Glebelands, everyone parked in front of the Kramer residence, which stood in a wide, tree-lined street completely devoid of people. The Battle Banger hovered for a while, with Pam on the loudspeaker, chanting with added gusto, ‘FER KLINNER HAIR-SPIT-YULES! MHER PLISS ONDER STRIT! VERT KIN-SEVE-VEET-TEETH’ over and over again.
As Pam’s racket continued, we hung about on the pavement. Ostensibly – with sheaves of leaflets at hand – we were just hoping to talk passers-by into voting Conservative. But as there were no passers-by, it was pretty clear the Richmond Conservatives were simply having fun by trying to annoy Susan Kramer.
After a few minutes, to our complete amazement Kramer’s husband actually arrived on the scene and began talking to the Tories. Instead of starting a slanging match, however, he exuded goodwill and bonhomie. It was a master class in the art of passive aggression. ‘Good morning,’ said Mr Kramer, ‘how is it all going … it’s great to see you all here. This is really fantastic for democracy. Well done, well done.’
This genteel stand-off concluded after a few minutes, following which the driver of the Battle Banger revved up and zoomed into the distance. Fun over, the Tory mob then began to disperse, pounding the surrounding streets and pushing their leaflets – the implied message of which was ‘Vote Liberal and get a gypsy encampment at the bottom of your garden’ – through as many letter boxes as possible on Kramer’s patch.
As we were bumbling around near Kramer’s house a TV crew – meaning one microphone-wielding reporter and one cameraman – turned up. They were from a Dutch news channel and were profiling Richmond as one of the key seats in election 2005. From the standpoint of a Dutch television reporter Richmond, I learned, is an interesting place, as there are lots of opportunities for references to cricket on the green, tea shops, boating on the Thames and so on.
The reporter then asked me off camera why I thought such a prosperous place was held by the Liberals and not by ‘your party, the Conservatives’. I told them the truth as I understood it – Barnes was a fairly trendy area. Lots of rich folk working in television lived there and they tended to be opposed to the Conservatives on moral and philosophical grounds. The Dutch reporter was starting to look bored so in a moment of inspiration I added: ‘Also – gay people.
‘There’s loads and loads and loads of gay people here in Barnes, just like in Amsterdam,’ I added. ‘They’re stinking rich, but they don’t vote Conservative because they’re gay, and I for one very much welcome that.’ The Dutch reporter was momentarily thrown, so, in character, I stumbled and corrected myself: ‘Sorry – I don’t mean that I welcome the fact that gay people don’t vote for us – that is something I regret. What I welcome is that there are such a lot of gay people around here and in the world generally.’
The Dutch reporter was now completely thrown. ‘You do not seem to me to be very much like a Tory Man,’ he said, evidently wondering what to make of all this gibberish about gay people.
‘That’s right,’ I said, brightly. ‘I am normally a very strong Labour supporter, but I don’t like some of the things Tony Blair has been doing, like the war in Iraq. Same as you in Holland. So I have decided to give out some leaflets for the Conservatives to see what will happen. And also I am partly doing this as an experiment. To see how they will react to me.’
The Dutch reporter was, again, lost for a moment. Finally he said: ‘Noooohhh – I’m not believing this, that a left-wing man can be voting for such a very right-wing organization as the Conservatives Party, I have never heard of this. This is not possible.’ But then a light bulb seemed to go on above the reporter’s head, and he added with some incredulity: ‘Can I film you saying all of these things? About you being a Labour man who does not like Mr Blair any more?’
‘Sure,’ I said. I delivered the lines to camera, while wearing my blue rosette. I added the news that Greg Dyke, the socialist former Director General of the BBC, had earlier that day told Old Labour people such as himself to vote Lib Dem in order to give Tony Blair a good kicking. I went on to explain, for the benefit of Dutch television viewers, that Dyke’s advice was a waste of time because, without a proper proportional representation system, the election was a two-horse race.
‘In this election when the votes are counted it either means Tony Blair is going to be Prime Minister or Michael Howard is gonna be Prime Minister,’ I summed up. ‘So if you don’t want Howard you are stuck with Blair. And vice versa. And that’s the fact of it and all the rest is just hot air.’
The reporter didn’t seem entirely convinced that this could motivate my apparent overnight journey from left-winger to right-winger, but he had a new angle on the election and was grinning from ear to ear. He gave a thoughtful and appreciative ‘Hmmmmmm’ which seemed to say, ‘I know you are up to something, but I am not quite sure what it is.’
Michael Howard didn’t seem to be a particularly popular character with the local Richmond Tories, and the name of the then Tory leader was hardly mentioned during the campaign in Richmond. For a party which often created a cult of personality around its leaders – from Churchill to Thatcher – this was odd. Howard was, however, due to arrive in Richmond to give a boost to local campaigners, and that gave me and David the chance to see at close quarters how the Tory leader’s spin machine operated. The morning rendezvous point was Richmond Green, an open space in the middle of the town. When Team Marco – including us – arrived, a flunky from Conservative Central Office confronted our group.
The flunky was much younger than anyone else among the gathering Tory campaigners – maybe twenty-five. He was unsmiling and yakked on a mobile, which he had clamped to his ear, continuously. His telephone conversations employed modern lingo and jargon, spattered with the f-word, just like a normal person of his generation.
Howard’s motorcade drew up and parked in a side street without much fuss. There were three or four vehicles led by a black shiny car containing what looked like security men and more officials from Central Office. Howard’s own car came next, unmarked but bearing the unmistakable sign of power and money – darkened glass windows. Inside was his fragrant blonde wife, Sandra, along with some more helpers. Bringing up the rear was a navy blue minibus full of the journalists and TV cameras, and behind that another unmarked car, presumably full of yet more secret police.
A whole gang of Tory heavies emerged from the cars, including a squad of pushy media minders from Central Office. Like the flunky we had seen earlier, these apparatchiks were much, much younger and more dynamic than the Dad’s Army of local Tories we’d so far been involved with. They had about them the look, manners and vocabulary of tabloid journalists – as though they had been seconded from the Sun for the duration.
Two or three bored-looking camera crews emerged from the minibus. The BBC’s man, the vulpine James Landale, strode about looking imperious and tremendously unimpressed with everything. But the star – far more luminous than Michael Howard – was Trevor McDonald, who, as well as being a top newsreader, was also a resident of the East Sheen ward. Trevor began walking about in stately fashion, waving regally to those passers-by who recognized him. Last out of the minibus were the lower-status non-TV hacks, including a young male newspaper reporter with a punk hairdo from the Press Association, and a plump and jolly female reporter for a local radio station.
Howard emerged from his car wearing a mirthless smile and shook Marco’s hand. There was no small talk – no ‘How’s it all going, Marco?’ – just straight on to ‘Right! Where am I supposed to be walking? Let’s get started!’ The walkabout kicked off, with Howard first pressing the flesh with the local Tories, shaking hands and pepping them up. ‘Thank you verrr much for coming here today,’ he said in his curious sing-song voice.
The Tory leader looked frightful – caked in so much make-up to the point of appearing like a waxwork
