In the dressing room, the Prime Minister stood in front of the mirror, carefully adjusting the knot of his tie. As much as he hated appearing on television, especially in these circumstances, he knew how important appearances were, and he was damned if he was going to let his final appearance as the leader of the country be let down by anything as fixable as a Double Windsor.
A brief knock, the door swung open and a woman peered around the side. “Ten minutes Prime Minister” she said, and then closed the door again before he could even mutter a “Thank you”. Ten minutes. Ten minutes left as Prime Minister, ten minutes to reflect on how he had ended up here, the road that had brought him to the highest office, and now took him away from it.
A smile crossed his face as he thought back to his early days in Opposition, entering parliament as a fresh new face, one of the few bright spots in the defeat of ’92. Although no-one really expected it to be over 10 years before the party won an election, he was already being touted as a future leader, a future PM, even as he was giving his maiden speech. The interruption from the gallery (pointless posturing from a poll-tax protester) had given him the first opportunity to use one of the catchphrases he had become famous for, one that he had used for great effect in his rise up the ranks. It seemed rather inappropriate for today, though.
That first parliament in opposition had also cemented his alliance with the man who was going to be his successor. That famous deal, brokered in a long gone Islington eaterie, each of them believing they could harness the ambition of the other man in order to propel themselves to success. At the time, he truly believed he had the better of it, with the opportunity to be leader and his rival (friend? colleague?) consigned to Chancellor, should they get that far. Both of them agreed the party needed to change, to reject the baggage that had caused their failure, in order to get Britain back on track. He had the public profile by then, his rival the economic credibility. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
Defeat again in October ’96, the incumbent PM riding a tide of national pride following England’s Euro 96 victory (slightly surprising, given his nationality), meant the recovery was not as big as expected, or hoped, but the hoped for promotion to the Shadow Cabinet came in the new leader’s reshuffle, and he had taken the Education brief, which gave him a platform to build from. His evisceration of his opposite number’s plans for further expansion of tertiary education, which he had called a “University Challenge too far” had cemented his place in the public eye, and his relentless questioning saw off a further two Education secretaries within the parliament. But the expected victory in 2001 failed to appear, as the PM benefitted (if that was the right word) from being a war PM, supporting President Gore in the aftermath of the August 8th attacks. The majority was only 12, but it was enough. Oddly enough, the man who about to follow him as PM shared the same surname as the man who lost that particular election.
Still, he had won the leadership, set up his Shadow Cabinet, and played the hand he was dealt to perfection. As the government slipped through exhaustion to scandal, from by-election defeat to defections, as the majority faded away to a minority, he was relentless. The harried face of the PM became a regular feature in the press, as every PMQs took the same pattern – a question, a failure to answer, the same question. Again and again and again. Sometimes for weeks at a time, skirting round the edge of what the speaker would allow. Fourteen times in a row was supposed to be the record, but he had never kept score - the only score that mattered was votes and seats. It didn’t matter that the Hughes’s Yellow Peril were the main beneficiaries in the short term, as the Coalition effort in Yemen dragged on and on.
None of it mattered when the vote of no-confidence in March 2005 was successful. The polls were emphatic, the result a foregone conclusion. The government were routed, pushed back their heartlands (and even there there were outliers and unexpected gains), and he entered Number 10 with a majority close to 200 – big enough to ignore the Awkward Squad, more than enough to push forward real reform, to ensure Europe didn’t become an issue, and more than enough to keep the Chancellor on a short leash, preventing his more extreme ideas seeing the light of day. Still, freeing up the City gave the economy the push that it needed, and 2009 saw him returned with a barely changed majority.
It was after the Paris Olympics, that the questions began, small and quiet at first, but becoming increasingly frequent and insistent. At first it was easy to bat them away with his trademark sneer, or a subtly raised eyebrow, the implied educational deficiency of the questioner apparent to all. But the questions kept coming, even as the election campaign in 2013 gathered pace. The economy was slowing, and yes, he HAD overruled the Chancellor, not just threatened it, but he was the Prime Minister, and that was his job. No, he was not standing down – he fought and fought to win. And he kept it all together, just – a majority of 42, some good friends lost, an opposition on the rise, but he was still PM.
And then the conversation – yes, he was tired, not just looking it; no the goatee wasn’t an attempt to capture the hipster vote; yes, he remembered the deal; yes, 10 is a nice round number. “And that brings us to today” he thought, jolting himself out of his reverie. Just in time too, as there was another knock at the door.
“We’re ready for you now, Prime Minister”, the production assistant (Julie? Julia? Who knew?) said, and he followed her down the corridor to the studio, where the new primary presenter of Newsnight awaited. Someone had told him the fellow had held political ambitions of his own once, and the PM thought how his life might have turned out if he had become a journalist instead of an MP. He certainly wouldn’t be handing the reins of power to the man replacing him, surely.
He walked into the studio, shook hands, sat down and took a sip of the water in front of him. As the countdown to air began, he sat up and composed himself, preparing to fulfil this role for the final time. The familiar theme tune rang out, and as it faded, the programme began.
“Good evening, you are watching Newsnight with me, Stephen Milligan. Joining me tonight is the outgoing Conservative Prime Minister, Jeremy Paxman, who stands down tomorrow after 10 years in Downing Street. Prime Minister, how do think your successor, the former Chancellor Evan Davis will fare with his plan to begin the privatisation of some key public services?”
A brief knock, the door swung open and a woman peered around the side. “Ten minutes Prime Minister” she said, and then closed the door again before he could even mutter a “Thank you”. Ten minutes. Ten minutes left as Prime Minister, ten minutes to reflect on how he had ended up here, the road that had brought him to the highest office, and now took him away from it.
A smile crossed his face as he thought back to his early days in Opposition, entering parliament as a fresh new face, one of the few bright spots in the defeat of ’92. Although no-one really expected it to be over 10 years before the party won an election, he was already being touted as a future leader, a future PM, even as he was giving his maiden speech. The interruption from the gallery (pointless posturing from a poll-tax protester) had given him the first opportunity to use one of the catchphrases he had become famous for, one that he had used for great effect in his rise up the ranks. It seemed rather inappropriate for today, though.
That first parliament in opposition had also cemented his alliance with the man who was going to be his successor. That famous deal, brokered in a long gone Islington eaterie, each of them believing they could harness the ambition of the other man in order to propel themselves to success. At the time, he truly believed he had the better of it, with the opportunity to be leader and his rival (friend? colleague?) consigned to Chancellor, should they get that far. Both of them agreed the party needed to change, to reject the baggage that had caused their failure, in order to get Britain back on track. He had the public profile by then, his rival the economic credibility. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
Defeat again in October ’96, the incumbent PM riding a tide of national pride following England’s Euro 96 victory (slightly surprising, given his nationality), meant the recovery was not as big as expected, or hoped, but the hoped for promotion to the Shadow Cabinet came in the new leader’s reshuffle, and he had taken the Education brief, which gave him a platform to build from. His evisceration of his opposite number’s plans for further expansion of tertiary education, which he had called a “University Challenge too far” had cemented his place in the public eye, and his relentless questioning saw off a further two Education secretaries within the parliament. But the expected victory in 2001 failed to appear, as the PM benefitted (if that was the right word) from being a war PM, supporting President Gore in the aftermath of the August 8th attacks. The majority was only 12, but it was enough. Oddly enough, the man who about to follow him as PM shared the same surname as the man who lost that particular election.
Still, he had won the leadership, set up his Shadow Cabinet, and played the hand he was dealt to perfection. As the government slipped through exhaustion to scandal, from by-election defeat to defections, as the majority faded away to a minority, he was relentless. The harried face of the PM became a regular feature in the press, as every PMQs took the same pattern – a question, a failure to answer, the same question. Again and again and again. Sometimes for weeks at a time, skirting round the edge of what the speaker would allow. Fourteen times in a row was supposed to be the record, but he had never kept score - the only score that mattered was votes and seats. It didn’t matter that the Hughes’s Yellow Peril were the main beneficiaries in the short term, as the Coalition effort in Yemen dragged on and on.
None of it mattered when the vote of no-confidence in March 2005 was successful. The polls were emphatic, the result a foregone conclusion. The government were routed, pushed back their heartlands (and even there there were outliers and unexpected gains), and he entered Number 10 with a majority close to 200 – big enough to ignore the Awkward Squad, more than enough to push forward real reform, to ensure Europe didn’t become an issue, and more than enough to keep the Chancellor on a short leash, preventing his more extreme ideas seeing the light of day. Still, freeing up the City gave the economy the push that it needed, and 2009 saw him returned with a barely changed majority.
It was after the Paris Olympics, that the questions began, small and quiet at first, but becoming increasingly frequent and insistent. At first it was easy to bat them away with his trademark sneer, or a subtly raised eyebrow, the implied educational deficiency of the questioner apparent to all. But the questions kept coming, even as the election campaign in 2013 gathered pace. The economy was slowing, and yes, he HAD overruled the Chancellor, not just threatened it, but he was the Prime Minister, and that was his job. No, he was not standing down – he fought and fought to win. And he kept it all together, just – a majority of 42, some good friends lost, an opposition on the rise, but he was still PM.
And then the conversation – yes, he was tired, not just looking it; no the goatee wasn’t an attempt to capture the hipster vote; yes, he remembered the deal; yes, 10 is a nice round number. “And that brings us to today” he thought, jolting himself out of his reverie. Just in time too, as there was another knock at the door.
“We’re ready for you now, Prime Minister”, the production assistant (Julie? Julia? Who knew?) said, and he followed her down the corridor to the studio, where the new primary presenter of Newsnight awaited. Someone had told him the fellow had held political ambitions of his own once, and the PM thought how his life might have turned out if he had become a journalist instead of an MP. He certainly wouldn’t be handing the reins of power to the man replacing him, surely.
He walked into the studio, shook hands, sat down and took a sip of the water in front of him. As the countdown to air began, he sat up and composed himself, preparing to fulfil this role for the final time. The familiar theme tune rang out, and as it faded, the programme began.
“Good evening, you are watching Newsnight with me, Stephen Milligan. Joining me tonight is the outgoing Conservative Prime Minister, Jeremy Paxman, who stands down tomorrow after 10 years in Downing Street. Prime Minister, how do think your successor, the former Chancellor Evan Davis will fare with his plan to begin the privatisation of some key public services?”
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