First, the good news - or maybe it's the bad news. People are nice about Robert Harris. The only thing one can discover that is in any way barbed, or critical of him, is that he is fond of the music of the Seventies band Mott the Hoople. And, perhaps, that the late Sir Robin Day once took a girlfriend away from him. Harris telephoned his then girlfriend to invite her out. She couldn't because she was staying at home to work, she told him. Harris turned on the television to watch Wimbledon - and there was his love, in the Royal Box, with the aged, bow-tied satyr. Apart from that, nothing, just affection and praise. Even the Millbank smear machine was unable to come up with any damaging criticism when Harris defended Peter Mandelson and attacked Tony Blair. All it could do was drop the exceedingly weak hint that Blair was not actually a friend of Harris, and that the journalist had been to Chequers "only once". Golly gosh.
Newly elected to the Garrick Club and about to become a Daily Telegraph columnist, he still brings out the best in people. That he wears double-breasted blazers and, with disturbing frequency, cravats is seen as a touching affectation. Any disapproval of his fondness for driving an ostentatious Jaguar convertible has been dissipated by nicknaming him "Mr Toad". Tom Stoppard says there "isn't a writer alive who wouldn't want to have written" passages from Harris's books. Certainly, there is not a writer alive who would not have wanted to earn the kind of money that Harris has from his books. His first novel, Fatherland, earned him upwards of £4m. (He is now the official biographer of that other English millionaire spywriter, John le Carre.)
His mentor, Anthony Howard, plucked him from Newsnight to become political editor of the Observer while Harris was still in his twenties, and describes him as "my greatest creation". Certainly, there is no protege of Howard - and they include Martin Amis, Tina Brown, Christopher Hitchens and James Fenton - who would not have wanted to earn that kind of praise.
Why, even when he publicly defended Mandelson, first over the Notting Hill mortgage and then over the Hinduja passport scandal, commentators explained it as admirable loyalty to friends (Mandelson is godfather to one of Harris's daughters) rather than a failure to recognise that power corrupts, and that Mandelson had power. It comes as quite a relief to discover that not everyone likes him. After all, in his 44 years, he must have made a few enemies. Which brings us to Tony Blair.
It is hard these days to decide what makes someone a supporter of Labour. You can, like Harris, become a member of the Garrick and still be Labour, vide Melvyn Bragg. You can, like Harris, be asked to write for the conservative Daily Telegraph and still support Labour. You can, like Harris, be extremely rich and still support Labour. Think of Lord Sainsbury and, er, Geoffrey Robinson. You can, as will happen to Harris this month, when the blockbuster film of his novel Enigma opens in Edinburgh, be a big player in the capitalist film-making business and still support Labour. Step forward, my Lord Puttnam.
It has become difficult to know which high-profile Labour person no longer supports the party - except for Robert Harris. The most eloquent writer to explain new Labour's ambition now spends his time explaining its perceived shortcomings. He is on the road away from Damascus. He has made his distaste eloquently and terrifyingly clear in a way that Labour's spinners cannot dismiss. No one could put a favourable spin on an article which begins , "There is something truly loathsome about the modern Labour Party", and ends by saying: "It is a dream come true. It is a nightmare." In between, the article, written in the Sunday Times just before the election and after the Tory defector Shaun Woodward had been foisted on the innocents of St Helens South, is full of unspinnable nouns, adjectives and verbs that drip venom: "skulking", "blathering", "revulsion", "sucking up", "cynicism", "duplicity", "toe-curling", "shabby". Whether or not you agree, it is stirring stuff - "I find [Labour's] creeping and truckling at the boots of the powerful repulsive." There is not a political journalist alive who has not wanted to write polemic like that (or like the one where Harris punctured the sycophantic adulation of Alan Clark by calling him a "spoilt, devious, calculating, vindictive, boorish, vain, selfish, vulgar, faithless, pompous, whining, dirty old man").
Harris's attack on Blair was reminiscent of the heady Seventies, when Tony Howard, writing in the New Statesman, said that Harold Wilson "pollutes the atmosphere of politics". It is also a warning to Blair that Harris's disenchantment, like that of many, less eloquent Labour supporters, comes from a feeling of betrayal.
For a long time, the novelist had seemed a quintessential new Labour luvvie. Not only does he eat regularly at Ruth Rogers's new Labour restaurant, the River Cafe, but his wife, Gill Hornby, sister of Nick, devises their esoteric political "pub" quizzes. For one birthday party at Harris's riverside house in Berkshire, Gill hired a karaoke machine. Harris, Jeremy Paxman, Ian Hislop, Peter Mandelson and Jon Snow performed a rendition of "YMCA" while, even more improbably, Sir John and Lady Mortimer sang "Common People". It sounds like a Spitting Image spoof on Labour luvviedom, but that used to be Harris's lifestyle.
Harris first wrote about Tony Blair in 1989, when he said that the young Labour front-bench trio of Blair, Gordon Brown and Bryan Gould "can hardly be painted as a set of raving extremists. They are exactly the sort of chaps that average middle-class parents would like their daughters to bring home." At first, he had a patrician disdain for the earnest and ambitious Blair - "little baby-boom-face himself", he called him in 1990. By 1992, after lunch, a friendship had developed. Harris told friends he had met a future leader. It is not hard to see why they hit it off. They were of a similar age (Harris was born in 1957, Blair in 1953); Harris, then the Observer's political editor, had written attacks on old-style Labour policy; Neil Kinnock called him "Bomber Harris" on account of his criticism of unilateral disarmament. By 1997, Blair and Harris were close. Harris travelled on Blair's plane throughout that year's election campaign, and was his unofficial biographer. He was with Blair in his Sedgefield constituency when the size of the Labour majority became apparent. His enthusiasm was boundless.
His roots and his instincts are Labour. His curious, and sometimes fogeyish, traits (he went to Afghanistan for Newsnight with a pair of pyjamas, a dressing gown and a biography of Asquith) are clearly affectations. His father, who left school at 14, was a jobbing printer in the Midlands. He contracted polio as a child and spent much of his childhood in sanatoria, educating himself on Arnold Bennett, Graham Greene and John Buchan. Harris's latest novel, Archangel, is dedicated to his father, and most of his political writing seems influenced by him.
The son, always political, went to Cambridge and landed a job at the BBC before he left university. Howard made him political editor of the Observer before Harris turned 30. (Oh, and he was a millionaire novelist, with Fatherland, before the age of 35.)
Just before the 1997 general election, Harris advised Blair to court the Sun newspaper. Just before the 2001 election, he attacked the Prime Minister for going too far, for kowtowing to the Sun. He will be happy at the Daily Telegraph. The danger for new Labour is that his computer's savage bytes will provide a rallying cry for dissidents - a sign that the chattering classes have become the muttering classes.