What did Galloway and Miliband really discuss?

The Respect MP has threatened "to tell the whole truth" after Labour figures dismissed claims he could rejoin the party.

Ed Miliband's recent meeting with George Galloway in his Westminster office, revealed in the Mail on Sunday, has unsurprisingly caused consternation in Labour circles. Galloway, who was expelled from the party in 2003 for allegedly urging foreign forces to rise up against British troops (not, as is often mistakenly said, for his opposition to the war), is loathed by MPs and activists for defeating Labour in Bethnal Green and Bow in 2005 and in Bradford West last year, and, more recently, for suggesting that Julian Assange had only been accused of "bad sexual etiquette". 

The line from the party is that the meeting was to discuss the recent vote on the constituency boundary changes, rather than any possibility of readmission. But one problem with this claim is that the vote in question was held on 29 January, while the meeting is said to have taken place a few weeks ago. Galloway is certainly hinting that there was more to the tête-à-tête than Labour suggests. After shadow international development secretary Ivan Lewis tweeted: "Re Galloway being allowed to join Labour,more chance of finding Lord Lucan riding Shergar! @Ed_Miliband abhors his values+divisive politics", Galloway replied: "better not tell lies about the meeting Ivan. Or I will have to tell the whole truth...". He later added: "oh......don't tempt me. Ed, rein these people in". 

Incidentally, while Galloway vehemently denies that he has any desire to return to Labour, it is worth recalling what former Respect leader Salma Yaqoob had to say about the subject last year. She told the Guardian:

This is the irony – he's always said to me, 'if you have an approach, just make sure that I can come back in'. Ironically, that has not been on the cards. I think it's a great sadness to him, understandably, that he was expelled

That the meeting lasted for nearly an hour and that Miliband asked Galloway why he left Labour ("I didn’t leave, I was thrown out," he replied") certainly suggests that his relationship with the party was discussed. 

George Galloway poses for a photograph in front of the Houses of Parliament. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

Getty
Show Hide image

As the strangers approach the bed, I wonder if this could be a moment of great gentleness

I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do.

It’s 1.13am on an autumn morning some time towards the end of the 20th century and I’m awake in a vast hotel bed in a small town in the east of England. The mysterious east, with its horizons that seem to stretch further than they should be allowed to stretch by law. I can’t sleep. My asthma is bad and I’m wheezing. The clock I bought for £3 many years earlier ticks my life away with its long, slow music. The street light outside makes the room glow and shimmer.

I can hear footsteps coming down the corridor – some returning drunks, I guess, wrecked on the reef of a night on the town. I gaze at the ceiling, waiting for the footsteps to pass.

They don’t pass. They stop outside my door. I can hear whispering and suppressed laughter. My clock ticks. I hear a key card being presented, then withdrawn. The door opens slowly, creaking like a door on a Radio 4 play might. The whispering susurrates like leaves on a tree.

It’s an odd intrusion, this, as though somebody is clambering into your shirt, taking their time. A hotel room is your space, your personal kingdom. I’ve thrown my socks on the floor and my toothbrush is almost bald in the bathroom even though there’s a new one in my bag because I thought I would be alone in my intimacy.

Two figures enter. A man and a woman make their way towards the bed. In the half-dark, I can recognise the man as the one who checked me in earlier. He says, “It’s all right, there’s nobody in here,” and the woman laughs like he has just told her a joke.

This is a moment. I feel like I’m in a film. It’s not like being burgled because this isn’t my house and I’m sure they don’t mean me any harm. In fact, they mean each other the opposite.

Surely they can hear my clock dripping seconds? Surely they can hear me wheezing?

They approach, closer and closer, towards the bed. The room isn’t huge but it seems to be taking them ages to cross it. I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do. I should speak. I should say with authority, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” But I don’t.

I could just lie here, as still as a book, and let them get in. It could be a moment of great gentleness, a moment between strangers. I would be like a chubby, wheezing Yorkshire pillow between them. I could be a metaphor for something timeless and unspoken.

They get closer. The woman reaches her hand across the bed and she touches the man’s hand in a gesture of tenderness so fragile that it almost makes me sob.

I sit up and shout, “Bugger off!” and they turn and run, almost knocking my clock from the bedside table. The door crashes shut shakily and the room seems to reverberate.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge