Free Breaking the Code by Gyles Brandreth

deference, a bit of forelock-tugging, a certain becoming modesty. We don’t expect what we got just now: a cocky Jack-the-lad, bruiser, joker, champion of the working man. He came on strong and walked off triumphant.
    Customarily our witnesses are awed by the surroundings. Most look nervous: frequently they shake with nerves. Not Kelvin. He plonked himself down: ‘Can I say what a pleasure this is?’ he beamed. Working on the premise that attack is the best form of defence (and perhaps assuming, erroneously, that we were armed with a carefully crafted line of argument that we planned to deploy to devastating effect), he struck first: ‘Frankly, I believe you are hostile to the press and hostile to ordinary people knowing what is going on in public life.’ He rejected Calcutt’s statutory tribunal out of hand. He told us we didn’t know what we were talking about. ‘All this stuff and nonsense about wanting US-style privacy laws – you guys must be nuts.’ He taunted. He teased. It was crude but masterly. ‘Now, Miss Lindi St Clair, a woman known – or not known – to some of you. She kept a little list. There are some extraordinary names on that list. If we had the American privacy laws here we could publish the name of every single MP named in the list, all their alleged sexual peccadilloes, and you couldn’t claim a single penny.’
    I said MPs were one thing, but what about Mrs Parker-Bowles? Wasn’t she a private citizen? ‘When you sleep with the next king of England you move into rather a different stratosphere.’ He thought the British papers should be able to publish the Camillagate tapes in full. ‘Prince Charles is the next defender of the faith and he’s cuckolding someone else’s husband.’
    When Joe Ashton (who is usually quite good) got going, Kelvin turned the tables
effortlessly
: ‘After many years of taking the tabloid shilling yourself, Joe…’ Joe had given what we all thought was a good example of
The Sun
humiliating a private citizen when the paper reported the case of man who had glued his buttocks together, mistaking a tube of superglue for the ointment for his haemorrhoids. ‘Our John’s gone potty and glued up his botty’ was the
Sun
headline. According to Kelvin, the man had approached the newspaper himself with the story. Collapse of argument.
    When it was over, Kelvin left the conquering hero. John Gorst 241 (who is deaf) thoughtwe had done rather well. Gerald knew the truth. We were lambs to the slaughter – and in large part it was our own fault. We hadn’t prepared a considered line of argument. We hadn’t done our homework. Complacency and laziness leading inexorably to humiliation.
MONDAY 25 JANUARY 1993
    From 3.30 to 10.00 p.m. I sat patiently in the Chamber of the House of Commons, speech in hand, awaiting my turn. It never came. I wasn’t called. It is so frustrating, but there we are. The National Lottery etc. Bill has achieved its second reading without benefit of Brandreth wisdom. The contributions we did have were pretty lacklustre. The only memorable diversion was Andrew Hargreaves, 242 sitting near me also waiting to get in, speculating as to the most fanciable Member of Parliament on the opposition benches. ‘I’d say Jane Kennedy, 243 wouldn’t you? Good figure. And she’s nice.’ From the whips’ end of the front bench, we heard a low voice grunting, ‘Nice be damned, what’s she like as a lay?’
TUESDAY 26 JANUARY 1993
    I have just been talking to Judith Chaplin, sharing with her this morning’s experience. I went to Elvetham Hall in Fleet to take part in a ‘Cabinet Office Top Management Seminar’. I was the token ‘new MP’. My set piece seemed to go okay, but what was alarming was the discussion, both in the formal sessions and over coffee. These people were senior management, middle-ranking to senior civil servants, and their message was clear and uncompromising: this government’s run out of steam. Worse, it’s hit the buffers.