Why I'm Right. . . E-Book

Tom Harris

• Herausgeber: Biteback Publishing
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

For a real insight into the bizarre circus that is the Westminster village, look no further... For two and a half years, Tom Harris used his And Another Thing... blog to dish the dirt on the reality of life as an MP. From defending politicians to dissecting Doctor Who, from how to survive a zombie holocaust to what to do when Gordon Brown forgets your name, the blog proved that politics - and politicians - do have a lighter side. Why I'm Right... And Everyone Else is Wrong compiles the very best of Harris's blog. With exclusive new material detailing the attempted coup against Tony Blair in September 2006 and his own attempt to persuade Gordon Brown to step down three years later, the book covers the highlights (and lowlights) of life in the political spotlight with humour, warmth and an insider view that's hard to beat.

Leseprobe

Why I’m right … and everyone else is wrong

The best of the blog

Tom Harris

Contents

Title Page

Introduction

Parliament

Career killers

September 2006: the coup against Tony Blair

How do you solve a problem like Gordon?

The stalking horse scenario

Whimsy

Defending the ‘police state’

But seriously

Foreign affairs

It’s personal

New media

Extra-parliamentary activity

Government: better than the alternative

In defence of politics

Telly

Labour: new and other

The end

Epilogue

Copyright

Introduction

It was exactly ten o’clock at night and the division bell was signalling a vote in the Commons. Dutifully I headed towards the ‘aye’ lobby. There are two ways to get into the ‘aye’ lobby if you’re walking from the direction of the Members’ Lobby: you can either queue up the stairs on the left hand side of the chamber or you can walk the length of the chamber, past the government despatch box and the Treasury bench, and enter through the main lobby doors behind the Speaker’s chair.

I don’t queue.

And as I headed leisurely towards the table on which the royal mace sat, I came face to face with the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Gordon Brown.

At this point I had known Gordon for about sixteen years. He was the shadow Trade and Industry Secretary when I was appointed the Scottish Labour Party’s first ever full-time press officer. And, like him, I was a member of the Scottish group of Labour MPs, though admittedly my membership was only five years old.

So I think I had every right to expect him to know my name, right?

He paused as he was about to walk past me. He glowered (I’m taller than him, so why did I always get the feeling he was glowering down at me?) and I could see that two things were occurring: first, he regretted pausing and thereby committing himself to a conversation that he didn’t really want to have and, secondly, he knew he ought to recognise me but was clearly having a hard time placing me.

Suddenly his mouth quivered in triumph (relief?) as the pieces fell into place and a light went on somewhere inside his brain.

‘I saw the questions you put down on Crossrail. Douglas and I are going to give you a good answer.’

Oh, where to start, where to start…?

First of all, ‘Douglas’ was Douglas Alexander, the transport secretary. Fair enough. The slight problem was that I was in no position to table questions on Crossrail – the proposed new commuter railway line running across central London – since I was, at the time, the minister responsible for… oh, what was it again…? Ah, yes, Crossrail!

Not only was I responsible for the scheme in my capacity as the Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State at the Department for Transport, I had, just a few months earlier, had a telephone conversation with Gordon during which he brought up the subject of funding for the scheme.

And here we were, a short time later, with only a few weeks left of Tony Blair’s premiership, with Gordon reportedly nervous about the possible emergence of a challenge to his ‘right’ to take over from Tony … this was his way of courting the Parliamentary Labour Party.

And he couldn’t even remember who the hell I was.

Now, there were three ways I could have responded to this uninvited and useless piece of information proffered by the Chancellor:

a.Thanks, Gordon.

b.Thanks, Gordon, but I’m actually the minister responsible for Crossrail, so I’m the one who’ll be issuing the answer to any questions tabled by back benchers, thank you very much.

c.Thanks, David.

Being a coward, I chose option (a). Option (b) would have embarrassed both of us and it’s said GB bears grudges, so it was probably sensible to reject that one. Option (c), in hindsight, would have been the most amusing, probably worth curtailing my ministerial career for.

I mention this little anecdote at the start of this book mainly because it’s this kind of thing that made my blog, And Another Thing…, so successful during the two and half years in which I published it (though this is the first time I’ve retold the tale publicly).

But the other reason I retell it now is because Gordon Brown became the pivotal political figure in the period of my life when the blog was on the go. He was always there, somewhere, often in the background, often not, defining the political events of that period. When he sacked me in October 2008 he had quite a significant role in shaping my personal life, one way or the other.

The three years of his premiership were, on the whole, not a happy time for me, for my party or for my country. Nor, I suppose, for Gordon, much of the time. History, I regret to say, will judge him harshly, though not as harshly as those of us in the Parliamentary Labour Party who came bitterly to regret his machinations and systematic undermining of Tony Blair.

And for what? A good friend and colleague who supported Gordon’s coup against Tony in September 2006 told me recently of his disappointment with our former leader: ‘He tried so hard to get to the top and when he got there, there was nothing there, he had nothing to offer.’

As for me, I am proud of my political epitaph: ‘Appointed by Tony Blair, sacked by Gordon Brown.’

But this is not an insider’s account of Labour’s path to self-destruction at the 2010 general election. Indeed, in the blog I only gave occasional glimpses of my unhappiness with Gordon’s leadership. And quite right too – I was not going to allow myself to be blamed for the looming and inevitable electoral catastrophe by being blatantly disloyal online.

So, instead, the blog became an exercise in self-restraint and discipline in how to write in an interesting and even loyal way about politics during the most difficult period of Labour’s thirteen years in government.

You don’t want more opinions about why political blogging is important, about why I started blogging, about the impact of blogging on the world of politics or any of that nonsense, do you? You already have your own opinions about all that stuff, so why bother?

No, what you want is gossip. The reason And Another Thing… was relatively successful is because it gave readers an insight into the life – political and personal – of an MP. That in itself was a unique selling point: who knew that MPs had family lives, favourite TV programmes and bands, even a sense of humour?

In this book I’ve collected together the posts of which I’m most proud, as well as those which, for one reason or another, gained a certain degree of national notoriety. Rather than list them chronologically, I’ve chosen to do it by category, so that those readers who, for whatever inexplicable reason, are not fans of, say, Doctor Who, can skip past those bits and head straight for the politics.

I wrote And Another Thing… for two and a half years, from March 2008 until November 2010, usually updating two, sometimes three or four, times every day. That’s a lot of blogging. I was frequently challenged about the wisdom of devoting so much of my time as an MP to the task. With hindsight, I would say it was time well spent if it meant engaging with the public, and promoting ideas and values which I thought – which I still think – are important.

The danger with being so upfront about my views – about being unapologetically New Labour and a devotee of Tony Blair’s – is that one quickly understands just how popular such positions are within the post-2010 Labour Party. Which is to say, not very.

And when you’ve lost the argument, and when no one in your own party is supporting you, except by whispering ‘Well done’ in the voting lobby when the whips aren’t watching, you have to conclude that there might be better ways of spending your time.

Parliament

Those who can’t, write

Published: June 26, 2008

Fraser Nelson was predictably cruel in his comments about Khalid Mahmood’s question yesterday at Prime Minister’s Questions: ‘He stuttered, gasped, looked at his papers. How difficult can it be to ask one question?’ Well, you’ll never know the answer to that, Fraser, but believe me, it’s a lot harder than it looks, and certainly a lot harder than sitting in your office criticising the efforts of others.

Asking a question – any question – at PMQs is surely the most daunting of experiences. For a start, there are nearly three hundred people opposite who are positively willing you to fail. And that’s before you even consider that you’re being watched on live TV throughout the land. You’re also aware that there are reporters in the gallery ready to snipe and sneer at the first sign of a stumble. And on top of that, there’s a huge amount of pressure from your own supporters who desperately want you to succeed. Writing a blog or a column is a cake walk next to that.

As a back bencher I asked the (previous) PM a number of questions on a range of subjects, from child benefit and apprenticeships to drugs and knife crime, although the only one people remember was on light pollution, in 2003. Having instigated the Science and Technology Select Committee inquiry into the effects of light pollution on astronomy, I stood up to ask ‘When was the last time the Prime Minister had a clear view of the Milky Way galaxy?’

All. Hell. Broke. Loose.

The opposition started bawling and shouting, our side started cheering; an awful din. The only thing to do was plough on (no pun intended). I got to the end of the question without stumbling or forgetting my line and – crucially – without being called out of order by the Speaker for taking too long. I had been well and truly bloodied. I felt exhilarated. But it could so easily have gone wrong. It often does and, frankly, no journalist who has not experienced it himself, and who therefore has no grasp of the pressures individuals are under at that moment when the Speaker calls your name, has the right to criticise those who have.

Slings, arrows and compliments

Published: September 15, 2008

It can now be revealed that the ‘senior ministerial colleague’ referred to in the next post was Kim Howells, then MP for Pontypridd.

Cross-party co-operation, if not friendship, was a welcome, if unexpected, discovery when I first entered the Commons. The hoo-ha of Prime Minister’s Questions doesn’t typify the chamber, most people are relieved to hear.

Greg Knight, the popular Tory MP for East Yorkshire, has established a number of non-partisan friendships with other MPs down the years. He’s the unlikely drummer in MP4, whose members also include two Labour MPs and an SNP MP. Over a curry one evening, Greg proved himself highly entertaining and (more or less) discreet as he regaled us with tales from the whips’ office in the days of John Major’s premiership. He’s also, I was hugely impressed to discover, a close personal friend of Frankie Valli of Four Seasons fame.

Greg has always had a keen interest in transport matters, so recently, when piloting the Channel Tunnel Rail Link Bill through the Commons, I found myself debating a particularly technical clause with him. He proposed a small but significant amendment, which I informed the House I would be willing to accept, since it seemed an eminently sensible one.

Gracious as ever, Greg took the opportunity of the Third Reading debate on the bill to thank me for my co-operation and expressed the hope that, come the next reshuffle, I would be promoted to Minister of State. As he sat down, a senior ministerial colleague sitting further along the Treasury bench, leaned over and whispered: ‘That’s you f****d then, son!’

Running whip

Published: November 24, 2008

There are two kinds of MP: those who, when their visit to the gym is interrupted by the sound of the division bell, bounce self-confidently into the voting lobby, enjoying the double-takes and jokes about their attire and their sweaty countenance.

And then there are those who dread having to vote in their running shoes and shorts, who feel naked and vulnerable without the comfort of their suit.

On account of my legs, I fall into the second category. So I was not best pleased earlier this afternoon when, after a mere fifteen minutes on the treadmill, a vote was called. Cue much jeering and finger-pointing (and that was just the police). Kerry McCarthy even threatened to take a photo with her phone to post on her blog. I do, genuinely, hope she was kidding.

Believe me, so do you.

It’s democracy, Jim, but not as you know it

Published: November 26, 2008

I’m back in my office at the Commons, having just witnessed the official ceremony for the prorogation of Parliament.

Essentially, this is just like the ceremony for the official opening of Parliament: those MPs who haven’t headed home after the last vote wait in the chamber for Black Rod to arrive from the Lords. When he’s in sight, one of the Serjeant-at-Arms staff alerts the Serjeant-at-Arms (sitting in her place in the chamber) that Black Rod’s approaching. She slams the door in his face (at which point Stephen Pound shouted out: ‘We’re not in to canvassers!’), and Black Rod batters lumps out of the door until she relents and lets him in, then he summons us to go with him to the Lords. So we all troop along, through Central Lobby, into the Lords where a very odd ceremony involving much hat-doffing and Norman French takes place. Lots of ‘heretofores’ and ‘Lords temporal and spiritual’ and that sort of thing.

Then the Lords make it clear we’ve outstayed our welcome and we troop back to the Commons to listen to the Speaker read out more or less the same speech we just heard in the Lords. And then, at the end, we all file past Mr Speaker, who shakes our hands before we head home.

Now, I know that there are a lot of people who think this is all a load of nonsense and who think we should (shudder) modernise, and get rid of all the pomp and circumstance. You will be unsurprised to know that I am not among their number. I love all this stuff. And yes, of course it’s nonsense, and of course it doesn’t seem particularly relevant to a twenty-first century democracy. But what would abolishing it all achieve? Nothing whatsoever. And in the meantime it serves as a useful reminder to MPs (and Lords) that we’ve inherited a remarkable history and are incredibly privileged to be our democracy’s current stewards.

So, now that my own little spurt of pomposity is out of the way, I’m going to concentrate on how to kill time between now and the departure of the sleeper to Glasgow.

Evenin’ all.

Doorshtepped

Published: December 8, 2008

I’ve just come from the chamber where Lindsay Roy, the new MP for Glenrothes, was making his maiden speech. And a fine one it was, too.

His best line came when he was describing one of his recent canvassing experiences. The door was opened by a lady who was clearly the worse for drink. Having embarked on a conversation with her, Lindsay ventured: ‘How many drinks have you had?’

She replied: ‘Son, I’m an alcoholic, not an accountant.’

In defence of the Lords

Published: January 25, 2009

I have so far deliberately avoided saying anything about the allegations that members of the House of Lords accepted money in return for changes to legislation. This is partly because I don’t want to follow the instinctive gut reaction of the rest of the blogosphere by shouting ‘corruption!’ before there’s been an investigation.

And also because I’m friendly with at least two of the peers named.

Even if the story turns out not to be true, this is a disaster for the reputation of Parliament. Alternatively, as Guido [Fawkes] has suggested, this simply confirms what most people already think of politics in Britain – an even more damning conclusion.

But it won’t be long before someone (probably a Lib Dem) calls for ‘reform’ of the Lords, by which, of course, they mean a directly elected second chamber using a system of proportional representation.

Dearie me.

Yes, members of the House have to be held accountable in some way; at the moment the only way of removing those unfit for office is to wait for them to die. There must be a proper system of disciplining errant Lords, up to and including removing their title.

But as I’ve said before, if you want a House of Lords that stands up to the executive, that forces the Commons to think twice – or even more often than that – on controversial legislation, if you want a second chamber whose members aren’t beholden to the party whips for their future tenure, if you want a Lords that is more representative (in terms of sex, race and disability) of the nation than is the Commons, and if you want members of the Lords to have some considerable experience in the most senior levels of business, the military and law, then be careful about radical reform to a chamber that already serves its purpose.

Nothing whatever to do with All-Bran

Published: February 12, 2009

I tabled an Early Day Motion (EDM) the day before yesterday, the first time I’ve done so for a long time.

They’re interesting things, EDMs. Most, if not all, MPs receive countless requests from constituents every week requesting that they sign this or that EDM. Only backbench MPs can sign. This is more than a convention; if you’re a whip or a minister you’re actually prevented from having your name against a motion. When I was appointed as a minister in September 2006, I received a letter from the Table Office in the House of Commons informing me that my name had consequently been removed from every EDM I had previously been supporting.

Many backbenchers, however, refuse to sign EDMs at all. Depending on your perspective, this allows them to have an ‘equal opportunities’ policy towards all their constituents; alternatively it could be seen as a policy that disappoints every constituent who wants to see his or her MP support a particular cause. Parliamentary Private Secretaries (PPSs), although technically (unpaid) members of the government, sometimes sign EDMs, though can’t sign those that criticise the government or that call for a change in policy.

But what do they actually achieve? Very little, if you want to take the cynical approach. They’re almost never debated (not while I’ve been an MP, anyway). However, they can serve as a useful temperature gauge of MPs’ views in certain policy areas; ministers sit up and take note when any motion starts to gain the support of more than 100 or so MPs.

And they’re one of the few mechanisms that the public have for having a say, albeit indirectly. There are certainly more than a few EDMs which I probably wouldn’t have signed had constituents not drawn them to my attention.

But their importance shouldn’t be overstated, and constituents shouldn’t be too disappointed if their MP informs them he or she can’t support a particular EDM.

In the run-up to war in Iraq, the comedian Mark Steel tried to suggest that Tony Blair had, in the 1980s, ignored the plight of the Iraqi Kurds who were massacred by Saddam using chemical weapons. He drew this conclusion because Tony had not signed a particular EDM on the subject at the time. A ludicrous conclusion, which could only have been reached if one assumes that every MP sits down every day and goes meticulously through the published list of EDMs and signs every single one with which they agree.

Perhaps there are some MPs who do this, but very few. Most of us will sign EDMs where we’ve been asked to by constituents (provided we actually agree with them) and those motions in which we have a particular interest. But it would be nonsense to claim that the absence of a member’s signature from an EDM will, on every occasion, suggest opposition.

The government: my part in its downfall

Published: February 24, 2009

The government lost a vote in the Commons today and I think it might have been my fault.

Let me explain…

I received a text message from the whips saying there was a vote expected. So I trooped into the chamber to see that the Lib Dem MP Susan Kramer was using the device of a ten-minute rule bill to push a silly idea about having Parliament approve every planning application by major airports. Bonkers, of course, but … well, she’s a Lib Dem, what more can I say?

She was followed by David Wilshire, the Tory MP for Spelthorne and, on this subject at least, a good egg. He spoke for a few minutes on the general dottiness of Susan’s proposal before sitting down.

Now, this is how ten-minute rule bills work: the member promoting it speaks for ten minutes and then, usually without a vote, it’s agreed by the House, a date is set for Second Reading and it’s never heard of again. However, this time, there was opposition. From me. Because when the Deputy Speaker asked those who opposed it to say ‘No’, I did. And when it looked as if she was unconvinced by the sincerity and volume of our protests and was going to give the day to Susan and her followers, I thought: ‘No chance, let’s have a vote – that’ll show them!’

So I shouted louder, joined by a paltry few from our side and, of course, David Wilshire. Hearing the full strength of opposition to the measure, the Deputy Speaker had no choice. ‘Division!’ she announced, and I sped off to the ‘No’ lobby.

And then we lost. By more than thirty votes, I think. A couple of wags on the Lib Dem benches shouted ‘Resign!’ at me, before realising I was in no position to do so. I can’t remember the government ever losing a vote on a ten-minute rule bill before. And now, following the vote, Susan’s bill will … never be heard of again.

Would there have been a vote anyway, even if I hadn’t shouted? Perhaps, but perhaps not. I fear I may be the guilty man, without whose intervention my government may well have avoided humiliation.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. There’s a phrase that will be etched on my gravestone…

No blogging today

Published: February 25, 2009

Carolyn and I were genuinely saddened to hear the news that David and Samantha Cameron’s son, Ivan, had died after a lifelong illness. I posted the following piece, and a number of readers left some very moving comments. I printed it out and sent it, comments included, to David, along with a brief note from me and Carolyn.

A small PS: Until this point, I had been running a fake Twitter account in David Cameron’s name; it was supposed to be funny, with stuff like ‘Took the children out to play in the snow and we all pelted the footman with snow until he bled. What larks!’ But when Ivan died,I received a number of sympathetic tweets from people who thought it was a genuine feed, so I deleted the account.

Having heard the terrible news about David Cameron’s son, I don’t think it would be appropriate to blog anything today.

It’s at times like this that I realise how unimportant party politics can seem in comparison with life’s important issues. I simply cannot imagine how David and Sam are feeling today and I know all our thoughts and prayers are with them.

But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? Oh, as you were – it’s only Philip Davies

Published: February 27, 2009

Many a cup of Darjeeling would have been spat across the breakfast table at the homes of ‘Outraged of Tunbridge Wells’ this morning when news of the performance of Romeo and Julian was reported in (where else?) The Telegraph.

Philip Davies, a Conservative MP (who else?) raised the issue at Business Questions and was reportedly indignant at the prospect of these limp-wristed blighters seeking to convert innocent children to their perverted way of life, etc., etc….

‘Romeo and Julian’ is a new version of the Shakespeare play, which is being performed in a handful of schools as part of Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender Awareness Week. Inevitably, Philip Davies described this as ‘political correctness’, thereby damning it in the eyes of many.

Now, as you will know, I’m no fan of political correctness when it’s taken to its silly extremes. But this is hardly an example of that. There’s no doubt a lot of homophobic bullying goes on in schools and elsewhere and it’s only right that children are made aware of why it happens and how to stop it. If Othello were re-written explicitly as an anti-racist tract, would Mr Davies also describe it as ‘politically correct’?

I’ve no doubt that large numbers of people will respond to Davies’s dog whistle as he intended. But to many others – particularly those who have gay or lesbian children – this initiative will be welcomed.

The Tories must accept the decision of the House

Published: June 16, 2009

I ended up voting for Parmjit Dhanda in the first ballot and Sir George Young in the subsequent ones.

Having used my podcast to declare publicly my support for John Bercow as the next Speaker, I’m delighted that, for the first time, some non-sectarian sense seems to have descended on at least one corner of the Tory blogosphere. Jonathan Isaby, an all-round good chap (for a Tory) has written a piece for ConservativeHome in support of Bercow’s candidacy. This is in stark contrast to the party line taken so far by most online Tories.

Contrast Jonathan’s thoughtful and sensible words with utter nonsense, also from ConservativeHome, where brave unnamed Tory MPs actually threaten to remove Bercow at the start of the next parliament if he’s elected next week. This speaks volumes about David Cameron’s Conservatives, but three things spring to mind:

1. After years of whining about Michael Martin’s alleged sympathy towards his former party, it seems their main grievance was that they didn’t have a Speaker biased towards them;

2. So much for the ‘new politics’ of the Cameron era within the Conservative Party – they’re as cynical and partisan as they ever were; and

3. Today’s Conservative Party believes the government party should decide who becomes Speaker.

There’s been a lot of utter nonsense spoken and written about how Bercow’s popularity among Labour MPs is all to do with a government whipping operation aimed at saddling a future Tory government with a Speaker they don’t want. ‘He’ll be the third Labour Speaker in a row’, according to one of the Great Anonymous Spineless, says ConservativeHome. I genuinely don’t know of a single Labour MP worth his or her salt who would pay the slightest attention to the views of a government whip on this matter. I decided at the outset that I would support a Conservative MP. I then decided, independently, that if Bercow stood, I would support him. This is nothing to do with his level of support or popularity on his own benches. Choose to disbelieve me if you wish, but that will nevertheless remain a fact. Votes for the Speaker will be anonymous, so never again will a Speaker be able to be undermined in the way Michael Martin was, by grumbling and complaining that he was elected by the votes of the Labour Party. Bercow may indeed win thanks to Labour support, but we will never know for certain.

I offer two challenges to Bercow’s detractors: if you believe there’s a strong case for removing him for party political reasons after the next general election, then publicly explain what that case is without hiding behind anonymous briefings.

Secondly, whoever is elected Speaker will have my support, whether or not I voted for him or her. That’s how democracy works; you express your view and then accept the result, even if you disagree with it. Will every Tory MP say likewise? Or will these spineless men of little principle continue to hide behind their anonymous briefings and plot to politicise the Speaker’s office, thereby undermining the institution of the Commons itself?

Peeing with the enemy

Published: June 22, 2009

The Labour colleague in this next post was David Cairns. I can’t remember now why he wanted to remain anonymous at the time. Shortly after this was published (and had been repeated by a number of the print media), David Cameron stopped me in the chamber during a vote and told me that conversations in Commons urinals should be considered unattributable and off the record. True, I replied. On the other hand, I hadn’t been privy to the conversation – it had been reported by a third party. And anyway, the post had done Cameron no harm among his own colleagues.

Siobhan McDonagh later quoted the story during her eulogy for David Cairns at his memorial service in May 2011, in the presence of Mr Speaker himself.

A Labour colleague was in the toilet next to the chamber just before the first ballot, when he was joined by David Cameron in the adjacent urinal.

‘David, I’m about to vote Tory for the very first time in my life,’ said my friend jovially.

‘John Bercow doesn’t count!’ replied Cameron.

Closer my God to thee

Published: July 7, 2009

I overheard a rather unkind reference to the denizens of the Upper House this evening:

Labour Lord:‘We’re voting on assisted dying tonight – putting old people out of their misery.’

Labour MP:‘Turkeys voting for Christmas, then?’

In the end they didn’t. Vote for Christmas, I mean.

New boy: Part 1

Published: July 19, 2009

As a general election approaches, my thoughts turn increasingly to the earlier, less complicated days of my political ‘career’. A commenter in a previous thread suggested some readers may have some interest in my reminiscences of when I was first elected to the House. Don’t know if that’s true, but it’s fun for me, if nobody else, to reflect.

I had never stood for any elected office before the 2001 general election. I had tried – and failed – to be selected as a Labour candidate in the 1990 regional council elections (and lessons learned at the time helped me win ten years later), so 2001 was the first time I had had to appoint an agent, attend the count as a candidate, stand on the platform, make an acceptance speech… The whole nine yards, as it were.

Before leaving home for the count, Carolyn and I ordered Chinese food for a number of key activists with whom we watched the early results and projections on TV before heading into the Scottish Exhibition and Conference Centre (SECC), where the Glasgow votes are counted. There had never been any real doubt that Labour would hang on for a second term or that our majority would be in three figures. Given an expected 160-seat margin between Labour and all the opposition parties combined, I didn’t expect that we would lose Cathcart, and of course we didn’t. But some of the more experienced activists had estimated my majority would fall to below 8,000 on a low turnout. In the end it was 10,816, or 39.5 per cent of the total vote, slightly up on the percentage majority I inherited from my predecessor, John Maxton.

Much to my surprise, my mum and dad insisted on attending the count and, since they were both in their sixties, I was concerned that they were unprepared for how long the night would last. But it meant a lot to me when my mum told me how proud she was when I made my acceptance speech as Cathcart’s new MP. I didn’t know at the time that she wouldn’t live to see another general election.

Glasgow Cathcart was the last of the city’s nine seats to be announced, so it was well after three by the time we were able to leave the SECC. Some hardier souls went on to other venues for more alcohol and more analysis, but Carolyn and I had had enough. We headed home. I woke up the next morning to various congratulatory telephone calls, including one from my (then) only son, who had enjoyed the excitement of the local campaign and had proudly worn a red rosette on which my name had been covered by a sticker saying simply: ‘Vote Dad.’

Then there was a news conference and photo opportunity for all Scottish Labour’s victorious candidates at our Scottish HQ in West Regent Street. After that, more R and R before heading to Castlemilk Labour Club that evening for an obligatory and traditional appearance as the new MP.

But after that, what? When should I head down to London? No one had been in touch to explain where and when to go, and in my exhaustion I hadn’t actually asked any of my new colleagues when I met them at HQ on the Friday. I knew from media reports that the new parliament wouldn’t meet until Wednesday 13 June. Is that when I should turn up? Or earlier?

Carolyn and I had decided that Tuesday would be a suitable date to head to London. Then Monday morning’s mail arrived and it included a large, white, official-looking envelope with the legend ‘From the Government Chief Whip’ printed in the corner. Exciting stuff. It contained a lot of information giving answers to some of the questions I had. Importantly, it mentioned that advice surgeries for new Members were being held in the Commons from Monday onwards. Carolyn could see I was anxious to get down as early as possible. ‘Just go today,’ she told me. I was showered and heading for the airport within the hour.

Although Cathcart was a nominally ‘safe’ seat, I refused to book a hotel room in London until after I was elected, lest I tempt fate. Consequently, the only hotel I could get at short notice was a bit of a hovel in Belgrave Road, whose only advantage was that it was within walking distance of the House. Eagerly, I dumped my suitcase and began the walk up Millbank towards Westminster.

I was familiar with the House as a frequent visitor in my previous job, so I knew my best bet was to go to the St Stephen’s entrance, where the public queue for access. I had been advised by John Maxton to bring with me some election leaflets with my face on it to distribute to the police officers and Serjeant-at-Arms staff to help them recognise me. This seemed sensible, but apart from the leaflets, how else could I prove who I was? Ever the pessimist, I envisaged a long, arduous conversation with the security guards, ending in my being refused entry pending my obtaining some form of official ID through a convoluted and circuitous route.

Hardly. I walked up to the first police officer I met and said: ‘Excuse me, but I’ve just been elected and I—’

‘Right this way, sir,’ he replied before I’d even finished. He led me straight past the security barriers, past the metal detectors and up to Central Lobby where he handed me over to a member of the Serjeant-at-Arms staff who introduced himself as Michael and suggested the first thing I do was get my member’s security pass. As he accompanied me through the rabbit warren of the palace to the desk where I would be photographed and issued with my pass, I asked him: ‘Don’t you need to check who I am?’

‘No need for that, sir,’ replied Michael.

‘So, how do you know I really am an MP?’

After a slight pause, Michael opened a door and announced, ‘Here we are, sir. Just take a seat.’

Five minutes later, I had my pass, and felt slightly less of an intruder. But only slightly, and the fact is, that feeling has never entirely dissipated in the last eight years.

New boy: Part 2

Published: July 26, 2009

New MPs don’t get an office right away. Time was when they could spend a whole parliament or more without getting a space to themselves. But that was before Portcullis House was built. Unfortunately, newer members don’t get anywhere near those plush, sunlit, state-of-the-art offices less than a minute’s walk from the chamber. Nevertheless, the opening of Portcullis House did mean a lot of other offices were made available to the rest of us.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. When I was first elected, for those first, frantic few weeks between polling day and the start of the long summer recess, I had to share a large room with at least half a dozen other new MPs. And it wasn’t even a permanent arrangement, more of a hot-desk kind of thing. You would go to the members’ Post Office in the morning to pick up your mail, which was handed over in either one or two green canvas holdalls. Then you would make your way up to the room in the hope of securing a free desk and a telephone line, then sift through the mountains of mail.

Oh, how we laughed when, about a week in, we heard tell of a colleague, another new MP, who didn’t realise he was supposed to collect his mail each day and who, after being told of the arrangement, had to recruit help in order to carry the ten green canvas bags full of mail up to the communal office, where he spent just about every waking hour for the next three days trying to wade through it.

As a new MP you inspect each item of correspondence closely. You also tend to accept as many invitations as possible. But you quickly learn to recognise those letters and invitations which aren’t all that relevant and which should be consigned straight to the bin.

On the Wednesday after the election, the day the new House of Commons was to meet for the first time, I was going through my mail and looking for something specific. I had left home in such haste that I had neglected to take with me both my credit card and my cheque book, both of which I now needed. So I had asked Carolyn to post them, which she did, separately, for security reasons. When I found the empty, open envelopes I knew I was in trouble.

Both the card and the cheque book had been posted from St Vincent Street Post Office in Glasgow. And somewhere between there and the Commons, they had been nicked. Mobile phones costing hundreds of pounds had been charged to my card and my chequebook had been used to set up a standing order for a mobile phone contract. I discovered the theft barely minutes before the bell went for prayers, and rushed down to the chamber completely flustered and depressed. Not the best way to experience a packed chamber for the first time.

Then there was the Queen’s Speech and the official opening of Parliament. And that means no votes. But that didn’t mean that I and other new colleagues didn’t want to be around the place and to make the most of our new work environment.

With a very few exceptions, the friends I made among the 2001 intake are friends I have stayed close to in the intervening years. Most MPs tend to bond more easily with colleagues of the same intake. Carolyn joined me in London for part of the rest of what was left of the summer term before recess, and my memories of that time are unfailingly happy: the weather was almost unbearably hot, there was an air of excitement (at least on the Labour benches), the Tories looked like they were about to refuse to elect Ken Clarke as leader, again. In other words, all was right with the world.

Recess was spent trying to get my constituency arrangements in place (this actually took much longer than I had anticipated and I was without a constituency office until the following March), trying to keep up with constituency cases, sorting out a schedule of surgeries and associated publicity material.

And then, on September 11, everything changed.

In the space of just a few hours, as I watched those awful scenes unfold on TV, my optimism turned to pessimism, international and domestic priorities were instantly transformed as our own understanding and assumptions about our world were challenged, shattered and reshaped.

My honeymoon as a new MP, like so many other things that day, had ended.

New boy: taking the oath

Published: October 5, 2009

Okay, so you’ve been selected as a candidate in a seat your party can reasonably expect to win at the election, you’ve been duly elected to serve your constituents and you’ve been given your security pass by the helpful staff at the House of Commons.

What next? The oath, of course.

In our last episode of this series, I recounted how I had only just discovered my credit card and cheque book had been nicked in the post, mere minutes before I was due to take my seat in the Commons for the very first time. Well, I managed to quell my feelings of anger and indignation towards the unidentified thief long enough to enjoy the business before the House that Wednesday afternoon. The first, and most important, item was the election of a Speaker. To preside over this, the Father of the House, Tam Dalyell, took a seat next to the clerks in front of the empty Speaker’s chair and called for nominations. I can’t now recall who proposed the Rt Hon. member for Glasgow Springburn, but I remember one was a Tory and the other Labour. No other nominations were forthcoming, and so, after a brief speech from Michael, he was duly ‘dragged’ to the chair.

He then announced that members wishing to take the oath should approach the chair. This is when, as a new member, you get an idea of your place in life. Privy councillors, cabinet members, shadow cabinet members and other ministers and frontbench spokespersons take priority. I was advised not to bother waiting, since there were approximately 600 people ahead of me in the queue. So I decided to wait until the following day.

The problem the next day was that I wanted to be back in my constituency for the first general committee of my local party since the election. To make it on time I would have to catch the 5.40pm flight from Heathrow and, after building in check-in, security and time to travel to the airport itself, I realised I would have to leave by about three at the latest. After waiting in line for a while, I realised I couldn’t swear the oath and make it back to Glasgow on time. So I decided the oath could wait until the following week.

My biggest mistake was not postponing the oath-taking. No, no… My biggest mistake was buying new shoes.

Like most shoes I buy, they were slightly uncomfortable at first, but I knew all I had to do was wear them in. I might as well have taken a knife to my feet. I was in such pain after wearing them for the whole of Monday morning that I had to visit the nurse in the small room just off Lower Waiting, next to Central Lobby, to ask for help. One foot was in such a mess that she had to use a heavy duty bandage on it just to make it possible for me to walk. And not only did I have to walk that day – I had to stand in the queue of other members waiting to take the oath. For a very, very long time…

Slowly, I approached the clerk’s table and the Speaker’s chair. I had thought long and hard about whether I should take the religious oath or whether I should instead use the non-religious text to ‘affirm’ my loyalty to Queen Elizabeth and her heirs. At that time I hadn’t been near a church for years and was still trying to work out where I was in relation to God and the church, so not wishing to appear a hypocrite, I chose to affirm. I held up my right hand, as instructed by the clerk, and, taking the card proffered by a man in a wig in my left hand, read out the words on the card.

Then, as I passed by the Speaker’s chair, I was announced as the member for Glasgow Cathcart by another official, and Mr Speaker shook my hand and officially welcomed me to the Commons. There was no time for anything other than a cursory ‘Thank you, Mr Speaker’, since there was still a substantial queue behind me. I moved forward to the area behind the Speaker’s chair and here I was invited by yet another official to express a preference as to how my name should appear in Hansard, Parliament’s official record, and on the ‘annunciator’ – the TV screens located throughout the palace which constantly announce the names of whichever speakers are currently addressing the Commons and the Lords. I chose ‘Mr Harris’ over ‘Tom Harris’. Don’t know why. I guess I was in a formal sort of mood at the time.

Then I signed my name and, at last, I was a Member of Parliament. Officially. Oh, and I would get paid now, which you can’t until you’ve taken the oath.

It doesn’t really matter that much when you take your first oath, unless you intend, one day, to become either Mother or Father of the House. And to do that you have to be elected very young and/or serve for a ridiculously long period of time. For example, by the time Tam Dalyell became Father of the House, he had been an MP continuously for thirty-eight years. If you swore the oath on the same day as someone else elected for the first time on the same day as you, then in forty years’ time, when you and he are vying for the honour of becoming Father of the House, whoever got sworn in first will win out.