In October of 1963, the Conservative Party gathered in Blackpool for its annual conference. The mood was not exactly one of confidence: the Promufo scandal was still casting its ugly shadow and it seemed that Britain was no longer buying Prime Minister’s patrician confidence. The murmurs that Harold Macmillan ought to go for the good of the country and the party were not getting quieter. But the Party delegates who expected their Prime Minister to address the conference hall were instead informed that Harold Macmillan was stepping down due to ill-health.
This quickly turned the Conference into a beauty contest; with the conference speeches becoming auditions. Quintin Hogg, the Lord Hailsham, was the darling of the Tory Constituency associations and the apparent favourite of the outgoing Prime Minister. Rab Butler was the favourite of the bookmakers, surely now able to take the crown that Macmillan had stolen from him. And then there was Maudling, the friendly and competent Chancellor, the unfavourite of the Labour Party, who saw him as the leader who could do them the most damage. Quintin Hogg’s speech was strong but smarmy, and combined with the “Q for Qintin” badges and other media stunts, gave off the impression of a man trying far too hard. Then there was Maudling. As he walked on stage, he buried his nerves and cleared his throat. The end of the speech produced a standing ovation. Not only had his barnstorming speech captivated the delegates, but they all kept saying the same thing: “He looks like a Prime Minister.” The Magic Circle othat still elected the Tory leader thought so too. No-one remembered Rab Butler’s speech the next day.
Suddenly, Labour was in panic. The polls were reversing in the Tories’ favour, now with a Prime Minister with all the youthful energy of the Leader of the Opposition. The satirists of Private Eye and the BBC found him difficult to pin down, as did the Labour Party at in Parliament. He seemed to the face of security and confidence, the face of the apparently “zooming economy” which was growing strongly at the start of 1964. In spite of poor results in Local Elections in April, Maudling felt confident enough (apparently due to favorable private polling) to call an election for that June, sending the Labour Party into a panic all over again.
That was the first of Maudling’s missteps. It quickly became clear that he had not told anyone outside his inner circle about this decision, thus immediately alienating most of his party colleagues. On the campaign trail appeared to be stiff and awkward, and a promise to visit every constituency in Great Britain (apparently dreamed up by a young researcher on a late night) proved to be a drag on his campaign, especially when he was heckled and egged in Labour safe seats. But the nail in the coffin proved to be the Television Debate. Harold Wilson had challenged Maudling to a televised debate back before the dissolution of Parliament, and the Tories felt that they had nothing to lose with their young, dynamic leader. They were wrong.
Unlike Wilson, Maudling had refused to wear makeup. He appeared nervous and stiff on stage, gripping the podium and speaking in a monotone voice that occasionally quivered. Wilson, having put in much preparation (seeing this as his “make or break” moment) shone. It was Wilson, not Maudling, who now seemed to have all the ideas and the energy. As the debate ended, and the Prime Minister trudged offstage as Wilson lit up his pipe, the consensus was that the Reggie Maudling they had just bombed on the small screen was not the same Reggie Maudling that had shone in the Blackpool Conference Hall.
On polling day, Labour won a modest majority of 24, while only just winning the popular vote. While the press lapped up the new Prime Minister’s promise of “A New Dawn”, Maudling publicly promised to remain leader. But his party had other ideas. Much of the Conservative backbenches and frontbenches were alienated from their leader by the hapless and autocratic way he had ran his campaign. Maudling’s weak performances and directionless leadership when the new Parliament convened in the Autumn made things worse. Whispering campaigns started, spreading half-truths about how the stress of the campaign had led the leader to drink. The press was ruthless. As were the Magic Circle that had put him into power. In January 1965, they made clear to Maudling that his position was untenable, and that he was to resign immediately for the good of his party.
The press, alerted to the intrigue, gathered around his London townhouse. At around 9PM, Maudling stepped out onto the steps (“Tired and Emotional” according to the next day’s papers) and gave his first resignation speech. In a speech widely seen as bizarre he rambled on and lashed out at the media (especially the BBC) for treating him so badly during the 1964 campaign. The cameramen were uncomfortable, but went nowhere; a sign of how the media had become much less obedient since the 1950s. Every last syllable of his rant was captured, and written down. Reaching a crescendo, the now ex-Tory leader proclaimed that "you don't have Reggie Maudling to kick around any more, because, gentlemen, this is my last press conference."
This quickly turned the Conference into a beauty contest; with the conference speeches becoming auditions. Quintin Hogg, the Lord Hailsham, was the darling of the Tory Constituency associations and the apparent favourite of the outgoing Prime Minister. Rab Butler was the favourite of the bookmakers, surely now able to take the crown that Macmillan had stolen from him. And then there was Maudling, the friendly and competent Chancellor, the unfavourite of the Labour Party, who saw him as the leader who could do them the most damage. Quintin Hogg’s speech was strong but smarmy, and combined with the “Q for Qintin” badges and other media stunts, gave off the impression of a man trying far too hard. Then there was Maudling. As he walked on stage, he buried his nerves and cleared his throat. The end of the speech produced a standing ovation. Not only had his barnstorming speech captivated the delegates, but they all kept saying the same thing: “He looks like a Prime Minister.” The Magic Circle othat still elected the Tory leader thought so too. No-one remembered Rab Butler’s speech the next day.
Suddenly, Labour was in panic. The polls were reversing in the Tories’ favour, now with a Prime Minister with all the youthful energy of the Leader of the Opposition. The satirists of Private Eye and the BBC found him difficult to pin down, as did the Labour Party at in Parliament. He seemed to the face of security and confidence, the face of the apparently “zooming economy” which was growing strongly at the start of 1964. In spite of poor results in Local Elections in April, Maudling felt confident enough (apparently due to favorable private polling) to call an election for that June, sending the Labour Party into a panic all over again.
That was the first of Maudling’s missteps. It quickly became clear that he had not told anyone outside his inner circle about this decision, thus immediately alienating most of his party colleagues. On the campaign trail appeared to be stiff and awkward, and a promise to visit every constituency in Great Britain (apparently dreamed up by a young researcher on a late night) proved to be a drag on his campaign, especially when he was heckled and egged in Labour safe seats. But the nail in the coffin proved to be the Television Debate. Harold Wilson had challenged Maudling to a televised debate back before the dissolution of Parliament, and the Tories felt that they had nothing to lose with their young, dynamic leader. They were wrong.
Unlike Wilson, Maudling had refused to wear makeup. He appeared nervous and stiff on stage, gripping the podium and speaking in a monotone voice that occasionally quivered. Wilson, having put in much preparation (seeing this as his “make or break” moment) shone. It was Wilson, not Maudling, who now seemed to have all the ideas and the energy. As the debate ended, and the Prime Minister trudged offstage as Wilson lit up his pipe, the consensus was that the Reggie Maudling they had just bombed on the small screen was not the same Reggie Maudling that had shone in the Blackpool Conference Hall.
On polling day, Labour won a modest majority of 24, while only just winning the popular vote. While the press lapped up the new Prime Minister’s promise of “A New Dawn”, Maudling publicly promised to remain leader. But his party had other ideas. Much of the Conservative backbenches and frontbenches were alienated from their leader by the hapless and autocratic way he had ran his campaign. Maudling’s weak performances and directionless leadership when the new Parliament convened in the Autumn made things worse. Whispering campaigns started, spreading half-truths about how the stress of the campaign had led the leader to drink. The press was ruthless. As were the Magic Circle that had put him into power. In January 1965, they made clear to Maudling that his position was untenable, and that he was to resign immediately for the good of his party.
The press, alerted to the intrigue, gathered around his London townhouse. At around 9PM, Maudling stepped out onto the steps (“Tired and Emotional” according to the next day’s papers) and gave his first resignation speech. In a speech widely seen as bizarre he rambled on and lashed out at the media (especially the BBC) for treating him so badly during the 1964 campaign. The cameramen were uncomfortable, but went nowhere; a sign of how the media had become much less obedient since the 1950s. Every last syllable of his rant was captured, and written down. Reaching a crescendo, the now ex-Tory leader proclaimed that "you don't have Reggie Maudling to kick around any more, because, gentlemen, this is my last press conference."
Reginald Maudling (Conservative)
1963-1964
He'll be back
Looking forward to Maudling and beyond.
