What's behind the Adam Afriyie "stalking horse" plot?

The MP for Windsor is being touted as a challenger to David Cameron. Why him - and why now?

Adam Afriyie, the 47-year-old Tory MP for Windsor, is not a household name.

But he's made two Sunday newspaper front pages today - the Sunday Times had "Black MP is hot tip to be the next Tory leader", while the Mail on Sunday splashed on "Stalking horse plot to oust PM".

As a potential Tory leadership candidate, Afriyie has a lot to recommend him. His personal story - born to a Ghanian father and a white English mother in Peckham, made a fortune in IT, became the Tories' first black MP in 2005, refuses to claim his second home allowance - is a compelling one for those who feel that David Cameron seems too "privileged" to connect with ordinary voters and that the whole political establishment is seen as too cosy and corrupt.

But what does this plot really amount to? The MoS is keen to note that Afriyie is being lined up "should a rumoured backbench revolt force the Prime Minister to resign". It adds:

Changes in Tory Party rules mean rebels cannot use the ‘stalking horse’ tactics used to topple Margaret Thatcher by getting a backbencher to strike the first blow and trigger a full contest. Under revised rules, 46 Tory MPs must demand a vote of no confidence in the leader. 

Given that David Cameron has just enjoyed a poll bounce - and a renewed surge of affection from his Eurosceptic backbenches - by promising an EU referendum if he wins the next election, that demand seems unlikely to come in the near-future.

Indeed, Isabel Hardman reports at the Spectator that "one backbencher suggested to me last week that the EU speech wouldn’t just keep Cameron safe until 2015, it would give local parties some security over other issues, too".

The political team at the Telegraph - which did not run the story - are also downplaying the idea of a leadership challenge. Deputy Editor Ben Brogan tweeted that "these plots will come to nothing". All in all, the weekend after Cameron has made his long-delayed, backbench-appeasing Europe speech seems just about the worst time to try to stir dissent.

So what's behind the supposed Afriyie challenge? It seems that either his quoted "friends" have mishandled the whole affair, or the Sunday papers have dramatically overstated a few grumblings in the tea room.

Either way, it's unlikely to cost David Cameron too much sleep. 

Update, 16.38 The BBC reports that Afriyie says there is "no truth to any of it" and he is "100% loyal" to David Cameron. He told Sky News he nearly "choked on his cereal" when he read the papers earlier today. 

Adam Afriyie. Photo: Getty

Helen Lewis is deputy editor of the New Statesman. She has presented BBC Radio 4’s Week in Westminster and is a regular panellist on BBC1’s Sunday Politics.

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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism