DIARY
JOHN MAJOR CBournemouth onferences are fought on the beaches of the English seaside. I was about 16 when I attended one for the first time. I can't remember much about it, except that I couldn't really afford to go. But I did, and I became even more hooked on politics. In those days the great orators were Min Macleod, Quintin Hogg (Lord Hailsham) and Enoch Powell. Macleod had a fascina- tion to the young, with his great bell-like tones that filled the auditorium. His con- tempt for socialism was vivid, but it was the parts of his speeches that captured the nicer side of human nature that live longest in the memory. There are two sorts of rep- resentatives at the conference: those who have no wish or need to make speeches they enjoy themselves all week — and those who have to (or hope to) make speeches, who enjoy themselves after their speech. As my speech is invariably on the last day, my only freedom is to enjoy every- one else's speeches. The modem technolo- gy of speech-making is so artificial. The microphones, the lapel mikes, the camera angles . . . and the awful, cheating, glass autocue patented by Ronnie Reagan and used successfully by very few. It's hard to imagine Gladstone reading his speech from an autocue. But Gladstone was lucky: he didn't have to speak to his electorate through the fish-eye of the television lens. He did it the best way — eyeball to eyeball — 5,000 at a time in the open air. The Mid- lothian campaign must have been fun.
The conference always comes at the end of a busy month. I spent most of September on tour around the country, where I learned how different public opin- ion is from editorial opinion. Norma came with me as she usually does, although this year the tour had quite a different air. This year the press has invented, `Stormin' Norma, the Secret Weapon!' (No inven- tion, this. It has been true for years). And so Norma attracted more cameras than I did. This is the first time for years the media has got its visual priorities right.
The European Union had a summit in Dublin — just to make the run-up to the conference as easy as possible. But it had its moments. Mr Prodi, the Italian Prime Minister, had flown into Dublin in a very large plane. I suggested that he had brought the deficit with him and he amiably agreed that he had. He had high hopes, he said, of leaving it behind when he returned to Italy. Chancellor Kohl was robust about the Commission, in terms Bill Cash would have cheered. During a dull moment, Mal- colm Rifkind reminded me that the Labour spokeswoman, Janet Anderson, had promised more promiscuity under a Labour government. In my day, said Mal- colm, reds were under the bed. He's getting old, I think. Good conference joke, though. I left the Council after the meeting, but before dinner. This caused some excite- ment among more idle folk who didn't bother to find out when I had told the Irish I was leaving early, or why. So the Sunday press proclaimed it a snub! In fact, it was no such thing. I had told the Irish when the date was discussed that 5 October was an inconvenient day (as it was for others) and that I would not be able to remain for the evening. They were quite relaxed about it and the Irish newspapers had reported the matter in low-key terms, without any fuss, before the conference began. I didn't tell the Taoiseach why I left early, but I can now exclusively reveal that it was the week- end of our 26th wedding anniversary and given a choice between dinner with Norma or 15 men, Norma won hands down.
European summits have their own ritu- al. We begin with what is known as a 'fami- ly photograph' in which the heads of gov- ernments line up like a football team and the world's press take photographs of 15 or so middle-aged men — and their picture editors subsequently, wisely, decide not to print them. Later, we move to lunch, which is a very important (working) part of these occasions. British prime ministers are well advised to eat little and concentrate hard to prevent a new policy emerging by consen- sus over pudding. On the sidelines of the Dublin meeting, I had discussions with the Taoiseach about Northern Ireland and, less importantly, with three Socialist prime min- `Yes, you can have a prescription for that Mrs Jones, subject to status of course.' isters about the recorded video messages they had sent to the Labour conference. One looked surprised that I mentioned this because, he said, such behaviour is routine in the Socialist International. The second looked a bit wounded and the third dis- tinctly defensive. Probably they had seen how their fraternal greetings had been used. They will learn that this present Labour Party is not very scrupulous.
One of the most enjoyable parts of being Prime Minister is holding receptions at No. 10 or Chequers. Norma and I do a lot of this for charities and other good caus- es and for people who have contributed to the British way of life. Last week I had a reception at No. 10 for sports, and particu- larly to thank the England soccer team for their performance in Euro '96. Gazza came –.- in a suit you could play draughts on style checkmate-in-one. But he had compe- tition: Frank Bruno was wearing a lumi- nous blazer that put a Caribbean sky to shame and several of the hair styles would have dazzled the dreadlocked Rudd Gullit. David Seaman spent the evening surround- ed by a changing bevvy of adoring No. 10 girls who gazed up — and up — and up. . . . One of them was heard to whisper, `He's a goalkeeper, isn't he? I know a good catch he could net'.
The diary had been cleared, so I got a good long run at the speech. After Cabinet, two colleagues told me that they had included in their speech a splendid joke that would have the Conference rocking with laughter. The problem was, it was the same joke. The colleague who was speaking on Wednesday was chortling that he would get his in before the colleague on Thursday. He chortled less when I told him the Party Chairman had the same joke for Tuesday. Off he went and I sat down and crossed out the same joke for Friday! Speech-writing is a tough business. Like most people, I like a lunch-time stroll to get away from my desk. Sadly, the days are gone when I could nip out for a quiet walk and return invigorated. These days, a 'quiet' walk is shared with the cream of the Met, and interrupted by friendly, tourists from Milwaukee and Tokyo who have invented a new language. It's most frequently used words are, Tezee- treelylr and `Jusonemorephotoplez.' There is often a price to be paid for these walks and, sure enough, as I re-entered No. 10, there was John Holmes, my Foreign Affairs Private Secretary, in his hand an ugly-look- ing file and in his eye, a wicked look. 'We have this small problem', he said. Small? Not so. Sir Humphrey would have been proud of him.
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