Diary – 7 October 2005

A decade ago, as president of the Board of Trade, I was responsible for competition policy. I could refer or not refer. I could accept advice or reject it. In the background — but not far away — were Parliament and public scrutiny. How times change. The Office of Fair Trading is now its own creature. Ministers have washed their proverbial hands; quangocrats rule. So what is going on in this citadel of devolved power? For months we in the press and publishing world have been worried about a forthcoming OFT opinion about our traditional method of distribution, whereby wholesalers are granted a monopoly of defined areas, provided they distribute publications to all outlets; a system that is to the advantage of the consumer who may enjoy magazines of modest if growing circulation, and which protects small newsagents. You will appreciate the importance of the cause. After months of tetchy dialogue the case officer leaves. A disappointing decision is expected. Sir John Vickers, director-general, leaves at the end of September. The due day dawns and the ‘no news today’ signs are up. No one knows why. Friday says goodbye to the director-general amid a rising tide of rumours about internal dissent. What a way to treat a major British industry. When I was there, DTI officials wanted to submit the ailing Observer to this time- and business-consuming machinery. I refused and allowed its sale to proceed. I knew what delay could have done to an important organ of public opinion. But in those days ministers were ministers.

Off to shoot partridges with Christopher Bland for the first outing of the season. I should have submitted myself to a refresher at shooting school. Humiliated by William Waldegrave’s proficiency, I was reminded of earlier embarrassments. At the end of each drive it is usual for the guns to collect up their birds. This never took long in my case, so to convey an atmosphere of activity I took to collecting up my spent cartridge cases. It was a short step to calculating birds shot for cartridges fired. After remorseless bullying from Max Hastings, slowly but steadily I climbed from one in ten to one in four. On Saturday disaster struck. I was down to one in 31. On the last drive out I sighed with relief and clocked in with one in four again.

Monday and it’s off to the Tory party conference. Blackpool is special. Its heart is working class and proud of it. It’s authentic, in your face, no mucking about. Have a good time, luv. Millions of our fellow citizens do and did. The Tories will never govern Britain from their southern redoubts without those people, or ever deserve to.

I walked from the Imperial to the Winter Gardens. There were changes. The hotel foyer at lunchtime was virtually deserted. I remember it being packed. The Palm Court offered tables aplenty. The fringe has taken over. Earnest groups of activists submit themselves to an array of pressure groups. I set off for the conference. The glistening fascias and the crammed carparks have long been there, but here was something different. The stately elegance of a Rolls-Royce with an RAJ number-plate hinted at past imperial glories. Next, Claridges, with three of the letters hanging askew as though curiously reluctant to permit too close an association with its London namesake. A large umbrella is approaching me with Oliver Letwin underneath. Curious, I thought, as it’s not raining: perhaps this pessimism is symptomatic of the Tory malaise. Ten minutes later it’s pouring. Letwin is obviously a man to watch. I speed up as I am late for Francis Maude. I hurry past a crowded Italian restaurant. I fear for the conference attendance, but feel relieved that delegates’ proclaimed Euroscepticism is more in the mind than in the stomach. I need not have feared. The hall is full, unlike Labour’s conference, where areas had to be curtained off to hide the empty seats and reluctant journalists were herded on to the floor for the same purpose.

The Winter Gardens is the place to speak. Its atmosphere is that of the Victorian music hall and there is none of the deadening effect of the acoustically harmonious modern equivalent of Brighton or Bournemouth. This is a place for the oratory of yesteryear, as Malcolm Rifkind so eloquently exploited. What a joy to see a professional at work. I ease my way to one side to look back at the audience I have so often addressed. I could never forget great moments I have shared with them. Nothing has changed, but is this the face of a Britain that the Conservatives have changed beyond recognition? The new generation are there, but why do so many of the men wear black suits, conveying an impression of a hybrid between a Masonic conference and a gathering of undertakers’ assistants?

The Daily Telegraph had invited me to share a platform with two new MPs, David Gauke and Nick Gibb, and an MEP, Daniel Hannan. I’m delighted to see my former constituents from Henley in the audience. We discuss localism and the devolution of power from central to local government. I strongly believe in unitary authorities with directly elected mayors, and choice provides a valuable kick up the butt to less energetic or unresponsive public officials. The party needs to take care, however. Choice has very little meaning to those without the strength or resources to exercise it. We must never be a party whose policy accepts that some schools, for example, must be allowed to decline in the hope that parent choice will make them reform. Our unemployed queues and our prisons are full of the failures of our education system.

After the round of parties, time for bed. As I left the foyer an enthusiastic young man grabbed my hand. ‘I just want you to know, all those years, how you inspired me. You, Margaret Thatcher, Jeffrey Archer.’ Oh well, it was late at night.

Back to London after breakfasting with George Osborne, now embarking on a political career aged 34. It reminds me of 1966 and my election for Tavistock aged 33. I envy him. A cheery farewell to the local Lancastrian police who were widely praised for their friendliness and courtesy. Half an hour wait at Preston in a well-stocked café offering freshly baked baguettes. Do you remember those awful sandwiches so curled at the edges that they positively sneered at you for eating them? Virgin trains, privatisation with friendly staff, modern rolling-stock and four minutes early. What a revolution it all was!

Back in the office I read the press release announcing the shift of power in Haymarket Publishing Group to a younger generation. There were three of us in 1957. Nearly 50 years later there are 2,000 spread across the world. Soon I shall be the only one of the founding fathers left. Long may it continue. Change is good for you. I’m against it.