It was early in April that I was quoted by Martin Ivens in his often readable column in the Sunday Times. For those who do not take the paper, for reasons ideological or logistical, I will give you the gist: “‘The week before, Jacqui Smith’s expenses were all the rage; this week it was the G20, next it will be something else,’ reasons a Tory bigwig.” I was that bigwig, patiently explaining to Ivens why what he had termed “the Brown Bounce” would be short-lived. “Brown Bounce” – already the phrase seems quaintly old-fashioned. An unexplained oddity in our political history, along the lines of Major’s cones.
Take it from me, you will never see the phrase again.
Mind you, even at my most prescient, I would never have predicted that the “something else” would be Damian McBride. “He’s sure fine-looking, man, he’s something else,” as Alan Duncan quipped while we lingered over the multiple ironies of the situation. Seldom has a political career hit the buffers (or should that be buffet!) at such speed. The gap between being found out and resignation was measured not in days, but in minutes.
Except, of course, political careers never end: they merely veer off in new directions. Let me explain. For a number of years now I have enjoyed amusing my dinner guests by having a surprise guest bring in the cheese and accompany us over the port. You might think people would be offended by an invitation, “For Cheese: 11pm”. Quite the reverse – like dear old Muriel Spark skipping the boring part of the service and showing up for Communion, most people seem to prefer it.
Bearing the cheese platter last Saturday night was McBride. The first man since Charlie Whelan (and how delightful to see dear Charlie among the CCs on “the brilliant emails”) to enter chewing a chunk of the Cheddar he was meant to be serving. Despite this rather obvious faux pas, McBride received a standing ovation from the grandees. Fully deserved, too. He had, after all, delivered the election, along with most of the cheese, on a plate.
Anxious to put him at ease, I lobbed a question, echoing the one Brown had asked when interviewing him, on Celtic Football Club. Remarkably, McBride, thinking I was being serious, I suppose, replied at great length about his top ten Celtic goals of all time.
I have been bored at my own dinner table, but this was a new low. I left it to Maude to explain that “we don’t do football”. McBride seemed baffled but, thankfully, took the hint. It was either that, or going back to working for Ed Balls, the man who would be the Labour Party’s Iain Duncan Smith.
On Sunday, we went fishing. It worked with Whelan and it worked with McBride. After all the stresses and strains of being part of “The New Labour Project” there is a lot to be said for sitting quietly on the riverbank, away from the twerps and the technology. Unwinding in the pub in the evening, Damian began to loosen up and started stringing together some really quite memorable anecdotes.
The very next day he was up with the lark, busy composing emails for Jon Gaunt’s SunTalk (“The Home of Free Speech”, I kid you not) interview with “the man Gaunty labelled prime minister”. They were very good. David was very impressed. There may be no talent left in the Labour Party, but that doesn’t mean that those who have left have no talent.
