Losh, but last week’s general election results fair brought the memories flooding back.
Covering the count ower the years – at the Music Hall, later Beach Ballroom – were some of the highlights of my career. The tension, deadlines, the jubilation, the broken hairts.
I mind aboot 3am on May 3, 1997 – just back from the Beach and hammerin’ oot my colour piece – a huge cheer went roon the office. That was the Michael Portillo “moment”, when the pompous Tory got knocked oot in the Labour deluge. And the defeat of the disastrous Liz Truss was, indeed, this year’s Portillo Moment.
What Sir Keir has done, following 14 years of Tory mis-rule, was similar to what Tony Blair did back then – winning a huge majority after 23 years in the wilderness. Yet, me, a passionate left-winger, couldnae bring masellie to vote for him because New Labour wisnae Real Labour. And I couldnae stick Blair, wi’ his phony, toothy smile.
Later that momentous 1997 Friday, oor editor comes up to me with an excellent idea for a feature. Labour’s newly-elected-for-Aberdeen-South Anne Begg, who has a genetic bone-weakening condition, would be the first permanent wheelchair-using MP since the 19th century. Why didn’t I go down to London and spend a day with her in the Commons to see how she fared? My kinda story.
The delightful Anne – one of the horrendously named “Blair’s Babes” – was well up for it, and the next Wednesday, two days after she’d been sworn in, I flew doon to join her in Westminster. As she met me in the grand entrance hall and I asked how she was getting on, she confided: “Actually, there are some parts of the Commons I simply can’t get to. But I’ll fight to get there.” Music to my reporter’s ears.
She led me through a maze of corridors to a door tucked awa’ in a corner. Sez she: “This is my office. But don’t be shocked. Some of the new intake don’t yet have anywhere at all.” Into this tiny, windowless, pokey-hole of a room. Two desks, piled high wie papers. Hers and the newly-elected Aberdeen Central MP, the late Frank Doran. He’d been the member for South Aberdeen and defeated before, so he was able to show Anne the ropes.
During our chat, I confessed I wisnae Blair’s biggest fan. Frunkie laughed and said: “Thank goodness millions disagreed with you!” Nearing noon, they offered to treat me to lunch at the Commons’ Terrace restaurant, where guests are welcome. Well, I near passed oot wi’ excitement.
A gloriously sunny day, we were under a parasol, sitting ootside, owerlookin’ The Thames, surrounded by a’ these famous folk. There goes Harriet Harman, then one of my heroes; the late, great Robin Cook; a flash of former deputy PM Michael Helsetine’s flowing golden locks. Chilled white was poored; I still mind the menu was posho Scottish langoustines or plain cottage pie. I lapped up every magical second.
Suddenly, some mannie swooped on Anne, whisperin’ and laughin’ awa’ tae her. Then he turned and shook hands wi’ the rest o’ us, flashing this adorable smile that fair made me melt into a greasy spot. I shook his han’, fluttered my overwhelmed eyelids and burbled: “Congratulations. You deserved it.” Me who couldnae stand Tony Blair! Frunkie Doran gave me a knowing wink.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press and Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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