Until last Friday, had even the most insightful political pundit offered to
name the men and women who will lead the Conservative Party 20 years from
now, I would have regarded that person as one member short of a Cabinet.
Yes, there might have been a time when one could reel off recent presidents
of the Oxford Union as future prime ministers, but those days are gone, I
would have said. Now it is nigh on impossible to see the next leaders coming.
I would have been wrong. Last Friday the scales fell from my eyes when I read,
in this newspaper, that David Cameron had appointed Andrew Feldman as chief
executive of the Conservative Party. Cameron had met Feldman at Brasenose
College, Oxford, where “the pair helped to organise its May ball”. Twenty
years later they were organising the Conservative Party. It seems the best
way to prepare for organising a party is ... to organise a party.
This week I set off for Oxford to meet the latest Brasenose Ball Committee, to
get in early and shake hands with the men and women who will one day occupy
the Tory front bench.
The college hustings to decide the president of the 2009 Brasenose ball took
place in the spring term. It was an unusually animated affair, I was told,
chiefly because the event will coincide with the college's 500th
anniversary. This ball is going to be big.
“It was brutal,” said Catherine Hill, 19, a first-year law student who was one
of the candidates. “Apparently it was one of the longest hustings they had
ever had.”
In her manifesto, Hill described herself as a safe pair of hands, a candidate
with a proven track record. “During the sixth form,” she wrote, “I was the
person people turned to when something needed to be done on time.”
Duncan Turnbull, 19, a PPE student and rival candidate, said: “The big thing
was how you were going to make the ball stand out. One of the answers to
that was a champagne reception; I wanted people to look back and think: that
college may have good food and fireworks but Brasenose put on a bloody good
champagne reception.”
Towards the end of a gruelling interrogation, Amreet Kang, 19, an economics
and management student from Birmingham, demanded that all the candidates
give a solo performance of Total Eclipse of the Heart. “I wanted to know
what they would do if the sound went out,” he said.
Hill still regards the incident as quite traumatic. Turnbull also seems keen
to forget about it, although apparently he gave a moving performance,
getting down on one knee and singing to a student called Glen in the front
row.
He won a landslide victory in the subsequent poll. “I think there was a
combination of reasons,” said Kang. “One is that he runs his own business.”
Turnbull began selling rare-breed pigs on the internet at the age of 13 and
has since built a successful meat company, paying his way through university
with the profits.
Soon Turnbull was making efforts to reach out and listen to his new
constituency, holding a referendum on the theme for the ball. He appointed
an 18-strong committee, including some of his former rivals.
Seven members of this committee were waiting to meet me in a room overlooking
Brasenose chapel. They were charming, intelligent and mainly middle-class;
most, though not all, were public-school educated. Was I staring at the
future of the Conservative Party?
One of the early tasks, they said, was attracting sponsorship by establishing
a relationship with big firms in the City. The overall budget is yet to be
agreed, and not all the plans can be revealed at this stage, lest they be
stolen by rival party organisers. But marketing would be extremely important.
I had to ask. “Are any of you doing this with an eye on one day leading the
Conservatives?” I said.
There was an awkward silence. “I don't think so,” said Turnbull. “It's just
like getting involved in anything else at university.” Of course, this is
precisely the response that one would expect from a future leader of Her
Majesty's Opposition. The Times columnist Camilla Cavendish was a
student at Brasenose in the late 1980s, when Cameron and Feldman were
organising the May ball. “I didn't even know they had organised it,” she
said. “They weren't really involved in politics. That's the whole point.
Cameron wasn't climbing up the greasy pole.”
Cameron was in charge of procuring entertainment for the ball and won plaudits
for securing the services of Dr Feelgood, a pub-rock band from Canvey Island
in Essex. Speaking from outside the London Astoria, where he was setting up
a concert, Chris Fenwick, the band's veteran manager, said: “I do remember
the gig. We were on with Toots and the Maytals. But do I remember the spotty
student who paid us on the night? How can I put it? No.”
Was it not quite a coup to have attracted Dr Feelgood to Brasenose? “If
someone dangles enough money in front of us, we'll do the somersaults,”
Fenwick replied.
Francis Elliott, the deputy political editor of The Times, who co-wrote
a recent biography of Cameron, opined that the friendly, non-adversarial
atmosphere at Brasenose had probably served as a “decompression chamber” for
the future Conservative leader, where he could meet people from outside his
narrow social set.
“It was mixing but not brutal mixing,” he said. “Boris Johnson went from Eton
to Balliol, which was a left-wing college. It was quite a shock. That's not
how it was for Cameron. He wasn't forced to be a Tory boy. He could fit in
and melt into the background. That's very much the story of his rise.”
So, if the Brasenose College Quincentenary Ball (www.bncball.co.uk) is in safe
hands, what can one predict for the current members of the ball committee?
In private, some admitted a slight interest in the Conservative Party. Chris
Adams, 19, a comprehensive-educated classics student from North Yorkshire,
thought that if he became involved with any party it would “probably be the
left wing of the Tory party - the one-nation thing”.
Oliver Field-Johnson, 19, an Old Harrovian maths student, was hoping “to do
something in the City for ten years, then go into politics”. He was
concerned that British politics has become shallow: “Everyone is doing it
for the votes rather than what's good for the country,” he said. He felt
strongly about plenty of political questions but was reluctant to say what
they were. “It's a sensitive issue, the whole Cameron thing,” he said. “I
worry about being on his path, going to the same college.”
The rest were harder to pin down. When asked what she would do if she were
running the country 20 years from now, Emma Radford, a first-year classics
student, said: “Oh gosh, I have no idea.” Alice Gledhill (third year
classics, and Brasenose ball's chief designer) sounded more promising. Her
role, she said, was “to create a different world”. That sounded like a bold
manifesto for change if ever I heard one.
But surely Turnbull is a Conservative prime minister in waiting? “Definitely
not,” he said. Yet he has fought and won a hustings, I persisted. But for
the singing, that might have been the selection process for a Tory MP.
“The election is a small part of my job. It's all about delivering,” he said.
Isn't that what David Cameron would have said 21 years ago? “I suppose he
might have,” said Turnbull, thoughtfully. “I think he probably was
ambitious, but secretly. I don't believe he didn't have political
aspirations.”
If and when the Brasenose Ball Committee takes over the running of this
country, we can expect fireworks. The administration will seek funding from
big business for service provision. Current immigration controls may well be
scrapped in favour of a so-called “ticketing system”. And we can all expect
a bloody good champagne reception.
Wannabe the US President?
Join Skull and Bones, the secret society of Yale University. Each year 15
graduates are invited to become members: among them have been George W. Bush
and five members of his Administration, his father, President George Bush,
and William Howard Taft, the 27th US President. John Kerry, the failed
presidential candidate, was a member, too.
Wannabe a top journalist?
Join the Oxford University Conservative Association. Lord Rees-Mogg, a former
member, would go on to edit The Times; Nick Robinson, a former president, is
now political editor of the BBC.
Wannabe a US entertainer?
It's harder now, but until the mid-Nineties the Mickey Mouse Club was the way.
Anyone could join - members signed up for their pair of mouse ears, which
they wore while watching the TV show of the same name. A more exclusive
group of children appeared on the show itself. Among the early members was
Annette Funicello, who became a bikini-clad movie star. More recent alumni
have included Britney Spears, Justin Timberlake, Christina Aguilera and Ryan
Gosling, the Oscar-nominated actor.
Wannabe an actor?
Join the Cambridge University dramatic society, Footlights. Former members
include Douglas Adams, Stephen Fry, John Cleese, Emma Thompson and even
Germaine Greer. You don't have to attend Cambridge to join, though, as
Footlights now also admits students from Anglia Ruskin University.
Wannabe a wild Tory?
Join the Bullingdon Club, the hard-drinking, white-tie-and-tails-wearing,
restaurant-trashing association that was satirised by Evelyn Waugh in
Decline and Fall. Former members include Alan Clark and Boris Johnson. David
Cameron was a member, too - a fact that he would prefer people to forget.
Wannabe an Aussie singer?
Join the cast of Neighbours. Some acting experience may be required, but not
much. Alumni include Kylie Minogue, Jason Donovan, Natalie Imbruglia and
Delta Goodrem.
