Kenneth
Roy's
Midweek

A creepy fraternity

You remember the woman – well, perhaps you don't – who floated across our screens a couple of weeks ago. Her name escapes me, but she is due a footnote in parliamentary history as the first politician to be fired live on television. There she was, banging on about the need for a leadership contest, when the interviewer interrupted her with the news that she was no longer the assistant government whip for paper clips and early morning alarm calls – that Gordo had dismissed her for disloyalty without even the intervening courtesy of an e-mail. Scarcely pausing for breath (her redundancy clearly hadn't come as much of a surprise), she said that what was wanted was 'a debate within the party' rather than the usual hothouse discussions between politicians and political journalists.
     With the obvious exception of Saturday night television, nothing could be more groan-inducing, leg-twitching and mind-numbing than the prospect of a debate within the Labour Party. There is time enough for internal discussion – five years without parole – when the people's party goes down to the cells in the spring of 2010. But she had a point about the alliance between politics and the media. Only if you have plumbed the lower depths of the lunatic asylum – the many bars at Westminster – can you fully appreciate the incestuous nature of the relationship, one ravenously feeding off the other.
     Such is the perpetual state of near-orgasmic stimulation at the centre of this artificial existence, it is a marvel that many more do not die on the job. Sadly, some do. A young acquaintance of mine, a journalist of talent and the sweetest nature, was so seduced by the life that he drank himself to an early grave. He was not alone in craving contact with politicians and their often nubile personal assistants. It is all so much low flattery and it works both ways. That is why we should not take aggressive headlines and macho political reporting at all seriously. The true nature of the relationship was more accurately represented by this week's ghastly photograph of Ed Balls in an ill-fitting football strip, the flesh of his tubby belly exposed, before the annual Journalists v Politicians match at the start of the Labour conference. The photo was revealing in another way, as an example of the creepy fraternity between the two trades.
     A few journalists – they tend to be the better ones – find politicians so repellent that they avoid them as a career choice. The outstanding champion of this rare breed was the recently deceased Charles Wheeler, a figure of Olympian detachment and steely integrity; unhappily, he ended up with Boris Johnson as his son-in-law. But the majority, including those with a reputation as tough guys, are pussy cats lightly disguised. Unlike pussy cats, they do not so much as scratch; they merely posture for their news editors.
     I am writing this a few hours before Gordo's 'make or break' speech. Afterwards, there will be a standing ovation and the pussy cats will have their stop watches at the ready and tell you exactly how long it lasts and what the duration of the applause says about the Prime Minister's political future. By the late afternoon, Gordo will either have nine months left to prove himself, or nine weeks, be gone by Christmas, or not, be facing a leadership challenge, or not, or maybe not just yet. And then, tonight, there will be a party somewhere, a certain amount of drink will be taken, indiscretions will occur, and the speculation will begin all over again. For the real news, you might as well turn to the football results. Mercifully, the outcome of the annual Journalists v Politicians fixture has not been recorded.