Most Tories regard opposition as a deeply unnatural state of affairs. We are the natural party of government: the real national party. Now we are condemned to exile from power for at least one Parliament. There is a certain amount of whistling in the dark: ‘what goes down can also go up’. But we have an almighty task to be ready to mount a challenge by 2029, the fiftieth anniversary of Margaret Thatcher’s accession to power.
That prompts memories. Back in 1975, when Mrs Thatcher took over the leadership, there was a lot of whistling in the dark and a desperate need to keep spirits up. Two successive Tory governments – Macmillan/Home and Heath – had ended in failure. The trade unions were out of control, as was inflation, while the nationalised industries were able to plunder the public purse with little benefit to the public. Britain was widely regarded as the sick man of Europe and at least in private, many senior political figures believed that the most they might be able to achieve was the orderly management of decline.
The Tory party had a new leader who regarded such sentiments as tantamount to treason. But she was untried. She had been Education Secretary, best known for the milk-snatcher nickname and for closing down many grammar schools: not an inspiring CV for a leader. Many of her own senior colleagues found it easy to withhold belief in their new chief.
Back then, suppose anyone had suggested that she would help to win the Cold War while subjecting the trade unions to the rule of law; impose financial discipline on the nationalised industries and indeed privatise them whenever possible; deal with inflation (at least for a few years); and revive the animal spirits of the British middle classes while promoting the sale of council properties in a radical measure of economic emancipation for many working-class families? Imagine, in short, someone suggesting in 1975 that Mrs Thatcher would become the UK’s greatest domestic PM. What response could they have expected? Incredulity would have been an understatement. No wonder many Tories still regard her as their regina quondam, reginaque futurus.
Back in those early days, I had a humble servitor’s view of the beginning of the long march. Working in the Conservative Research Department – the Party ought to rebuild a strong CRD as rapidly as possible – I was eventually promoted to helping to write speeches for her.
I have often been asked what that was like and there is a simple answer: a nightmare. There was a simple problem: she never liked any text that was ever offered. Later on in government, Charles Powell, her outstanding foreign affairs private secretary, nicknamed her La Bionda: ‘the blonde’. There was a play on words. In English, Bionda sounds like ‘beyond’, which is appropriate. She was always striving to storm the beyond.
Here’s how it worked: I am the main draftsman on an important speech. I produce over 5,000 words. Her response: ‘Bruce, where is the structure?’ Second draft, similar length, full of structure: ‘What is the theme?’ Me, only to myself: ‘Couldn’t you have said that last time?’
Thus it went on. By the fourth session, I must have produced about 20,000 words and was suffering from acute verbal exhaustion. The late Jock Bruce-Gardyne was called in and something was cobbled together. By then, the day of delivery was rapidly approaching and she was more pliable. Thus it continued.
But just after the victorious election, there seemed to have been a change. She was due to deliver a speech in Scotland on the ninth day of her premiership and I was tasked with writing it. There was only one brief drafting session and it went perfectly. ‘Now that I’m Prime Minister, people produce speeches that I like.’
Could this be true? Might there be a speech-writing job in No.10? I almost dared to dream.
On the Friday evening, the day before she was due to fly to Scotland, I was waiting outside her study with that great man Ian Gow, the sans pareil of PPSs. ‘I’m speaking myself tonight,’ he says. ‘Down in the patch.’ ‘Oh?’ I responded. ‘You’re not staying for the drafting session?’
Ian looks surprised. ‘What drafting session? I don’t really see why we need this meeting. You will receive your halo, I might rate a mention in dispatches, we will both enjoy a glass of Prime Ministerial whisky – and go our separate ways.’
‘Ian, I reckon we’ll still be here at midnight.’
‘Nonsense, my dear chap, nonsense.’
At 1.30am – talk about earning a mention in dispatches – Ian looked as if he had been at the front line of the Somme for two months. The speech which she had liked at first instance had been comprehensively trashed. If I had not seen this happen to better men than me, I might have been tempted to slip out of the room and head for the river, to make a hole in the Thames.
At last, Ian tried to restore order. ‘Prime Minister, there must be someone in these four Kingdoms who can write speeches for you?’ (Obviously not Anderson B.) ‘No: there’s no one.’ (That made me feel slightly better.)
Ian persevered. ‘On Monday, I’ll phone William Rees-Mogg’ (then editor of the Times). ‘No point. William will only send me Bernard Levin. Bernard can’t write speeches.’ ‘Well then, Bill Deedes’ (of the Telegraph). ‘No, Bill will suggest Peter Utley. He can do perorations, nothing else.’
I decided to risk adding my farthing’s-worth: ‘Prime Minister, Chris Patten has written lots for you over the years.’ (Chris had been a superb director of CRD who was also a first-class speechwriter.) ‘Chris can’t think conceptually.’ I filed that away for subsequent teasing.
It was a crushing experience, and I would not have missed it for the world. Years later, I remember a long lunch with Ronnie Millar, her longest-standing speechwriter. Because he was older, he could sometimes control her. Inevitably, we spoke of the Blonde Bionda. ‘There are times when I love-hate that woman. I can’t tell you how intensely I love-hate her. But I know which emotion prevails.’
When Ronnie was given a knighthood, he told friends that he initially felt guilty. In a better world, how would he explain himself to the knights who had fought at Crecy and Agincourt? Then he remembered the speechwriting sessions in the Imperial Hotel in Blackpool: sat over curling sandwiches at 5 a.m., while the Bionda grew more and more impossible, insisting that this was the worst speech she had ever read. He decided that the earlier knights might instantly forgive him. ‘Rather you than me. I’d rather face the French cavalry any time.’
Just after the 1987 election, I wrote that Mrs Thatcher was one of the greatest women who ever lived. At moments, I have been tempted to drop the ‘one of’. Almost all those who ever worked for her knew how exasperating she could be. They also knew that there was an overwhelming consolation: being a witness while history was in the making.
Click here to subscribe to our daily briefing – the best pieces from CapX and across the web.
CapX depends on the generosity of its readers. If you value what we do, please consider making a donation.
