology” speech of 1963, you will discover that it was based on the argument that Britain must embrace the scientific revolution or risk being overtaken by the USSR.

Yet at the same time we all knew our cause was a minority one. The British Communist Party was never large. Compared to those in France and Italy, it was a minnow. At its peak, late in the Second World War, it numbered about 50,000 members. Compared to the more than 2.8 million members claimed by the Conservatives in the 1950s or Labour’s one million individual members, the CPGB was tiny. And although a “Communist vote” was a genuine phenomenon at this time – especially in Glasgow, Fife, the Welsh valleys and the East End of London – the 102,000 votes cast for its 21 candidates in 1945, with two MPs elected, proved to be the CPGB’s electoral high-water mark.

British Communists famously exerted an influence out of proportion to their numbers. More than anything, that influence was industrial. It was a proletarian party in a way that even the Soviet party was not. At its zenith, one-third of its branches were factory-based, a source of enormous pride. The Communists were particularly strong among engineers, but they were also an influential presence in the co-operative movement, in higher and secondary education and in countless organisations of civil society, including the arts, especially the theatre. They were a decisive presence in the pre-war unemployed movement and the postwar peace movement, but they were also prominent among council tenants, civil liberties groups and ramblers.

Because the party was small, there was often an element of arbitrariness to its influence and its local character. It was strong in Sheffield but less so in Liverpool. The party in Hertfordshire was more leftist than the rest in the 1930s, while that in Surrey was staunchly pro-Soviet in the 1960s.

A Russian critic of the early CPGB condemned it for being a “society of great friends” rather than a disciplined force. The party never lost that quality. It was also one with its own language and rules. To be a “card-carrying” Communist required one to be “active”. Comrades engaged in “party work”, “factory work” or, as in my father’s case, “university work”. The “political committee” reigned supreme. Meetings were businesslike. Branch meetings were not missed. “Dues” were collected and stamps issued. Only the “paid-up” could get in to some meetings. “Progressives” could be won over. Members sold “lit”, which they got from the “party rooms” where the Daily Worker bazaar was held (at least, it was in Leeds). It was bad to be a careerist, worse still to have ratted, worst of all to be a Trot.

The party was also a social network. There would be a party doctor, a party electrician, a party car salesman. My parents employed a party gardener who had fought in the International Brigades. You knew which party members knew about wine, ancient Greece or farming. You expected to marry within the party. An affair with a Tory – as I once discovered – was frowned on. When you turned up unexpectedly in a town far from home, the party might find you a bed. Party members – and their children – tended to have read books that the non-party world barely knew of. Speaking Russian conveyed a particular mystique. Scotland, the birthplace of many party leaders, was always held in special awe, as much for the scenery and the music as for the militancy.

This could have lasting effects. Samuel wrote: “Like many Communists of my time, I combined a powerful sense of apartness with a craving for recognition, alternating gestures of defiance with a desire to be ordinary and accepted as one of the crowd.” That duality may have been common to Jewish Communists, but it was also widely characteristic of other Communists and the party itself. It persists today. I feel marked by it for life, and I think others do, too.

By the 1960s, though, the bonds were starting to loosen. The “emergency sense”, as Samuel calls it, which provided Communists with a conviction that they were alive at a moment of tectonic change, began to weaken in the face of defeat and setback. The epic perspective on the world as a struggle, a fight or a battle started to fade. The communist movement itself split between Russia and China. The sharp boundaries between the working and the middle classes grew ever more blurred. The 1960s brought cultural revolts – when I was at university, Communists of both sexes had long hair and wore jeans, but the party’s student organiser continued to wear a suit and tie and denounced the wearing of denim as American. These tensions, and many more, played themselves out in the protracted endgame of communism in the 1980s.

The Soviet Union collapsed for two fundamental reasons. The system did not work; and most people rejected it. That verdict was historically conclusive and just. The dwindling party in Britain had largely detached itself from the Soviet Union long before the end, but it was not spared its fate. It slipped into a battle between old-style “tankies” and the more liberal “Eurocommunists” which received more press attention than anything else in the party’s history.

The Communist Party of Great Britain ceased to have a coherent purpose or world-view once the Soviet Union sank. At the finish the party did the respectable thing by dissolving itself (although a rump group, the Communist Party of Britain, still exists). No longer setting itself apart from British society, it simply disappeared into it. It was an appropriately unsentimental outcome for a rationalist party. Yet it is hard not to feel sentimental about what was lost as the dust of this society of “great friends” was ­finally scattered in the British earth.

Martin Kettle is an assistant editor of the Guardian

This article first appeared in the 04 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The Russian Revolution

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