Dave and Nick E-Book

Ann Treneman

• Herausgeber: The Robson Press
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

You will not read this story of Dave and Nick anywhere else. Ann Treneman, the sketchwriter for The Times, chronicles all the highlights (and even more of the lowlights) of their extraordinary relationship in a love story that not even Mills & Boon could imagine. Two posh boys who found each other, a bromance to remember, full of love, hate, fratricide, war, riots, bad hair and even worse speeches, not to mention that sexy AV referendum. Through her perceptive sketches, Ann Treneman tells the story of how they dated, flirted with others (including the brooding hulkish Gordon), but eventually came together in a sun-kissed wedding in the Downing Street rose garden. She reveals how Nick struggled to be the perfect political wife while starting a new sub-career as a national hate figure, and chronicles Dave's long and bruising battle with arrogance. She tells the shocking story of their arch rival, the man who killed his brother and got away with it. The nightmare of the grandparents, the mad aunts and uncles, the ambitious kids and the economy that simply would not do as it was told. This is the tale of two men and a screaming baby of a coalition, trying to stay true to each other when surrounded by political mayhem and madness. Laugh? Or cry (with laughter)? How about both?

Leseprobe

Dave & Nick

The Year of the Honeymoon … and Beyond

Ann Treneman

Acknowledgements

My thanks go to all who helped make this book happen, including my publisher Jeremy Robson, my friend Paul Dunn who gave me the initial idea, my fellow sketchwriters at the Commons, all my colleagues at TheTimes and, of course, politicians of all hues without whom this book truly would not have been possible. Particularly warm thanks to all my appreciative, observant, wonderful readers. These sketches appeared in their original form (all have been edited and, in some cases, augmented) in TheTimes or, in one instance the Sunday Times. In particular I would like to thank those who work with me at Westminster in what we call ‘The Room’: Roland Watson, Sam Coates, Anushka Asthana, Michael Savage and Soraya Kishtwari. It was quite the year for weddings – Dave and Nick, Wills and Kate, Zara and Mike, Ed and Ed, not to mention Ed and Justine. So, thanks also to my (new) husband Ian Berkoff. ♥

Contents

Title Page

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Who’s Who in the Wedding Party

1. Singular beginnings – the way they were

Dave’s Story

Nick’s Story

2. The Election Dating Game

3. A Mad Week in May: The Pre-Nup and the Wedding

4. The Austerity Honeymoon (Summer 2010)

5. A Marriage in the National Interest (Autumn 2010)

6. Playing Happy Families (Winter/Spring 2011)

7. Marriage is Hard Work (Summer 2011)

8. Trouble and Strife (Summer/Autumn 2011)

Index

Copyright

Introduction

I beg your pardon

I never promised you a rose garden

Along with the sunshine

There’s gotta be a little rain sometimes

Written by Joe South

Most famously recorded by Lynn Anderson

So, immediately, reading that lyric we see the problem, for it seems to me that Dave and Nick did, actually, promise each other (and us) a rose garden. On that beautiful, fateful day in May 2010, they certainly exchanged vows to that effect in the Downing Street rose garden. You can call it a coalition if you want, but those of us who were there in our plush chairs – bees buzzing, birds singing, sun dappling as it will on such days – immediately realised that this was, actually, a wedding.

‘This is the first coalition government in sixty-five years,’ bubbled Dave, sun sparkling in his eyes, looking alarmingly like Nick. ‘We have a shared agenda, a shared resolve. Today we are not just announcing a new government and new ministers. We are announcing a new politics, a new politics where the national interest is more important than the party interests, where cooperation wins out over confrontation, where compromise, where give and take, where reasonable, civilised, grown-up behaviour is not a sign of weakness but a sign of strength.’

Thus, he, Dave did take this man, Nick, to be his lawfully wedded coalition partner, to have and to hold, for poorer or even poorer (it was an austerity themed service), until election do them part (in 2015). ‘This coalition can be a historic and seismic shift in our political landscape,’ vowed Dave.

And he, Nick, did also take this man, Dave, to be his coalition partner. ‘This is a government that will last,’ he claimed, ‘not because of a list of policies, not because it will be easy. There will be bumps and scrapes along the way. This is a government that will last despite those differences because we are united. Our ambition is simple and yet profound, our ambition is to put real power and opportunity into the hands of people, families and communities to change their lives for the better. For me, that is what liberalism is all about.’ He added: ‘I came into politics to change politics and to change Britain for good. Together [he looks at Dave], that job starts today…’

I reprint these words because vows at such times do mean something, not least because they provide an insight into the crazy things people say when they are newlyweds. But if the words flowed like fine champagne that day, it was the chemistry that I noticed. Nick and Dave, Dave and Nick, they seemed to be loving this crazy little thing called love (sorry, it’s hard to keep these songs away at weddings). Of course, as the cynics pointed out, they didn’t really have any other option – this was an arranged marriage, with a pre-nup hammered out in the mad, bad, crazy days after the election that elected no one. But there are arranged marriages and then there are arranged marriages. Everyone who was there could see that this was one that suited them both.

But what these sketches, edited and in some cases enhanced from my column in The Times over the last eighteen months, also show is that, perhaps like all new couples, they had absolutely no clue what lay ahead. What Nick referred to blithely as ‘bumps and scrapes’. Hmmmm. Not quite. More like multi-vehicle pile-ups. Did Nick ever imagine, even in his darkest days, that he would become a hate figure, burnt in effigy by students furious that his version of abolishing tuition fees to the triple them? Or how backbench Tories would delight in taunting him on voting and Lords reform? Did Dave really have any idea of what coalition would mean: the compromises, the cuts, the tuition fees chaos, the criticism, the fury of his backbenchers, the endless advice from the in-laws (Paddy Ashdown, I mean you)? His first anniversary present, the AV referendum, was a disaster. Yes, it may have seemed the perfect gift – it’s a paper anniversary, what could be better than a ballot paper? – and, yes, Nick had said he wanted it more than anything else but, like so many extravagant presents, it all went totally wrong. Next time, I suspect Dave will give Nick something more useful – like a tie.

Maybe it is because political journalism, like politics in general, is so male-dominated, but there is a huge amount of emphasis placed in both on facts, issues, policy. Political reporters invest endless amounts of time and effort in finding tiny fissures that could become splits, measuring shifts in emphasis that could, with enough pressure, become U-turns. Certainly the coalition has seen its fair share of U-turns – there are enough in this book to rival the practice session of any learner driver – and there have been hundreds of thousands of words written about deficit reductions, policing, education, voting reform, nuclear power, defence budgets, civil liberties, phone hacking, Libya, riots, poverty etc.

And yet, at the core of this coalition are two men. It is their relationship that fascinates me and provides the driving force of this book. I start not with their beginning as a couple but when they were one, so to speak, and how similar they seem even then, with hindsight. There’s Dave making the first ever Tory jokes about low-carbon commuting. There’s Nick endlessly talking about optimism. In so many ways – their backgrounds so similar, the ambitions so matched – they look like they were destined for this.

The election turned out to be their ‘getting to know you’ phase. The nation met Nick through the election debates, sparking the crush (short-lived) that was Cleggmania. Then, post-hung election, came those five famous days in May when Nick was flirting shamelessly with not only Dave but Gordon Brown. Indeed, right up until the very end, it seems, Nick was using Gordon to get what he could out of Dave and Co. This is the politics of courtship, of relationships, of hard realities and soft powers of persuasion. Again, this is a woman’s game, played by men.

‘It’s not about the chemistry,’ said Nick on The Andrew MarrShow (which acts, in so many ways, like a Relate therapy room for Dave and Nick) after their one-year anniversary and the disastrous AV referendum (which was also, I think, the official end of the honeymoon). But, actually, a great deal of it is about chemistry. I have followed Nick and Dave around the country as they do their ‘live and unplugged’ show. And, even when there are serious policy differences, they complement each other. Their personalities are well suited. They are relaxed, fluid, in tune. It is what the dating experts call synchronicity.

‘I woke up thinking: this is so much better than the alternative!’ cried Dave at the wedding, so happy, so engaging. We were seeing, for the first time, the natural grace that marks out Dave’s premiership as something special. But if necessity is the mother of invention then serendipity must be its sister here too. I could also see how Dave’s traditional ways were enhanced by Nick’s fizziness. The Lib Dem leader has an edge that Dave will never possess. Nick is a European and a metro-sexual. He is multi-lingual, is a citizen of the world, idealistic but also sophisticated (if incredibly accident prone). Dave is English, not European, his attractions are very much rooted in England’s green and pleasant land.

It is not an equal relationship (the clue’s in the word ‘deputy’) but there have been almost no leaks or gossip about how, exactly, it works. From the very beginning, Nick was thrust into the role of political wife, muted in the Commons, reduced to the role of nodding supporter. (I would love to know what his real wife, the feisty Miriam, has to say about all of that.) In America, where coalition government would never happen but where compromise government is often a fact of life because of the separation of powers set out in the Constitution, the role of the First Lady is one with real clout. In many ways – and Nick may hate this, but there is truth in it – he plays the same kind of role: essentially supportive but with his own hobbies and passions (if AV can be such a thing, which sadly for Lib Dems, it can) which are not only indulged but encouraged.

I am sure that Dave, never a rightwinger, welcomed the way Nick blunted the sharp edges of Conservativism. And Nick must appreciate the fact that the Tories know how to get things done, unlike the Lib Dems, who love to dream but recoil from hard choices. Dave’s role may be dominant (the husband in the traditional marriage) but there is no doubt that it is a real partnership. There is respect there and it is mutual. Nick has shown real pluck in backing Dave on issues such as the deficit while playing the mitigating ‘good critic’ role of political wife on health reform and the summer of discontent. Dave has an arrogant side to him that can be breathtaking: at times, he simply skips the detail in favour of the easy cheap shot. Nick, whose earnestness has never been in doubt, helps there too. Certainly, as the Hackgate scandal exploded, with Dave refusing to apologise, the presence of Nick steadied the ship.

It is these themes that run through these sketches, the story of the coalition but also of two men making it up as they go along. Obviously the whole point of sketchwriting is to have some fun, but it also provides a wealth of detail and context. It has been a blast to follow the corresponding adventures of Gordon, the Brothers Miliband and Georgie Boy Osborne. Then there are relatives, mad uncles, ferocious grandparents, in-laws, outlaws and, in general, the crazy world of politics. But at its heart is this relationship. It is said that no one understands a marriage that they are not in. This may be so, but we can watch it. ‘You better look before you leap,’ goes the Rose Garden song. Too late for that now. They’re in mid-air, legs pumping, arms out, suspended over the chasm.

Ann Treneman

Westminster

October 2011

Who’s Who in the Wedding Party

The Groom

David ‘Dave’ Cameron, young and shiny-faced leader who recast his party as caring and sharing Conservatives. Old Etonian, new optimist. Brutal, sometimes shallow, upbeat, pragmatic. Best trait: Grace. Worst trait: Arrogance.

The Deputy Groom

Nick Clegg, young and pasty-faced leader elected to make his party look semi-electable. Public schoolboy, metrosexual, multi-lingual. Earnest, passionate, accident-prone. Best trait: Endless enthusiasm. Worst trait: Blind hypocrisy.

Dave’s best man

George Osborne, Chancellor, full-time scorpion, key Tory party strategist. Wallpaper heir. Quick-witted, sneery, clever, arrogant. Thrives out of spotlight.

Nick’s best man

Danny Alexander, a late substitute after David Laws, first choice, had to excuse himself for expense-related reasons. Tall, ginger, boring, steady. Was big in squirrel circles before he became Chief Secretary to the Treasury.

Guests

Andrew Lansley, Tory, health reform obsessive. Lugubrious, super-focused. Big on bottoms up.

Ken Clarke, jazz-loving, red-faced, big-bellied old Tory who often seems more of a Lib Dem.

Theresa May, she of the killer leopard-skin shoes and crazy Star Trek outfit. She’s been on the Tory front bench forever. Who knew that Dave rated her so much?

William Hague, unlikely best friend of George and Dave, self-made millionaire, author, ex-Tory leader. Brilliant orator who will be relied on to give any extra speeches.

Ed Miliband, Labour, part of the famous political double act, the Miliband Brothers, whose fratricide sitcom has proved fascinating. Btw, Ed hates Nick, though Nick doesn’t know it yet.

Ed Balls, Labour, attending with wife and fellow (if that is the right word) Labour frontbencher, Yvette. Ed B has, as you might have guessed, balls and is a particular irritant to Dave.

Harriet Harman, Labour, may be a non-gender-specific feminist, but she is the only one wearing a hat here. Wanted to come with Gordon Brown but couldn’t find him. Stalwart frontbencher, pioneer, doughty fighter.

John Bercow, Mr Speaker, attending with his Twitter-obsessed wife Sally. The Bercows only got invited because they had to be. Everyone loves to hate John, who is short and doesn’t care.

Andy Coulson. Controversial guest. Dave insisted that the former Newsof the World editor be invited, though Nick told him that he might live to regret that (guess who was right?).

Chapter One

Singular beginnings – the way they were

David Cameron and Nick Clegg are two men with an almost scary amount in common. They are born within months of each other, Dave in October 1966, Nick in January 1967, into well-off families. Nick’s dad was a banker, Dave’s a stockbroker. They were brought up in the Home Counties and went to the best private schools that money could buy: Eton for Dave, Westminster for Nick. Dave studied philosophy, politics and economics at Oxford while Nick did social anthropology at Cambridge. Each has had a career dominated by politics with occasional forays into the big bad worlds of marketing (Dave) and journalism (Nick). Nick was elected as an MEP in 1999, Dave as an MP in 2001 with Nick following in 2005. Both were lauded as future leaders of their parties, predictions they then duly fulfilled. Are you frightened yet? If not, read on and you will be soon. These sketches are a selection from how they found themselves in their past lives – before they found each other.

Dave’s Story

30 September 2005* D-Day for the smoothie from Notting Hill

A man named Dave is born in a room full of strawberry smoothies and chilled-out love

I was there for the birth of Dave. It was 29 September 2005, D-Day, Dave day, and leadership launch day for both David Cameron and David Davis. First David D launched his bid to be the Tory leader by saying that he was passionate about change. Then David C launched his, saying that he was passionate about change.

Do you see the problem? Two Davids running for Tory leader is two too many. It is confusing and indicates a lack of choice (which, I believe, is illegal these days). So no surprises then when, at DC’s launch, there was an attempt to rebrand him as ‘Dave’. It’s a great idea, though, actually, I think ‘Fred’ would have been more fun.

David Davis is a man’s man and his launch was a man’s man’s event. It was all wood-panelling and middle-aged testosterone. No frills, no food, no fun. In contrast, Dave’s launch, just down the road, seemed to be in another world entirely. Dave is always accused of being from the Notting Hill set. After yesterday I think we can drop the accused bit. Everyone was so smooth it was like being in a room of shiny pebbles. It was as though someone had gone over them all with a giant pumice stone until there were no rough edges at all.

Dave even served us brownies and strawberry smoothies. Smoothies at a political launch! Whatever next? Aromatherapy? Truly, the days of being forced to drink instant coffee served in Styrofoam cups with teeth marks already embedded in them could be numbered.

I must admit that, especially after DD’s brutally abrupt event, it was all rather soothing. The theme of the party (for that is now how I thought of it) was ‘chill’. The room was white and circular. The music was calming with lots of little chimes and bells and what-not. I am only surprised that we were not handed little white towels and lavender eye-pads. I felt the desire to close my eyes and imagine I was somewhere else.

Even when Dave arrived, seriously late for his own party, the dream-like atmosphere continued. The words ‘passionate’ and ‘caring’ washed round us like waves lapping the beach. He kept saying: ‘There’s a we in politics as much as a me.’ It could be his catchphrase because, even in a dream, it makes no sense.

I hope you don’t think that I am concentrating on style, not substance. It’s just that yesterday style seemed to BE the substance. So far, then, this is all we know: too many Davids, not enough Goliaths. That is going to have to change.

(*All headline dates refer to the day that the sketch appeared in TheTimes.)

5 October 2005 Dave takes us on an ‘incredible’ journey

This was Dave’s big moment: his speech to the party faithful in Blackpool. He worked very very hard at making it look entirely effortless

I regret to report that I have been on an incredible journey with David ‘Dave’ Cameron. Yesterday he came before us in Blackpool, the leadership front runner, anxious to show us that he was more than just a pretty face. I am not sure what the point of that was: he has the elusive Kennedy factor and yesterday everybody in the hall could feel it.

Dave worked very very hard at making everything look effortless, an exercise made much harder by the fact that Ken Clarke was also on stage yesterday. Say what you will about Ken (and they do – red-faced, paunchy, walking health hazard), he has the rare gift of appearing completely natural. The main thing I want to report about Ken’s speech is that he didn’t use the word ‘change’. Plus, he didn’t tell us that we were going on a ‘journey’.

Dave was studiously natural, which isn’t the same thing at all. He strolled on to the stage, as if he just happened to be passing. He spoke deliberately and calmly. We were told that there would be no copies of his speech until afterwards because much of it would be impromptu. This made me snort, for the day before I had watched Dave practising his speech, entire body furrowed in concentration, to an empty hall.

‘We CAN lead the new generation!’ he cried now. ‘We can BE that new generation.’

Then he managed to get two clichés in one sentence. ‘Changing our party to change our country,’ he emoted, ‘it will be an incredible journey.’ (Noooooo, I thought, for, like the children in the back seat, we are getting car sick in Blackpool.)

In the practice version, Dave had ended with something akin to a whoop and a sort of air punch. But yesterday, in the real version, he calmly opened his arms to the audience. I wonder how many times he had practised that inclusive hug. If mirrors could talk – and they do sometimes – what would they say about Dave?

Then, and surely this is cheating, he brought his pretty pregnant wife, Samantha, up on stage for a lot of totally spontaneous hugging. During one hug he gave her bump a little pat. It was shameless but, it must be said, rather effective.

7 December 2005 The King is dead, long live the King

It may have been a leadership election but it felt like a coronation when Dave, ruler of the Cameroons, accepted the crown

The coronation of Dave, King of the Cameroons, took place at a ceremony that managed to be both extremely grand and ultra-modern. At least 500 happy subjects crammed into a room at the Royal Academy of Arts. Tory MPs seemed ecstatic. ‘It IS a coronation,’ exclaimed one MP as he waited, wiggling in excitement.

Technically, of course, it was an election, if one organised by a party, but it did not feel like one. There was nothing grubby or practical here. It was a grand room in a grand building and it was filled with grand people: lords and ladies, fundraisers, donors. There were crowds of shiny, happy Notting Hill people. The air-kissing broke all records for a political event.

There was absolutely no tension. No one was running around, mobile glued to ear, looking desperate. The atmosphere was as bubbly as a glass of champagne. It could not have been bouncier if we had all been on a trampoline.

The Tories were here to celebrate: everyone knew who had won. Even the stage backdrop knew, for it was baby blue, the colour of the Cameroons.

The ceremony itself was simple and mercifully brief. Michael Howard said a few words about how wonderful everything was. David Davis and David Cameron came out and stood together, looking dangerously on the brink of a civil partnership ceremony. DD sported a big loopy grin. Dave had a more controlled smile, but his eyes were red-rimmed and glittering.

A huge roar erupted when Mr Cameron’s total was announced. Dave kept his face open and blank, as cameras exploded in his face. DD went to the lectern to say a few words. Dave looked at us and, such is the charisma factor, it was almost impossible to look away from him. It was only when he looked at DD that we did too. DD has never sounded so gracious, as he introduced Dave as the man who would be the next Conservative Prime Minister.

Dave did his trademark no-lectern, no-notes speech. He stepped forward, which made him loom almost too large. ‘I said when I launched my campaign that we needed to change in order to win. Now that I have won, we will change,’ he cried. The Cameroons love these circular sentences that make no sense.

Dave made what may have been the first Tory joke about being carbon-neutral (normally Lib Dem territory). He wants to set targets for reducing carbon. ‘I tried to make a start this morning by biking to work,’ he noted ruefully. ‘That was a carbon-neutral journey until the BBC sent a helicopter to follow me.’

Laugh? They almost exploded. The coronation was in danger of becoming a love-in.

But Dave did not relax. He may be nice but he is also ruthless. The first thing on his list? Bury Thatcherism. ‘We can mend our broken society,’ he promised. ‘There is such a thing as society. It’s just not the same thing as the State.’ The next thing on the list? Attack Gordon Brown, who will henceforth be known simply as Road-Block.

The crowd adored it. It is Year Zero for the Cameroons. Then Dave hugged his wife, Samantha, kissing her no fewer than five times. You could almost hear the trumpet fanfare, as the procession began.

5 October 2006It’s a happy, happy day for Dave

Dave, in his first conference speech as leader, explains how he wants sunshine to rule the day and introduces us to his great friend, General Wellbeing

Dave wants to be Prime Minister but, for the time being, it seems that he will settle for being Mr Happy. Yesterday in Bournemouth he gave his party a big hug and told them about his Sunshine Revolution. It’s going to put smiles on our faces and songs in our hearts. The future’s bright, the future’s optimistic and, most of all, the future is Dave. We may be witnessing the birth of a cult.

‘They are the dream couple,’ gushed the man sitting next to me as, at the end, Dave was joined by his wife, Samantha, on the raised platform in the middle of the hall. (There are no stages in the Sunshine Revolution, only centre grounds.) But, I asked, don’t you think she looks a bit reticent? ‘That’s good. It’s English,’ he noted approvingly. ‘Plus, don’t forget, we’ve had Cherie.’ He shuddered as he said the name and added: ‘We are ready for this.’

Dave was ready for them too. It was his first significant conference speech and he had clearly decided that he wasn’t a natural tub-thumper. Nor did he go in for the theatricality of Tony Blair. Instead, he adopted a slow and laid-back style. At the very beginning, he waited for a moment and then spoke to his party as a neighbour and a friend. It was more a conversation than a speech and, in the hall at least, it worked.

There were two standing ovations before he even said a word. That seemed excessive but, then, the Tories have been in the wilderness for a long time and they are hungry. He told us that the Sunshine Revolution was not about style but about substance. He said this with a great deal of style. ‘I want to deal directly with this issue of substance,’ he announced, looking straight into our eyes, because he is that kind of guy.

For one thrilling moment he seemed to be teetering on the brink of a policy announcement. But, as it turned out, that was a shallow thing for me to think. For Mr Happy then explained that substance was not about policies at all. ‘Substance is not about producing a ten-point plan,’ he said. ‘It is about deeper things than that. It is about knowing what you believe.’

Dave then told us what he believes in. These include marriage and motherhood but not, it seems, apple pie, for all food in Sunshine Land is healthy and promotes Mr Happy’s great friend, General Wellbeing. The most effective passages in the hall were when he mixed the personal and the political, for Dave is skilled at that most difficult of political arts. He gave a passionate account of why the NHS is safe in his hands. ‘My family is so often in the hands of the NHS,’ he said in an oblique reference to his disabled son, Ivan.* ‘And I want them to be safe there.’

Mr Happy loves being married. ‘There’s something special about marriage. It’s not about religion. It’s not about morality. It’s about commitment. When you stand up there, in front of your friends and your family, in front of the world, whether it’s in a church or anywhere else, what you’re doing really means something.’ At this, Samantha’s face was flashed up on the big screen. She looked bemused, but beautiful. It all seemed a bit too intimate.

Then, before we knew it, Dave was shouting: ‘The best is yet to come!’ Actually, I think that may be the policy in Sunshine Land. ♥

(*Ivan, aged six, who had cerebral palsy and epilepsy, died in February 2009.)

Nick’s Story

19 December 2007Nick and Chris emerge from the secret room…

The Lib Dems, having killed off two leaders, Charles Kennedy and Ming Campbell, in quick succession, gathered just before Christmas to elect a new one. It was between Chris Huhne and Nick Clegg but, first, we had to hear from Vince…

We knew who had won – or thought we knew – by watching the wives. We had gathered in a ridiculously over-crowded room in the St Martin’s Lane Hotel near Trafalgar Square. It is not healthy to be in an enclosed space with so many Lib Dems, not least because they tend to suffer from body odour. I feared the air circulation system would collapse under the strain.

The announcement was late, for the Lib Dems love their leadership elections and don’t like to rush them. The room, overheating to incubator levels, was littered with photographers taking pictures of each other and broadcasters interviewing each other. In the front of the room were all the former Lib-Dem leaders, pretending to have intense conversations with each other.

Then, suddenly, Miriam Clegg and Vicky Huhne came into the room, straight from the secret room (Lib Dems love secret rooms) where they had been closeted with their husbands.

‘The wives!’ whispered my neighbour. At Lib-Dem events everybody loves to whisper because it adds to the intrigue.

Miriam, who is Spanish, was all smiles, her dark hair bouncing this way and that as she chatted away. Vicky, who is Greek, looked a bit drawn as she beetled over to her chair. They bussed each other as if they’d not just been in the secret room.

‘Only two kisses,’ we noted ominously.

For Europeans, and all Lib Dems consider themselves such, this is a paltry number. Surely, the minimum would be four in normal circumstances. But this was not normal for, as far as we could see, Miriam’s husband had beaten Vicky’s. They began to chat with the determination of women doing their duty while being filmed by eight cameras.

They were put out of their misery by the appearance of Vince Cable, acting leader, economist and ballroom dancer supreme. He was met with thunderous applause. Everyone loves him. Indeed, they love him so much that they are replacing him with someone worse. That’s the kind of thing that the Liberal Democrats do so well.

‘You can all relax,’ Vince noted drily. ‘I’m not intending to announce a military coup.’

This was a blow. Vince told us that the finest moment of his brief interlude as acting leader was on Strictly Come Dancing. As he gave the result, Nick and Chris stood together to one side, looking awkward. They have been on the campaign trail for two months and are starting to resemble each other. Indeed, they walk in tandem as if they are partners in a permanent three-legged race.

‘The total number of votes cast was 41,465,’ said Vince.

He said that Nick Clegg had received 20,988 votes. At the word ‘twenty’, there was an ‘ohhhh’. Then he said Chris Huhne had got 20,474. This brought another gasp.

No one expected it to be so close. Mr Huhne, irrepressible even in defeat, bounded up. ‘Well, there are close-run things and close-run things!’

Then Mr Clegg gave a speech about how he wants a new beginning. It was rather dull. But, still, he looks good. Is that enough?

10 January 2008Nick plays with the big boys at PMQs

The strategy for Nick’s first big Commons test – PMQs – was clear: Nick should be Nick. It sounded simple…

In Lib-Dem terms, it was a triumph. By that I mean that Nick Clegg’s debut at PMQs was not a disaster. He didn’t collapse. He didn’t cry. He didn’t shake, rattle or roll over. The fact that he was also a bit ordinary is beside the point. Don’t forget, this is the party of the weird. For Lib Dems, ordinary is remarkable. One of the highest compliments a Lib Dem can give is: ‘My, but you were ordinary today.’

Mr Clegg was nervous beforehand, his handsome face petrified, his limbs wooden and possibly controlled by strings. He had tried to break the hex of Sir Ming Campbell (and escape the comparison with Lib-Dem vaudevillian Vince Cable) by changing his seat. All previous leaders have sat on the aisle, close to the Tories and directly across from the vituperative tongue of Dennis Skinner. Mr Clegg decided to move two places over. It was almost touching that so much thought went into this.

‘He’s moving away from me already!’ cried David Cameron, who starts the new year with a new comb-over. (I sit above him and am an expert on his thinning pate.) ‘He is the fourth Lib-Dem leader I have faced. I wish him well – although not that well.’

Mr Clegg’s facial muscles did not move, which I attribute to nervousness rather than Botox. It must have been hard for him to sit next to Vince, the greatest leader the Lib Dems never had. Earlier I had asked a Lib-Dem aide about Mr Clegg’s strategy for PMQs. Would there be jokes? ‘Nick is not Vince,’ the aide said. ‘Nick is Nick.’ I took that as a no.

So that was the goal. Nick who is Nick wanted to be Nick. Such consistency is rare for Lib Dems. We watched and waited for any little slip. The Lib-Dem leader doesn’t get to go until after the Tories. Yesterday Dave had concocted one of his ‘portfolio’ question sets for the PM. He began on ID cards, moved on to tax and then, oh, who knows? It all blurred together.

It is official now: Gordon Brown and David Cameron hate each other. They got personal yesterday. Mr Brown was scathing, if a little repetitive, as he attacked Mr Cameron’s attack. ‘Once again, all these pre-rehearsed lines. All these lines rehearsed in front of the mirror!’ he cried, to screams of excitement. ‘Oh yes. Oh yes. Oh yes. All these pre-rehearsed lines!’

Boys! Boys! How scary for Nick Clegg, then, to be the only leader in the room they don’t hate. Yesterday they fought over him like beaux in a Jane Austen novel. ‘Let me welcome you,’ gushed Mr Brown. ‘I said to you in our private conversations that there is an open door.’ This brought screams of ‘oooohhhhh’ from MPs.

But Nick, who wants to be Nick, was not to be wooed. He stood up and, when hit by the inevitable wall of noise, shouted over it. He had chosen his subject well: how the poor will cope with rising fuel bills this winter. No MP, even in the fevered madness of PMQs, would dare make fun of this.

Nick stood his ground against the PM. He finished his sentences. He got his facts right. He wasn’t exciting but he was solid. What a coup for Nick to be Nick all the way through.

18 July 2008‘Do-vais-day!’ announced Nick Clegg over the roar of the dishwasher

Nick, having given an interview in which he claimed he had slept with ‘no more than thirty women’, decided to relaunch his party. But then the dishwasher got involved.

Nick Clegg, Lib-Dem leader and wannabe sex god, relaunched his party yesterday with an event called Make It Happen. As ever with the Lib Dems, it was not entirely clear what ‘it’ was. Still, it was intriguing. I arrived early at the venue, a rather swanky restaurant called Bank Westminster, where it (though possibly not ‘it’) was happening at 10 a.m.

It seemed deserted save for one TV journo on the pavement, phone clamped to ear. Inside, I found a flask of coffee, a camera and a gaggle of Lib Dems. Forget ‘it’. Was this going to happen?

Twenty purple leather chairs had been arranged in front of a Plexiglass lectern, which was, itself, in front of a plate-glass window. We (actually it was just me) looked out on a courtyard with an ornate Victorian fountain fringed with hydrangeas. It was a beautiful setting for something, though maybe not ‘it’.

A few others, almost all Lib Dems, trickled in. I glanced through the glossy Make It Happen brochure. The only thing happening seemed to be lots of pictures of Nick: Nick writing, Nick speaking, Nick with children, Nick with troops, Nick with a purple tie. You get the picture (no other Lib Dem did). One of the headlines asked: ‘Why does the Government ignore me?’

I was beginning to feel bad for the Lib Dems. With minutes to spare, the Yellow Peril (as they are known) fanned out to occupy half the purple chairs. What a relief. The Tories used to do this in the bad old Iain Duncan Smith days. Yesterday the Lib Dems easily outnumbered the press, which at its peak totalled eight, including three from the BBC.

Then, suddenly, Nick was before us. I didn’t hear him; he must have been wearing slippers. ‘Thank you very much for coming to the launch of Make It Happen,’ he said without apparent irony. ‘This is a really important moment for the Lib Dems.’

Pathos. Bathos. Or, possibly, both. Who would be a politician? Then, just when I thought it could not get worse, the restaurant dishwasher started up with a mighty hum. It was tidal. Actually, I’m not sure the Pacific was this intrusive. Through the thrum, I could hear only snippets of Nick saying things like ‘putting people first’, ‘wasteful government’, ‘lower taxes’.

Just when I began to get the hang of it (you have to concentrate as if it is a hearing test), the cutlery began to crash. ‘This Government seems to have given up,’ said Nick. ‘It’s as if they are having a collective do (crash, crash) day.’ Do what? Later, I discovered he had said ‘duvet’ (is this wise for a sex god?) though he pronounced the whole thing as ‘do-vais-day’, emphasising the ‘do’, which made it sound foreign. Indeed, this may be the most exotic word since Bill Clinton taught us ‘ubuntu’, which means ‘I am, because you are’. Ubuntu Dovaisday. Now there’s a slogan.

Afterwards I cobbled together the details, such that they are. The Lib Dems are going to tax the rich more (by tinkering with things like pension tax relief) and the poor less. They are going to cut government spending by £20 billion. It’s all about creating a fairer world, though details are sketchy to say the least. This was their ‘direction of travel’.

‘It’s no good wishing for this. We’ve got to make it happen,’ said Nick, looking a bit lost.

Outside I saw a man walk by with a towering chef’s hat, as high as Marge’s beehive in The Simpsons. Crash, thrum, mad hats. What a cartoon. It was all happening here though not, perhaps, as ‘it’ was supposed to.

18 September 2008Welcome to the Nick-fest

Nick goes walkabout for his first proper speech as leader – but at least the toilet joke worked

Nick Clegg had to give the speech of his life – sorry, but it’s true – and he was nervous. He and his pregnant wife, Miriam, were attempting the traditional walk down Bournemouth’s vertiginous cliffside path to the hall. ‘Here comes the bump!’ shouted the photographers. As they sashayed by, supposedly in deep conversation, all eyes were on Miriam, incredibly glamorous for a Lib Dem in shimmering silver.

And what about him? ‘Going downhill already,’ said one hack as Nick swept by a protester who suggested the cure to the sins of the world was vegetarianism. Inside the hall, we were primed for the Great Speech by a film about Nick Clegg: we saw Nick at PMQs, in Afghanistan, Sheffield, Iraq, Dorset, with the Dalai Lama, poor people, working people, young people and lots of adorable kids.

As the Nick-fest ended and the lights came up, we could see men on stage frantically trying to dismantle the normal lectern that had a huge ‘Make It Happen’ sign on it. As they tugged at the plug, I felt despair. This could only mean one thing: Nick was going to do his speech ‘walkabout’ style, à la David Cameron. I know this is the custom among young Aborigines but I am baffled as to why our politicians are so keen. The result is usually painful for us, not to mention their Achilles’ heels.

Most politicians wander round the stage looking like little boys in search of their mothers but Nick seemed almost natural. He attacked Labour as a ‘zombie’ Government: ‘a cross between Shaun of the Dead and I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue.’ He said that David Cameron wanted to be the ‘Andrex puppy’ of British politics: a cuddly symbol but fundamentally irrelevant to the product. ‘We know it’s blue, but so are the Smurfs and Toilet Duck.’

The Toilet Duck moment led to a collective bark of laughter. The Lib Dems remain wary of this new, young, posh leader (they would so prefer Vince) but, after Toilet Duck, you could see them warming to him. He then took us, alarmingly, from the toilet seat to the seat of government. ‘I can’t tell you every step on the road for us as a party,’ he announced, pacing. ‘But I can tell you where we’re headed. Government.’ The audience froze, for the idea of actual government seemed unreal, but then remembered to clap.

Nick Clegg began to shout about how great a Lib-Dem government will be, which, in the hall, didn’t seem quite so mad. Then he stood in the brace position and shouted: ‘The Liberal Democrats! Join us and make it happen!’ The place erupted but I can’t think why. What was he on about? Everyone here was a Lib Dem. They were ‘us’. Why would they want to join themselves again?

After the applause died down (four minutes), Paddy Ashdown called it a ‘tour de force’. I’d agree it was a tour all right, at least of the stage. The speech lasted thirty-seven minutes and forty-two seconds or, a better measure these days, about two miles.

Chapter Two

The Election Dating Game

The election of April 2010 was dominated by Britain’s first ever TV debates and it was during the first of these that Nick Clegg, suddenly and shockingly, became the most popular man in Britain. Cleggmania gripped the nation and, for a very short time, everyone agreed with Nick. Much to the amazement of the Tories, their man Dave suddenly seemed to be found lacking, a bit too safe, a bit too traditional, not to say Establishment. Then there was the thundercloud that was Gordon Brown, who travelled from storm to storm, the worst coming on a day in Rochdale when he met a voter named Gillian Duffy and later, in his car, not realising his mike was still on, dismissed her as a ‘bigot’. As the weeks, and debates, rolled by, the nation still wasn’t quite sure which one of these three men it wanted to be Prime Minister and, frankly, from the following sketches, it’s not hard to see why.

7 April 2010And they’re off! Pop (Dave), Pop (Nick), Bang (Gordon)

Gordon Brown, a man famous for not calling an election in the fall of 2007, finally managed to do the deed. His was an austerity announcement while Dave partied on the South Bank and Nick held a tiny event in what appeared to be his own bedroom

It was a no-frills announcement, positively Presbyterian in its austerity. Gordon Brown and his Cabinet looked as solemn as a sermon as they trooped out of the gleaming black door of No. 10 at 10.48 a.m. The only thing sunny was above us, in the sky, on this lovely spring day that was troubled only by a soft breeze.

The launch cost nothing, a price Gordon can afford. The PM spoke through a mike hidden in the lapel of his Sunday best suit. His hair was (suitably) grey and newly cut, as perfect as a bowling lawn. The look of pure concentration on his face as he stood before us, the Cabinet fanned out on each side, looking like the Politburo but not as much fun, was that of a little boy desperately trying to remember his lines.

He’d just come from Buckingham Palace and the Queen had ‘kindly’ agreed to an election on 6 May. ‘I come from an ordinary middle-class family in an ordinary town,’ he said, voice booming out on the amateur sound system rigged up in Downing Street. Helicopters whirred above.

So he’d finally done it. After the Election That Wasn’t in the autumn of 2007, here was the Election That Had To Be. The Politburo (sorry, Cabinet) watched, looking almost glazed. Gordon, voice tolling like a bell, said things were not as bad as they could have been. Tony Blair had his theme tune of ‘Things Can Only Get Better’; Gordon has his version, which is ‘Things Could Always Have Been Worse’. With every word, our spirits lowered.

I’d chosen the wrong place to be. For, across the river, due south, at that very moment, I was told that Dave was having a party, complete with throbbing music and happy youngsters. Dave launched early, as he couldn’t wait for Gordo to get back from the Palace. The Queen will not be amused. Still, Nick Clegg had launched even earlier, with the television cameras showing him talking to some shadowy people in what appeared to be his bedroom.

So the starting gun yesterday sounded like pop (Nick), pop (Dave) and, finally, BANG (Gordo). When we were allowed out of our pews in Downing Street I raced over to see what was left of Dave’s event. But where he should have been – on the terrace, right next to the Death Trap tourist destination, directly over the Wonder Waffles stand, Big Ben in the background – there was only air. I could not scent victory, only the sickening sweet waft of waffles.

8 April 2010Who is the angriest Mr Angry of them all?

The last PMQs of the Manure Parliament was an ill-tempered affair. Not so much goodbye as good riddance

If the last PMQs of this Parliament is anything to go by, this is going to be a down and dirty election. ‘In the gutter,’ said one observer after watching. And the sewer, I might add. Still, at least the Manure Parliament stayed true to its awful standards: this last PMQs was riddled with propaganda, evasion and lashings of anger.

Gordon Brown had tried to stage-manage his exit with all the subtlety of a bulldozer. Almost every Labour MP who spoke had been prompted to ask a question that went something like this: ‘Is it true, oh wonderful master, that you have created a land of milk and honey?’ Mr Brown, preening, would turn around and admit that, yes, actually it was true. This from a man who stood in Downing Street only yesterday and launched his campaign talking about being ordinary and honest.

It must have been very irritating indeed for the Prime Minister that he could not fix the questions from the Opposition. The funniest moment came when the Tory backbencher Stephen Hammond noted that the day before, Mr Brown had gone on the campaign trail in Kent, promising to meet real people, but had spent the day visiting staunch Labour supporters. ‘Do you intend to spend the whole campaign visiting and moving from safe house to safe house?’ he demanded.

Gordon swung his great clunking fist. ‘By the time I had met them all, they WERE all staunch Labour supporters. They said they want to secure the recovery!’ Everyone burst into laughter. Brown is the only person in Britain who uses that phrase.

His fury was stoked to the point of frenzy by Opposition leader David Cameron, who asked a series of pointed questions on helicopter funding, pensions and National Insurance (which Dave calls a ‘jobs tax’). The PM evaded it all, claiming with almost pantomime drama that Tory plans not to implement fully the increase in National Insurance would plunge the country back into recession. Every once in a while, as if on some sort of hectoring loop, the PM would shout: ‘Same old Tories!’ Then this cry gave way to almost Tourettian barks of ‘Ashcroft! Ashcroft’, a reference to the Tory donor apparently responsible for all the sins of the world. The PM ended by screaming at Dave: ‘To think that you were the future once!’ Dave, who had the cooler head and won the exchange, merely laughed.

But the angriest Mr Angry of them all was Nick Clegg. He had to endure the usual level of vitriol for merely daring to stand up. I think that, after all this time of putting up with it, this just got to him. His last act was to point at the ranks of Labour backbenchers, tauntingly asking if they could remember the hope they had in 1997. ‘Well look at them now!’ he cried, voice breaking. ‘Look at them now! You failed! It’s over! It’s time to go!’

And then everyone got up and did just that. The last PMQs of the Manure Parliament was over but the smell lingers on.

13 April 2010Was it a launch or an advert for Dignitas?

Labour’smanifesto launch was a surreal event in a brand new hospital. I kept expecting someone to arrive with a stretcher…

It takes a certain amount of guts to launch a manifesto in a hospital, even more so in one that specialises in trauma and accident and emergencies. It shouts out for a Casualty theme. Never mind that the brand new Queen Elizabeth Hospital building in Birmingham looks a magnificent place: it is still somewhere for sick people to go. There really can’t be many key political events that have taken place next to a sign that directs you to ‘Outpatient Endoscopy’.

I would have loved to have been at the planning session for this event. First came the brainwave about using a hospital – which was only really possible because it’s not open yet – and then the idea to put a wheat field in the hospital. You may ask why, and the honest answer is I have no idea. But someone had gone to a lot of trouble to erect a giant screen in the hospital reception that showed a wheat field with the sun rising or setting (you pick, but I warn you this is a political judgement). If I’m kind, I would say that it looked like a shampoo commercial; others might judge that it seemed more like an advert for Dignitas.

It was freezing. I think this may be because the hospital is so new that they haven’t turned the heating on yet. Still, if there ever was a place to get hypothermia, this is it. There was no sign of food or drink. Everyone kept saying that this is a word-of-mouth election, but this was a nil-by-mouth launch. But again, as it was a hospital, maybe it was all part of the ‘Let’s play doctors and nurses’ theme.

Hundreds of the Labour faithful had come to cheer on Gordon Brown and his team, as he now calls his Cabinet. When did politics become sport? Actually, don’t answer that. The team arrived in five-minute spurts in groups of six. It was as if, like buses, they had to space themselves. When the whole team was in place, the Labour sound system cranked up their ten-year-old tape of ‘(Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher and Higher’ – and I knew that Gordon and Sarah (this is their song) were almost in A&E.

We all watched a Labour YouTube cartoon with stick figures named Joe, Jane, Jack, James and Jill, which is supposed to encapsulate the manifesto in two and a half minutes. Yes, that long. Then Gordon was before us and the wheat field – he really was outstanding in his field, if only for this event – telling us that the manifesto is all about the future. He said the manifesto (non-YouTube version) was written in the future tense: I checked but, actually, it was written in something I would call the present future hopeful tense.

‘We are in the future business,’ he boomed. I must admit that I had not realised that the future was a business or that it would be quite this strange.

14 April 2010 Memo to Dave: we need more canapés and less talk

The Tory manifesto launch was a study in post-urban chic. It was all very edgy but – sniff, sniff – what WAS that smell?

The Tories held their manifesto launch in the incredible hulk of post-industrial Britain that is Battersea Power Station. ‘A building in need of regeneration in a country in need of regeneration,’ said Dave. I found this helpful, for it is one of those things that I could never have figured out on my own.

The first thing I noticed, upon arriving at the living metaphor (sorry, launch), was the smell. ‘Do you smell rubbish?’ I asked a man at the gate. He pointed at the building next door. ‘It’s a dump,’ he said. I wrinkled my nose. I like my metaphors sterile.

I set off across a dystopian landscape of dirt and rubble – it was all a bit Mad Max – until I found a ramp that, like a tunnel in Alice in Wonderland, emerged into a totally different land. Here, inside the great hulk, we were hermetically sealed in an extremely expensive marquee that was part tent, part glass.

I identified it as Toryland almost immediately by the canapés, which managed to mix Notting Hill trendy (cranberry-streaked mini-muffins and tiny pains au chocolat) with post-industrial working-class fare (mini-bacon sarnies and sausage rolls).

It was all very post-urban chic. The wastebaskets were covered in burlap, for God’s sake. In the loos there was sea-kelp moisturiser. We gazed through the glass wall at the wreck that is Battersea Power Station. Overhead, between teetering towers, birds – crows? pigeons? vultures? – wheeled. Hitchcock used this for his thriller Sabotage but it would do for The Birds. If you wanted to go outside, the Tories had hard hats and fluorescent jackets for us.

The Tory soundtrack was all about change. ‘Ch-ch-ch-changes,’ sang David Bowie as we trooped in for the show. The fun stopped the moment we sat down. On our seats was a little blue hardback called Invitation to Join the Government ofBritain. It was full of tasks. They want us to run schools, join the Cabinet, fire our MPs. What about those of us who want to come home from work and slump in front of Come Dine With Me? No mention of us.