THE ELECTION
QUAINT, BOSSY OR EDGY
The press: Paul Johnson
finds party clues in the campaign news conferences
THE morning press conferences give one the best glimpse into the varying styles of the campaign. At 8.30 we have the Alliance in Waterhouse's superb National Liberal Club (1885), cluttered with faience and dusty busts of Gladstone, dark, dingy, decaying. I make for the one vacant seat, then notice it is covered by a damp towel; from the eleborate painted ceiling above comes a steady drip, drip of water; a leaking source, perhaps (it is blazing sun- shine outside). Lady Seear, a pre-war figure with white cropped hair, gives us the line on Kinnock: 'He may be a nice man, but for a Prime Minister it's not enough to be nice. It's not enough even for a cook!' This gets a nervous titter; some present think she says 'crook': others, 'cock'.
Alliance visual aids are ingenious but do not always produce the effect intended. Simon Hughes, on the NHS, stands by a double, four-foot-high pile of folded print- outs, which he says are the names of people on the hospital waiting list, 750,000 of them. He shows us some. It is impress- ive. Then, under fierce questioning from Robert Carvel of the Standard, it slowly emerges that the exhibit is not an NHS list at all, but a stage-prop. There are some names, but they are from the Alliance's own computer list of supporters; the rest is blank paper. Afterwards, I discover that Hughes was supposed to say this at the beginning, but forgot. The elaborate gim- mick collapses in journalistic derision and red faces on the platform.
David Owen is the odd man out, the one real pro in the Alliance's amateurish show. Almost instinctively I always direct my questions to him. He looks exactly right: around six foot, an erect, almost military figure, no surplus flesh, bronzed; a strong, confident voice, answers that go right to the point, no waffle. I could see him faring well in a presidential election, and it is devastating to think what he might have done as leader of the Labour Party. As it Is, his stature rises as the Alliance hopes fade, and his slightly cynical presence amid the gloom points to the Alliance's central, Irremediable error: the failure to form a united party under his leadership. At Central Office at 9.30, Margaret Thatcher is the experienced head girl, running Big School with a firm, friendly hand. In 1983 there was still some pretence that the Chairman was chairing these sessions. Now all that is abandoned as she bosses us about. She knows most of us. She even has her own court jester or class buffoon, in the shape of an egregiously talkative Central European, who responds with fatuous delight to the role she allots him, ('Now, Prime Minister, I have a question you will be liking very much'). The Tories have more elaborate visual aids, Norman Fowler even producing a giant illuminated map of Britain's NHS hospitals, with winking coloured lights Which come on to match passages in his text. She loves thig. 'Norman, I think we'll have your map again. Some of the late arrivals have not seen it.' It's tempting Providence, Prime Minister, it may not quite work the second time."Neverthe- less, Norman, we will have the map again.' Very good, Prime Minister.' It does work; we are relieved, for Norman's sake. Mrs Thatcher has lots of her ministers around, senior and junior, but tends to steal their lines. Thus, she gives a succinct explana- tion of why National Insurance is not a tax but a premium, then turns to her pensions Man: 'Nick, I'm sure you could do this better, would you like to have a go?' Oh no, Prime Minister,' says Nick hastily, 'you have done it more than adequately.' This gets a laugh. Indeed, to the surprise of some, there are a lot of laughs at Mrs Thatcher's conferences.
She relishes questions, hostile or other- wise, on any topic. There are no Belgrano Bores this time and, oddly enough, I miss them. But a 'gay' questioner gets short shrift; must draw the line somewhere. She is anxious to be fair, and the head-girl marshalling is continuous: 'Please wait for the microphone to reach you before you put your question so we can all hear it. Now we'll have two more questions on health and then we'll go general. I'll take Mr Cole first, then the tall gentleman standing right at the back, then you, Robin, because you've been very patient with your arm up, then we'll have one from the overflow . . . Wait for the micro- phone, please.' From the row in front of me, Germaine Greer, who is writing a paperback on the campaign, watches the Thatcher performance with a mixture of loathing, admiration and envy.
Labour's conferences, across the square at Transport House, are a hit of a movable feast, since Labour hates the press and thinks it gets a better deal from television, especially in the provinces. Besides, Neil Kinnock has a short temper, especially with reporters, which his people are an- xious to keep under control. So his rare appearances have a scarcity value. He was there last Thursday and, somewhat surpri- singly, spent 20 minutes on defence, though he didn't exactly answer questions. What he does, especially on this subject, is to turn on a verbal tap, and the noise that emerges is extraordinarily difficult to com- prehend, even with severe mental effort. I have never before come across such natu- ral, instinctive prolixity in a politician of his seniority. 1 believe the word for his condi- tion is logorrhoea. With him, you have to study the transcript before you know what he has said. Besides, like most people on the Left, Kinnock sees journalists as mindless, obse- quious employees of millionaire prop- rietors, part of the capitalist servant-class, to be addressed accordingly. It is not exactly 'my man', but 'boy', 'lad', 'laddie'. It adds to the slight air of menace which always marks Labour press conferences, a feeling conveyed that the party would like to substitute for a 'free' press (they always use the word in italics) what they would doubtless call a 'responsible' one. Kinnock gives us a little edgy homily: Labour, he says, is willing to help the press, so long as its interests coincide with the people's. But if the interests of the people conflict with the press, then of course the people must come first. This gets a round of applause from the party workers sitting at the back. By whom are 'the interests of the people' to be defined? That's a silly question, laddie.
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