“I woke up tired and fed up, and wishing I could just stay in bed
and tell the whole lot of them to fuck off.” Thus began many of
Alastair Campbell’s days as press secretary for Tony Blair. The job
nearly drove Campbell to a second nervous breakdown (he famously went
insane in 1986), and had him dragged before the House of Commons over
WMDs. And almost every day he sat down at his
diary and faithfully
chronicled his own sweet patch of hell.
The first installment of his diaries was published late this summer.
Many reasons exist not to read this book. It’s a slog. You
won’t understand much of it unless you’re a complete political junkie,
and it’s full of British terms that make no sense. But there are four
reasons to read it: (1) It shows how skilled politicians work;
(2) it shows what a lot of fruitcakes world leaders are (Clinton and
Yeltsin comparing foot size, Gadhafi painting his fingernails, etc.);
(3) Diana appears; and (4) it could get you laid.
That’s right, if you follow my advice, this book will likely get you
laid. (If you’re more interested in Diana than sex—for
many, a valid alternative—flip through pages 150–154 and
230–248 in a bookstore.)
Here’s what to do: Find a bar that caters to expat Brits—the
George & Dragon in Fremont should do just fine—plunk yourself
down, and read while drinking your beer slooo-wly. (It’s a
long book.) Order something sane, like Tennent’s or Stella, not
Guinness (too Irish). When something confuses you—and it
will—ask the nearest cute-looking British accent. Repeat until
too drunk to read, then go home.
At the moment, Brits are so relieved when they find an American
who’ll talk sensibly about politics that they’re starting to find it
sexy. Because of this, and because this book will take you a week of
nights in the pub to read, my guess is you’ll get lucky.
One day in 1994, Blair and his mates realized they were probably
going to win the next election. Blair turned the “Bunsen-burner smile”
on his friend Campbell and asked him to be press secretary for Labour.
When Labour won, Campbell found himself in a role more powerful than
that of any American press secretary. Blair confided
everything in him. Others, including Wesley Clark and Bill
Clinton, also took him as confidant. At one point, Campbell found
himself advising Clark on whether the U.S. should bomb the Bosnian
Socialist Party headquarters. Later, he was on the inside when Clark
very quietly almost caused Armageddon over the Pristina airport. “I
could just about stand up in Commons and say there’s a bit of a mess
about who controls the airport,” Blair tells Campbell. “But I cannot
defend starting World War Three.”
In Blair, Campbell found a reasonable, even moral man, a politician
who knew which parts of socialism to keep and which to throw out
(technically Labour is a socialist party). Unlike in American politics,
where yes-men rule, Blair surrounded himself with people who liked to
tell him to fuck off. “Every leader has to be able to let go a little,”
Blair says. Blair slagged his people off, too. (“Fuck off, Alastair,”
is a recurring theme.) The diaries often read like a little platonic
love tale set in the halls of power, where “fuck off” means “I love
you.”
Clinton snakes in and out, with his enormous feet, his hokey
political wisdom, and his stupendous ability to wreck any timetable. At
one point, he simply wanders off, with full Hollywood entourage, to go
to McDonald’s. Bill is Alastair’s idol. But the idol falls after Blair
decides ground troops are needed in Bosnia. The decision is a moral
one, made after Blair visits a refugee camp, but Clinton goes
ballistic, assuming the stance is a sly attack on him. Campbell comes
away shaken. “It was hard to understand why Clinton, the ultimate
empathetic politician, did not seem to get this in the same way as we
did.”
World leaders are at least as nutty as the rest of us, usually
nuttier. We hear about Boris Yeltsin trading shoes with Clinton. We
also get Mo Mowlam, the British secretary of state for Northern
Ireland, greeting Campbell in the bathtub “with nothing but a big
plastic hat on. She seemed totally unbothered by my seeing her… naked
without suds.” And dealing with Donald Rumsfeld, it was often difficult
to tell when his actions were strategy and when they were “a fuckup.”
“He just didn’t get other people’s politics at all.”
Blair’s particular insanity is casual clothes. He turns up in
strange slippers, lilac-colored pants, a blue smock, bizarre Nicole
Farhi shirts… at one point, he greets Campbell wearing nothing but
yellow-and-green underwear. “I said what a prat he looked. He said I
was just jealous—how many prime ministers have got a body like
this?”
Vladimir Putin’s the sane man of the book. Clinton may be Campbell’s
hero, but it’s the Russian president’s criticism of America that rings
true. “[Y]ou have to understand that September 11 changed their
psychology…. Before, anti-Americanism was just an irritant… now it
has become a threat.” Putin says that Americans believe anyone who
disagrees with them is against them. “I cannot agree with the Americans
on everything. My public won’t allow it.” The rest of the world feels
constrained by international opinion. America does not, and this scares
Putin. “There are bad people in this administration,” the Russian
president tells Blair, “and you know it.”
As Blair falls into the role of apologist for Bush, Campbell begins
to look less like Blair’s good friend and more like a mere footman. His
asthma flares up and his marriage deteriorates as he edges toward
another breakdown. Finally, after a long talk with Clinton, he decides
to quit. And does. The book’s a good lesson in how politics makes good
men chew up other good men while bad men thrive.
Now, go get laid. 