Why Cameron must withdraw the whip from Chris Heaton-Harris

The Prime Minister cannot allow Conservative MPs to support rival candidates without consequences.

If there is one cardinal sin in any political party's rulebook, it is campaigning for a rival candidate in an election. Yet that is what Tory MP Chris Heaton-Harris, the party's campaign manager in Corby, has done.

Undercover footage obtained by Greenpeace (reported in today's Guardian) reveals that Heaton-Harris encouraged Telegraph blogger James Delingpole to stand as an anti-wind farm candidate in the byelection in Louise Mensch's former constituency and provided him with a "handful of people" to run his campaign.

He told film-maker Chris Atkins, who posed as a representative of a fictional lobby group called Windefensible, "There's a bit of strategy behind what's going on. I'm running the Corby byelection for the Tories … And Delingpole, who is my constituent, and a very good friend [inaudible] put his head above the parapet, but won't put his deposit down … It's just part of the plan."

He added: "I've managed to provide [Delingpole] with a handful of people who will sort him out. So my deputy chairman, political, resigned from my local party and is running his campaign as his agent. So it's all professionally done. The whole point of that is to actually just put it on the agenda."

It is clear that "the plan" was to use Delingpole's candidacy to shift government policy on wind farms, primarily through the energy minister, John Hayes. Heaton-Harris said: "Next week hopefully John Hayes, James Delingpole and I will have a meeting somewhere."

Delingpole eventually withdrew from the race after Hayes declared in an interview with the Daily Mail that "we can no longer have wind turbines imposed on communities." The plan, it appeared, had worked. In the film, Heaton-Harris is shown saying:"Delingpole can go and endorse the Ukip candidate, don't give a toss about that. Maybe we've just moved the agenda on."

The MP has responded to the story by insisting that he is not guilty of supporting a rival candidate since, because Delingpole never paid a deposit, he never technically joined the race. But only a fool would accept such pedantry. At a time when he should have been putting all his effort into supporting the Conservative candidate, Christine Emmett, in a seat that the Tories stand to lose to Labour, Heaton-Harris arranged for Tory staffers to be seconded to Delingpole's campaign as a part of a crusade against wind farms (thus contravening the government's policy).

Last week, the Conservative whip was rightly suspended from Nadine Dorries after she chose to abandon her parliamentary duties in favour of appearing on I'm A Celebrity...Get Me Out of Here! If David Cameron retains any self-respect, similar action must now be taken against Heaton-Harris. The Prime Minister owes it to those who, whatever their misgivings over coalition policy, loyally support the Conservative candidate to punish those who do not. He must kill the Tories' Militant Tendency at birth.

Tory MP Chris Heaton-Harris supported anti-wind farm campaigner James Delingpole in the Corby byelection. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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I dined behind the Houses of Parliament in my sexually connected foursome

My wife and I would sometimes dine out with another couple. We did not always check the significance of the date. 

I am self-employed and find that working from home, setting your own schedule, the days generally blur into each other, with weekends holding no significance, and public holidays, when those who are employed in factories, offices or shops get time off, meaning nothing. I am often surprised to go out and find the streets empty of traffic because it is some national day of observance, such as Christmas, that I wasn’t aware of. I find myself puzzled as to why the shops are suddenly full of Easter eggs or pancake batter.

Growing up in a Communist household, we had a distinct dislike for this kind of manufactured marketing opportunity anyway. I remember the time my mother tried to make me feel guilty because I’d done nothing for her on Mother’s Day and I pointed out that it was she who had told me that Mother’s Day was a cynical creation of the greetings card monopolies and the floral industrial complex.

Valentine’s Day is one of those I never see coming. It’s the one day of the year when even the worst restaurants are completely booked out by couples attempting to enjoy a romantic evening. Even those old-fashioned cafés you’ll find still lurking behind railway stations and serving spaghetti with bread and butter will tell you there’s a waiting list if you leave it late to reserve a table.

In the late 1980s my wife and I would sometimes dine out with another couple, he a writer and she a TV producer. One particular place we liked was a restaurant attached to a 1930s block of flats, near the Houses of Parliament, where the endless corridors were lined with blank doors, behind which you sensed awful things happened. The steel dining room dotted with potted palm trees overlooked a swimming pool, and this seemed terribly sophisticated to us even if it meant all your overpriced food had a vague taste of chlorine.

The four of us booked to eat there on 14 February, not realising the significance of the date. We found at every other table there was a single couple, either staring adoringly into each other’s eyes or squabbling.

As we sat down I noticed we were getting strange looks from our fellow diners. Some were sort of knowing, prompting smiles and winks; others seemed more outraged. The staff, too, were either simpering or frosty. After a while we realised what was going on: it was Valentine’s Day! All the other customers had assumed that we were a sexually connected foursome who had decided to celebrate our innovative relationship by having dinner together on this special date.

For the four of us, the smirking attention set up a strange dynamic: after that night it always felt like we were saying something seedy to each other. “Do you want to get together on Sunday?” I’d say to one of them on the phone, and then find myself blushing. “I’ll see if we can fit it in,” they’d reply, and we would both giggle nervously.

Things became increasingly awkward between us, until in the end we stopped seeing them completely. 

This article first appeared in the 25 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Why Islamic State targets Britain

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