A Journey (94 page)

Her arrival – made somewhat ungainly by the protracted German coalition negotiation after her narrow victory – was a major new factor in the budget deal. It also bore on another critical challenge: relations with Turkey. Under its new government, Turkey had been making significant strides towards Europe. The government was controlled by the Islamist AK Party, contrary to the secular mould of Turkish politics. The prime minister Tayyip Erdogan, however, and the then foreign minister, Abdullah Gül, were sensible, forward-looking men who, frankly, at least at that time, were the easiest Turkish politicians I had met. They were smart, knew what they wanted, were anxious to come into Europe and, what’s more, reasonable on Cyprus.

Europe had worked out a position that was in favour of Turkish EU membership in the long term, but it was going to take time. There were criteria for accession; they should be met to allay the nervousness of European countries with large Turkish migrant populations like Germany; and they gave Turkey’s modernisers something to aim at. So, in principle, yes; in practice, very much in the future. But that was OK. It just about held together.

The reason for the reluctance was partly that EU membership had only recently enlarged and people wanted time to digest, and partly that Turkey, a nation of over 70 million Muslims, was clearly
une autre chose
. The point was not that EU leaders were anti-Muslim, though among the population no doubt that sentiment was present. But, plainly and actually reasonably, this would be a major change in the nature of Europe and had to be got right.

I was and am in favour of Turkey’s accession. I want Turkey looking west and Europe looking east, and, handled correctly, Turkey’s membership would do us all good. It is very dangerous – for us and for them – to push Turkey away, because it would appear to underscore the fact that Judaeo-Christian and Muslim civilisations cannot coexist. The implications of estrangement are very large. After I left office, Turkey was politely but firmly pushed back in the direction of something less than full membership. It is a perilous mistake for both parties.

At the end of October, I held an informal EU summit at Hampton Court Palace. Unusually for such meetings, it produced an agenda on issues like universities, research and development, energy and innovation, on which a new European budget should sensibly concentrate. Europe was at risk of falling behind, and I attempted to lay out a programme that focused on areas that would be vital to Europe’s competitiveness in the future.

But the budget remained as the only real issue, and the UK rebate was the point most talked about. The more it was discussed the harder it was for me since, as I say, even talking about it was tantamount to political blasphemy. The French would raise it in a real ‘pulling your nose’ way, and did so constantly. I sparred back with some anti-CAP rhetoric.

As the budget of course also spanned the whole of EU expenditure, here’s where the complexity set in. This really was a zero-sum game. It was a fixed budget, so someone’s gain meant someone else’s loss. In this arena every country had an active interest, with the new members wanting EU money to develop, and the old members looking to hang on to whatever concessions history had tossed them.

It was a nightmare of detail, political cross-currents, national pride, presidential and prime ministerial ego, all played out in vivid public technicolor. After the December summit, which would be the final negotiation, each participant would have to go back home to cheers or tears. They would all spin like crazy to get the cheers, but each nation’s media was prepared to believe the outcome should merit tears. I was stuck in the middle and very obviously, because of Britain’s position on the rebate,
parti pris
.

The negotiations involved hours, days and, in the later part of the year, weeks of painstaking discussion. I became a veritable expert on the intricacies of structural and cohesion funding, on the Spanish preoccupation with Ceuta and Melilla, on the Swedish and Dutch formulae for their rebate on the rebate, on what the average French farmer might earn, on what the German
Länder
might tolerate, and of course on the details of the appropriations in respect of each crucial policy area of EU spending.

I was blessed with a great team led by my EU adviser in Number 10, Kim Darroch, and the UK Brussels representative, Sir John Grant. They were utterly brilliant, the British Civil Service at its best, immensely creative, willing to think outside the box (and there was a legion of boxes) and with a deep network of contacts in member states.

The final negotiations were set for 15–16 December. It was clearly going to be an all-nighter. Like a giant jigsaw with myriad pieces, if the contours of one piece were changed, suddenly another five wouldn’t fit. Around a third of the total budget had to be reallocated in favour of the new members. That meant all the old members, including Britain, had to pay more.

European councils meet on the fifth floor of the Justus Lipsius building in Brussels. The meeting rooms are so ghastly that you always have an incentive to agree and get out. The country holding the presidency has a suite of rooms just off the main corridor, where you sit and see nation after nation, listen to their leaders complain, cajole and threaten as you assess what is bluster and what is real, what can be conceded and what has to be confounded, and when it is right for the president to turn menacing.

No nation likes to be taken advantage of, but no nation likes to be fingered as the cause of failure. So throughout every successive wretched meeting in that boring and soulless room, you are calculating when to advance, when to retreat and when to defer.

My strategy was this: make an ally of Angela and share credit for success with her – that could settle down her Chancellorship and make her well disposed; sort the Spanish and the Italians; champion the Poles; deal with the French. And then slip in our own piece of the jigsaw right at the end, when everyone wanted an agreement and wanted to go home.

We got a deal which actually left Britain paying roughly the same as France for the first time. The UK media called it a betrayal, but frankly they would have done that even if I had led Jacques Chirac in chains through the streets of London. And by then I was past caring. We preserved the rebate, tied its demise to the CAP and agreed a break in the budget period where both could be reformed. Though I shouldn’t say it, it was close to a minor miracle.

I had had the most frightful time with Gordon throughout, however. He was essentially insisting that France accept the demise of the CAP, and in public statements was asserting this in terms that enraged the French. Actually, he didn’t merely want them to disown the CAP, but also sort of apologise for ever having supported it. In a funny way it helped me, because I was able to say: see my problems? Now are you going to be reasonable? So we did a kind of unintentional good cop/bad cop on them.

But as the negotiations went into the early hours, it became more serious. He was refusing to agree the deal. Jon Cunliffe, an exemplary and bright Treasury official who was go-between, was doing his nut, poor bloke. Gordon was content to let the thing go down and fight on in the next presidency. I knew that would be absolutely appalling for the reputation of the country, the government and me; and once we were out of the driving seat, there could be no guarantee that Britain would get a better deal. In fact, the deal would almost certainly be worse.

Finally, I’m afraid I just stopped taking his calls. Poor Jon would come into the presidency room and say: ‘The Chancellor really wants to speak to you.’ I would say: ‘I’m really busy, Jon.’ And he would say: ‘He really is demanding it.’ Then I would say: ‘I’ll call him soon.’ And Jon would say: ‘Do you really mean that, Prime Minister?’ And I would say: ‘No, Jon.’

It more or less worked out. We got a good deal. Gordon was able to distance himself. And soon there were plenty of other things to think about.

EIGHTEEN

TRIUMPH AND TRAGEDY

T
he schedule of today’s political leader gets ever crazier. The convenience of modern travel; the emergence of foreign affairs as a dominant part of the job; the range and scope of the events you are called upon to deal with; all this means that you can travel to four or five countries in the space of as many days. Because it’s possible, sooner or later you are expected to do so. The schedule is much more punishing than just twenty years ago.

I got used to it and have a huge advantage: I don’t suffer from jet lag. For me, if the sun is shining, it’s day; if it’s dark, it’s night. I also take a melatonin pill. Pop one of those and you get six hours’ sleep wherever you are, and in whatever time zone.

The one problem is that travel does play havoc with the digestive system. You need to eat healthily and with discipline. I am very typically British. I like to have time and comfort in the loo. The bathroom is an important room, and I couldn’t live in a culture that doesn’t respect it. Anyway, that’s probably more than you ever wanted to know. But politicians, as I frequently say, need to be seen and understood as human beings. Have a bad night’s sleep or feel lousy because your system is shot to pieces, and you perform badly. And the difference with us is that each performance is on film or reported, and there are no second takes.

I always knew the seven days starting on 2 July 2005 were going to be challenging: fly out to Singapore for the Olympics bid and spend a hectic two days there, then fly back to Gleneagles in Scotland for the G8, which that year was chaired by Britain, and so by me. Two very big challenges; two very big risks; if they failed, two very big failures.

When the Olympics open in London in 2012, many people will be remembered as having brought them to Britain, but it all started with Tessa Jowell, who at that time was the Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport. When the bid was first raised as a possibility, most of the Cabinet were dubious and the Treasury was hostile. I liked the boldness of the notion, but it didn’t seem likely we could get it – the French were runaway favourites, with other powerful bids from Madrid and New York – and after the Dome we were all a trifle nervous of anything so immense, costly and liable to turn out tricky. The athletics community, however, immediately understood its significance, came out strongly in support of a bid, advocated it intelligently and showed admirable firmness for it all the way through. Tessa was equally emphatic.

She is a great person, Tessa, just a gem. She represents the best of political loyalty, which at its best isn’t blind, but thoroughly considered. She understood that to be successful, a political party needs to be led strongly and a strong leader needs loyal supporters. If you think the leadership is wrong or fundamentally misguided, then change leaders; but don’t have a leader and not support their leadership. That way lies political debilitation. Tessa was the ultimate sensible loyalist and was with me to the end, however bitter, because she believed in my leadership. And if she hadn’t, she would have told me.

On the Olympics she was telling me it was an enormous opportunity. Think of the impact on our young people, on fitness, on sport, on the country’s self-belief. I would say, ‘Yes, but suppose we get beaten, and what’s worse, we get beaten by the French and I end up humiliated?’ One day when I had finished saying this to her in graphic terms, sitting in the Downing Street garden where, if the sun was shining, I would sit and have one-to-one meetings, she looked at me reproachfully and said, ‘I really didn’t think that was your attitude to leadership. I thought you were prepared to take a risk. And it is a big risk. Of course we may not win but at least we will have had the courage to try.’ When Tessa says this, you feel a complete wimp and rather ashamed. You know she is manipulating you, but you also know it’s a successful manipulation. ‘Oh, OK, we’ll go for it.’

The Cabinet came round, but only because I was then really going for it and JP as ever waded in manfully with support, chiding and generally prodding in a JP-like way that made everyone think that they might as well go with the flow.

In the middle of 2003 we had established a bid team under Barbara Cassani who were thoroughly professional and competent. Craig Tweedie from the IOC was an adept and skilful committee politician. In May 2004, Seb Coe took over. I had only ever really seen him on telly running his famous races against Steve Ovett. He was a great athlete; on the other hand, he had later been William Hague’s chief of staff – and that hadn’t been great. I didn’t mind in the least that he had been a Tory – he obviously wasn’t someone who was hopelessly tribal, and anyway it would help to keep everyone together politically for the bid – but to be frank I wasn’t sure of him. However, I trusted Tessa, and she was certain. It turned out to be an inspired choice. Being the athlete he was, he could instantly enlist anyone in the athletics world. Being the person he is, he did so in an intelligent, decent and persuasive way. He had none of the worst Tory traits and most of the best ones.

But it was clearly an uphill task. We weren’t even second in the running, and personally I doubted we would ever win. There was a fierce debate over whether I should go to Singapore. In the end I did, but as much because this was a crime scene I had to be present at in order to have an alibi, to avoid being criticised for not trying hard enough. By the time I got there, the bid team had been ensconced for several days. It was the usual ridiculous pantomime in these situations: we could talk about the bid, but we weren’t supposed to canvass. Try to work out the difference if you can. I couldn’t.