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The Times September 2010 - 1

The Times September 2010 - 2

Chris Mullin Daily Mail Article

Boris Johnson interview 1998

The Jones Family

Michael

Chronology

Hedgeman - The Book

The Berlin Wall

Into the Roaring Nineties

1991 Stanton Turns Really Nasty

Annus Horribilis

The End Of The Annus But Not The Horribilis

The Judgement

The Hand Of Peace

Fame

The Big One

No Carte Blanche

Come On Stanton Pay Up

April Fool

Niniteen Ninety Seven

A Little Help From The Lord

28th October: an outstanding day in my life. Radio WM interviewed me live for the 7 am news, then it was a taxi to New Street, an expensive early train, and another taxi from Euston to the House of Lords. I didn't need to knock on any door; I was expected, spotted before I entered, asked my name and addressed as "Sir". Two flunkies relieved me of my briefcase and took me to the cloakroom, where my coat was placed on a hanger. There was a place to hang up one's sword, but I didn't use it. Back in the foyer, I found an almost medieval, immaculate hall of carved oak with a high ceiling and a magnificent, giant fireplace that had once burnt huge coals and timbers to pollute the capital and now emulated its past with trick lighting. You could sit for hours and still discover something new. My briefcase was handed back.
Baron Denis Howell of Aston Manor in the City of Birmingham was informed of my arrival by a loyal servant of this Royal Palace. His Lordship welcomed me and escorted me to a fascinating, antiquated, wrought-iron caged lift. There we met ex-Lord Chancellor Hailsham, who looked hundreds of years old and partly incorporated into the contraption, as if he had been installed with the furniture. He was jocular, friendly, and immediately offered us the limited space. Three portly gentlemen could not wedge themselves into that cage, and would it take our combined weight? So we returned the courtesy, and Denis reverently eased him in alone, pressed the buttons and waved him up. We waited for the empty cage to return.
We stepped out into the most exquisite lounge in the world, ultra-modern and antique in fascinating contrast, the clientele being certainly the latter. In one corner sat another ancient structure, Lord Longford, hosting four or five young men and women. There were other familiar figures from the past, but I couldn't put names to them.
"What would you like to drink, Michael?"
"I'll have a whiskey, please." It would have been great to stay all day drinking pints of beer, but I was about to perform an important mission, and at 69 my bladder was not strong.
"Single or double?" Opportunity conflicted with common sense. I had never drunk whiskey mid-day, nor drunk at all when driving, broadcasting or doing anything needing utmost concentration. And what about the perception of those I was about to address?
"I'll have a double, please."
"You are wise. I happen to know this is a specially ordered consignment and it is perfection. I'll have the same."
An immaculately dressed young lady came to our table and Denis addressed her by her first name.
"Two double whiskeys please, and would you mind getting me a pair of braces?" My mind boggled. I added up her travelling time to a store and back, and wondered what the hell went on in this place. But she brought the drinks, was off again and back within minutes. She had been to the parliamentary shop, and no cash had changed hands; it was all on the tab. Denis said,
"You'll have to excuse me."
I waited, admiring the settings and the human relics and taking micro sips of this wonderful liquid, since it must not be finished until my host returned. After twenty minutes I became concerned. Denis had a serious heart condition. When he came back, ill, it was so funny that one could not laugh. He had come without his belt and his trousers kept dropping. He had tried to put on his brand new braces without taking his trousers off, got dreadfully mixed up, landed on the floor, and been luckily rescued.
Denis was exhausted, but the whiskey brought him round and after twenty minutes he suggested lunch. We were met, bowed to and escorted to our table. I allowed myself a glass of wine, water, and the fish main course only. Denis talked freely. He had been in both the Wilson and Callaghan cabinets and was proud to mention it. He was of the right of the party, asserted his support for nuclear disarmament, and wasn't interested in my views on anything. I was so keen on any morsel of history that I let him go on. Then he said that if I wanted cup final tickets I should let him know early (he would not live till the next final). My principled objection didn't matter, since I would only go to a cup final if the Baggies were playing, and as season ticket holders we would have our allocation. Interestingly, we had drawn Villa at Villa Park in the next round of the FA Cup, and gratifyingly he thought we would win.
A few days later I was at the Hawthorns before 6 am, three hours before the tickets went on sale, and I was too late; you had to be there at midnight. When the supply dried up at 11 am, it was a good job I had gone home. So Denis came in useful. He was, or had been, on the Villa board, and he got me a couple of tickets (I had to pay). The trouble was that they were for the home fans' end. Chris and Andrew took them with glee, even though they had to dress in plain clothes, minus their Albion gear, and keep quiet when Albion scored. Scored? Not much hope of that. It was the end of 1997 cup dreams for the Baggies.
But at my very famous lunch in the House of Lords, Denis was sure Albion would win. Very gentlemanly, sporting and fine, cuz I 'ated the Villa.
It was nearly kick-off time for the afternoon session when Denis got up, only to collapse back into his seat, his face contorted with pain.
"Michael, I'm in trouble, I cannot move. I shall be quite some time." I thought of poor Captain Oates in the Antarctic, who must have looked better than Denis. Oh my God, the man is going to die on me. This would be headline news, the stuff of my early morning bulletin. The journalist who interviewed me for Carlton the day before had carefully warned me not to say "tomorrow", as it was for broadcast today.
"Denis, just take your time. I'll go to the loo." I did not express my desires in the Aston vernacular. It is nice to see where the big knobs hang out, but it had been modernised since Prince Albert's day.
Now, I honour my fellow members of the working class and always defer to a waiter busy at his duties. But the flunkies in this place see you coming, draw whatever they are carrying into the side, bow their heads and call you sir. It makes you sick. When I returned, Denis had pulled himself together and I helped him unsteadily to his feet. (I surreptitiously pocketed half a dozen individually wrapped, crested House of Lords chocolates from a little dish. Chris and Andrew pounced on them, took one taste and spat them out. They were EU-approved; the taste of pure chocolate was not familiar to children raised on milk chocolate, and was rejected with distaste as impure by the Brussels Commission.)
It was a short walk down the ornate corridor.
"Keep your eye on me," Denis said, "and when I give you the nod, get up and I'll meet you in the corridor."
I made my way to the small "Strangers" door and was led to an ornate enclosure at right angles to the official seats, with a couple of benches for six people. Denis had just sat down on the opposite side of the gangway, not far away. The whole place was tiny. He spotted me but showed no sign of recognition; he had timed his entrance exactly, just as prayers concluded. Strange, really, since I thought he'd been on the point of dying. He was establishment C of E.
Then came a hell of a noise, raucous shouting and pandemonium, announcing a new member about to be introduced. The double doors to my left were flung open and in came the new man, flanked by his proposer and seconder and a "Garter King at Arms" or some such official, there to make sure everything was done properly and according to tradition. They were in full regalia and within a few feet of me. They made their way to the Lord Chancellor on his traditional Woolsack and doffed their hats three times, and the Garter King bawled out the newcomer's name and other verbiage in Norman French. They then proceeded to an empty seat, went through the cap-doffing again, and guided the new colleague to sit on it, doffing caps once more. At this point he was truly a lord. The ceremony has since been dropped, and I was one of the last to witness it. I sighed with relief, and Denis caught my eye and indicated it was time to leave; he had qualified for his attendance allowance.
I stood up, stepped into the aisle, and was immediately hurled to the ground by flunkies and pinned down on the floor. I raised my head just in time to hear another new member arrive. Denis Healey, the proposer, passed by, and I became the first to observe his bushy eyebrows from the ground. When they had reached the Lord Chancellor, the flunkies carefully raised me to my feet, apologised profusely, asked if I was hurt and dusted me down, quite unnecessarily as everything was scrupulously clean. I found Denis fretting and impatient, demanding to know why I hadn't come out when he asked, as time was getting on.
"Sorry," I said.
Taxis were waiting at the exit, and we made the short journey to the Department of the Environment, Transport and the Regions (DETR), headed by John Prescott. We were expected, of course, security-checked (IRA terror was the fear then) and issued with passes, then taken to a waiting room. Lynne Jones, my own MP, Chris Mullin and Dale Campbell-Savours were already there.
From my briefcase I pulled a nineteen-twenties Socialist Sunday School hymn book and explained that it had been signed by many venerated Labour people, including a young Michael Foot 68 years before he became leader (and again when he did). They all signed it. Strange that we had never asked Denis to do so, many years ago.
We were led into a large room with a rectangular table, around which sat a dozen or so legal and planning advisers and civil servants. The principal one was Julie Richardson; I came to know her well, but as she crops up later in my story I will say more then. Angela Eagle sat at the head. She quickly welcomed Denis and the three MPs. When Labour was defeated eighteen years earlier, Denis had left this very department, then under another name. He had continued as an MP and shadow sports minister for thirteen years before his appointment to the Lords. He tried to dominate proceedings, but Angela insisted on welcoming me warmly; everyone had been following my case in the media and recognised me.
Denis started off demanding blanket control on all hedge heights, with fines for non-compliance. It was a simplistic solution, loved by the media, which hundreds of callers had urged on me as the policy for our campaign. A little walk along a leafy suburban street, Denis's own would do, asking which hedges would or would not be legal, would demolish any case for such a law. The civil servants quickly dismissed the proposal and Denis said very little afterwards. The three MPs floundered and failed to come up with any convincing suggestions, even though they had constituents suffering badly from the nuisance, Lynne among them.
I had won my court case on the Bournville Trust covenant, "a hedge along the boundary is a party hedge", but this was scarcely a basis for legislation for all. It was a lawyer's paradise; victims wanted justice without lengthy, expensive litigation. That was the purpose of our representation. Then Angela amazed, distressed and annoyed me.
"We have not had that many letters from the public that would indicate a significant problem, certainly not as many complaints as against security floodlights."
I took this very seriously. My postbag was full and the phone was ringing all the time. I answered every caller and writer with the same demand: write, phone and attend your MP's surgery, and ask in turn that they press the minister for legislation. I could tell from the tone of my callers that they didn't believe in that action. Too often, even the well educated had not the slightest idea of how, why or when a bill was drafted and made its way into law. Frequently the victim said their MP was useless. This was rarely the case, and many a constituent was surprised at the assiduousness of their member, eased along by an enthusiastic media. I was a lone voice at the end of a telephone, and although I was in touch with a score of people a day, I realised with dismay how long a way I had to go before making an impact on this secretary of state and her department.
The minister went on, "Nevertheless, I am concerned about even one victim of injustice." Then came the words that will reverberate in my years forever.
"Michael, will you tell us what you want?"
"I want the best and cleverest brains in the country to draft a law that will stop bullies such as my neighbour from making the lives of my family and me a misery, dragging us through the courts for years under the threat of losing our home."
"Tell us in a very few words what he did."
I explained the Stanton misery, although everyone in the room had seen him and his hedge, and I concluded:
"And now his second row of Leylandii has reached nuisance height, which he believes is beyond the scope of the Bournville Trust covenant."
Angela was profoundly affected.
"This is anti-social behaviour by a neighbour, and I'm off to the Home Office in the morning to see if this sort of thing can be included in the bill Jack Straw is bringing before Parliament."
This startled all five of us delegates, a peer, three MPs and me, a victim, because it was a brand new approach. The civil servants were loud in their protests.
"Minister, you can't possibly do that."
"You can't, but I can and will, because I am the minister and you are not."
She had amazing foresight. Six years later, almost to the day, the "high hedges" legislation became Part 8 of the Anti-Social Behaviour Bill 2003. That was a Mark 2 bill, because we had failed to get anything into the 1998 Crime and Disorder Bill; Jack Straw would have none of it.
Denis was exhausted and drew the meeting to a close; no one objected. The five of us made our way to the lift. Chris Mullin said to me,
"Will you please stop that bloody woman, my constituent, from getting onto me? She thinks I don't care. I do care, but she doesn't realise there is nothing I can do about it."
In the lift, Dale Campbell-Savours said to his fellow MPs,
"We must pin Jack Straw down in the corridor."
Taxis were waiting outside, and I got into one with Denis. At Euston he said,
"My free travel warrant is first class."
"My ticket is third class, but I will upgrade it if you want to talk."
He said it wasn't necessary, but didn't offer to get aboard with me. I was happy with that. I wanted a couple of cans of lager and some space to think. Denis had fulfilled his obligation to get a meeting with the minister. His campaigning life was now complete, and I would not have been surprised to be told he had less than five months to live. He would not be capable of steering a private member's bill through the Upper House.
I put a cheque for £25 in the post. He had told some of my fellow campaigners, who were making demands on him, that he was paid from the public purse, when peers only got expense allowances. A couple of weeks later I rang to ask him to get tickets for the second-round cup match, Villa v Albion. Next day he asked me to call and collect them (with the money), and that was the last time I saw him alive. I had wanted four tickets, but he had imagined they were for Maureen and me. Chris and Andy were grateful even to sit in plain colours among the Villa fans and watch Albion lose. Ian managed a single ticket bought from a friend.
Denis considered his contribution to the hedge campaign over. He was convinced that the publicity around Stanton v Jones, combined with the firm intention of the minister, would surely bring legislation. Gone was his enthusiasm for introducing his own bill in the Lords; he was a very tired man and, as I had observed, a very poorly one. My experience at the ministry proved that truly massive publicity would be needed.
I later received formal notice that the government would not introduce legislation; the new government simply did not have the time. Angela's civil servants' protests had served no purpose, as the Home Office had no intention of deeming hedge nuisance anti-social behaviour, though that did not stop Lynne Jones pestering Jack Straw as he tried to introduce his bill in the Commons. We did learn that Angela had instructed her staff to put "hedge nuisance" proposals on her desk by the end of the summer. By then a cabinet reshuffle had taken place and another minister held her job; she had received a sideways promotion. By the summer's end of 1998, the only hedge proposals at the then DETR were for tens of thousands of pounds for consultation and propaganda leaflets, persuading residents to grow the right kind of hedge and not annoy their neighbours. It is so sad that Angela was not around to see that the money was adventitiously spent.