The politician's tale

Roy Hattersley's Memoirs are merrily told, full of good-humoured anecdotes and refreshingly undogmatic.

Who Goes Home? by Roy Hattersley

Little, Brown, pounds 17.99

It might not be a coincidence that Roy Hattersley shows signs of being a bolder thinker now than he ever seemed during his many years in (and out of) office. His Memoir, a good-humoured and not very demanding account of his life and times, describes a decent fellow motivated by a straightforward sense of social justice. But it also shows how irrelevant that sense can be when exposed to the contortions of modern political life. The early chapters reveal a man eager to change the world (or Britain, at least). But at the end we are left with the impression of someone too busy to be zealous. The abiding image is of Roy squatting in a lavatory in Brussels revising the proofs of his book while other ministers debated the world oil crisis.

Not everyone will remember that it was Hattersley who ordered troops on to the streets of Northern Ireland (to defend fearful Catholics); fewer will recall that he was the British negotiator outwitted by Iceland in the Cod War. Otherwise, this is a neat anthology, merrily told, of familiar scenes: the rise of Kinnock, the fall of Militant and so on. It is nice to reminded that the birth of the SDP was in part provoked by the sad attitude of the Labour Party to the EEC: fervent Europeans such as Roy Jenkins could no longer relax in a party whose whips ordered members to vote against it.

The blurb announces that, as a controversial novelty, Hattersley is not looking to avenge old slights. He is indeed refreshingly willing to admit mistakes. But the thumbnail is still sharp on his character sketches. Out of loyalty to a long-standing left-wing convention, he is tougher on friends than foes: unfashionably rude about Wilson ("I took it for granted that he would cheat if I gave him the chance"), and scornful of Benn and Scargill. Healey, we learn, whiled away cabinet meetings slicing up newspapers with a special razor.

Of course, it is nice to learn that top politics is a matter of keeping oneself amused during tedious meetings. But none of these tart asides are backed up by any very thorough engagement with affairs of state. Hattersley's breezy anecdotal manner makes him seem a nice guy, but precludes much in the way of detail. Inevitably, he declines to spill any decent-sized beans. Nor can he shake off the reflex, endemic among season-ticket holders in Westminster, to pander. On the miners' strike, for instance, he asserts: "I am emotionally and intellectually opposed to strikes." But two sentences later he says: "I was sure that a strike was right and necessary." It is possible that both these things are true, but it takes more than two sentences to explain why. He finds himself in an even more awkward straddle when it comes to his worse-than-embarrassing response to the Rushdie affair (he proposed that Rushdie withdraw the paperback). Some of the vilification he suffered was unfair - it is not a crime to listen to your constituents, even if they are Asian, and Hattersley was guilty of little more than a mollifying gesture - but some of it wasn't. He is clear on the principle - "publication should never be prohibited by law or prevented by intimidation" - but remains reluctant to let this follow through into policy.

Again, on the night of Major's victory in the Tory leadership stakes he meets "John" (presumably David) Hunt, who swears that Major will be "one of the great Prime Ministers". Hattersley is not impressed. "If you believe that," he asks, "why did you vote for Michael Heseltine less than eight hours ago?" This is a cracking line, and perhaps it is mean to turn it on the author. But one of the heroes of Hattersley's book is Tony Crosland, who is presented as the charismatic last hope of British socialism. When he died, says Hattersley, "British egalitarian socialism died with him". It is a nice tribute. But one has to ask: if he believes that, why did he not vote for Crosland in 1976 (he voted for Callaghan)? Does politics have to require people to vote against their better judgement quite so often? When Hattersley broke the news, by the way, Crosland said "fuck off", then invited him to dinner.

These compromises are a sorry sight, and a bad advertisement for career politicians. But at least Hattersley's equivocations are well-intentioned, expressive of a desire to be emollient; and though easy to satirise they are probably preferable to vain dogma. It's a sad story, really, though one disguised by the author's dogged cheeriness: Hattersley rose to prominence in a party too left-wing for his taste, and leaves one too far to the right. But perhaps this is just the reflex view of a politician who spent his best years as a shadow. So much easier to oppose than to propose.