On reflection, David Owen was probably too “leading man handsome” to help the SDP break the mould of British politics. That’s right, I’ve been re-watching old BBC election night broadcasts again. This time, it’s back to the Seventies and Eighties for Ted Heath’s miscalculation, Jim Callaghan’s sunny (albeit misplaced) optimism and Margaret Thatcher’s gradual descent into using the royal “we”.
The picture quality on YouTube marks a noted decline around 1983, while the rumours are true — the Seventies really were a red-letter decade for makers of anything that could conceivably be plastered in beige or grey. And I’m not just talking about Alec Douglas-Home.
But the remarkable aspect is how little has changed. I mean, if you wanted to take your mind off war in the Middle East, an energy crisis at home and a Tory leader with questionable communication skills, I wouldn’t recommend watching either 1974 election.
I won’t pretend there’s been no progress. For example, women now exist, something that wouldn’t be immediately obvious to casual viewers at the time. The coverage in Northern Ireland is no longer solely about bomb threats. While there was a surprising amount of booing and heckling at various counts, a counterweight to the idea that decorum has declined in recent decades.
Margaret Beckett shared more than a passing resemblance to Cleopatra in the contest of October 1974
And yet I wish I weren’t so superficial that my main takeaway from the more-than 75 hours of viewing is that no matter how far back in time I travelled, Alan Beith never started to look younger. Before you accuse me of ageism, let it be known that Margaret Jackson (now, Beckett) shared more than a passing resemblance to Cleopatra as she defeated Dick Taverne in October 1974 in glorious black-and-white.
But the theme really is more about continuity than change. Take Tony Benn and Ken Livingstone blaming everyone but themselves for the Labour Left’s calamitous 1983 result. Or minor parties moaning about the first-past-the-post electoral system. And would-be cabinet ministers declining to tell Robin Day whether they’d accept a specific role in government.
Ah, Mr Day. The bow-tie. The faux chumminess. Never has a persona been more thoroughly popped than when an American journalist accused him of resorting to cliché in the early hours of February 1974. Seek it out.
A special mention too for David Butler, the godfather of swing, who interrupted first David Dimbleby and then Alistair Burnett more often than John Humphrys on methamphetamines. To clarify, I watched the elections in reverse, only making an exception for 1974, which in my defence is really a double-header. And I now know why. By watching them back to front, I could still credibly claim that, like an addict, I could stop at any time. Had I begun in 1945, it would be to admit I was going all the way. I’m not prepared to do that, just yet.
I certainly got into some bad habits around 1987. Googling various characters to see whether they were still alive. Marvelling at Denis Healey’s eyebrows. Giggling at every utterance of a certain Barney Hayhoe, a moment of comic relief bested only by the time the Dutch government welcomed Thatcher’s 1979 victory for her pro-European stance.
Having watched 13 elections, perhaps the most remarkable statistic is that in precisely none of them did a party in the minority go on to win a parliamentary majority. In 1979, Callaghan had lost his majority, as had John Major by 1997. Were Keir Starmer to secure even a majority of one, he would be the first Opposition leader to do so since Heath in 1970. That would be something to re-watch.
I, like Taylor Swift, am in my mid-thirties
In his book A History of Modern Britain, Andrew Marr introduces Eric Heffer as having once begun a speech in the Commons with the immortal words, “I, like Jesus Christ, am the son of a carpenter.”
It is in this spirit I note that Taylor Swift has this week joined me in being 34 years old (celebrating with her pals Blake Lively and Gigi Hadid, above). With a six-month head-start, I can say it’s a tricky age. At 34 you are proveably mid-thirties in the way that 33 maintains a frisson of plausible deniability. It’s also an age where Arsene Wenger would have long restricted you to one-year contract extensions.
Still, it’s been a big year for both of us. My West End Final newsletter won an award and surpassed 100,000 subscribers, while Swift was named Time Person of the Year and contributed to US GDP through her Eras tour.
But comparison is the thief of joy. It is important to run your own race, Taylor.
