Lord McAlpine: he had fun while building Thatcher's Britain

Lord McAlpine, the Conservative's former deputy chairman and an ebullient fundraiser, was one of Margaret Thatcher's most crucial and devoted courtiers

Tribute to Lord McAlpine/ Bruce Anderson
Lord McAlpine Credit: Photo: Rex Features

It was an entirely appropriate beginning. Alistair McAlpine was born in The Dorchester, which his family owned and had built. Great hotels are temples of luxury and grandeur. But there can often be an element of raffishness, even loucheness. They are suitable for liaisons dangereuses (“Surprising number of Mr and Mrs Smiths booked in this weekend”). Above all, they are for enjoyment. So was Alistair.

It was a most implausible friendship. Margaret Thatcher was born above the famous grocer’s shop. There is an irony: she died in the Ritz. But to the end, she retained the values of her beginning: hard work, self-discipline, reliability, financial prudence. She had an ambiguous attitude to enjoyment. But in Alistair’s company, she could relax.

The values of the McAlpine building dynasty had a lot in common with those of Alderman Roberts. They, too, believed in hard work. Some branches of the family did not believe in universities, and sent their sons straight from public school to a building site, where they had to earn promotion from hods and hard hats to suits and the boardroom. Alistair was sent to Stowe. Despite its magnificent architecture, it has never been a school for builders. Alistair enjoyed the glorious surroundings, made use of the art department, but did little work and disliked the heartier aspects of school life.

Although he kept up his connection with the family firm, he was drawn to the arts and to politics, but more for excitement than as an outlet for fixed views. Without ever appearing pushy, no one was a better networker than the young McAlpine. He was even in Harold Wilson’s circle, and Marcia Falkender, Wilson’s secretary, tried to tempt him into the Labour party.

In those days pro-European, he did become deputy treasurer for the 'Yes’ campaign in the 1975 European referendum. That was how he met Margaret Thatcher. Wholly platonically, it was love at first sight. He became a devoted courtier, and a party treasurer.

In his life of Lady Thatcher, Charles Moore has a splendid description of Alistair circa 1975. “Young, hospitable, short, tubby and eccentric, [he] was extremely well-connected, both with traditional sources of Tory funding and with more raffish and arty worlds of which [she] knew almost nothing.” He set about raising money for her while sparing her the need to ingratiate herself with donors.

He also met another crucial adviser and courtier, Gordon Reece. Gordon was a public relations expert who actually understood the public, and she came to rely on him. He was a deeper and more complex character than his devil-may-care image might suggest. He was also more than capable of standing up to Mrs Thatcher, and did not always tell her what she wanted to hear. Gordon and Alistair became allies and friends. When Gordon’s marriage broke down, Alistair put him up in his flat. There were rumours that they were lovers. That was rubbish, but the two worked admirably well together.

Gordon’s divorce had another consequence. A man of simple tastes, he could live with entire contentment, as long as there was a constant supply of champagne and cigars. That is not easy to organise when the lawyers are in plundering mode, but Alistair found a way. Tory Central Office gave Gordon a modest salary and a gloriously immodest expense account. The then deputy chairman who had to sign off the extravagances was Janet Young, a North Oxford version of Margaret Thatcher and not immune to puritanism. When she was on Oxfordshire County Council, there was a proposal to build a swimming pool. Janet queried it: “Is this necessary? There has always been room in the river for my daughters.”

When Janet saw Gordon’s expenses, she was shocked. “Janet,” said Alistair, “do you have a car?” “Yes.” “What do you run it on?” “Petrol, of course.” “Well, think of Gordon as a car – a very powerful car – that runs on cigars and champagne.”

Gordon and Alistair had another vital role, which they shared with Tim Bell of the advertising agency Saatchi and Saatchi.

Margaret Thatcher was much less self-confident than her public appearances would suggest. The Iron Lady often agonised as she was putting on her armour. A few hours before a triumphant party conference speech, secretaries would be collapsing from exhaustion, speech writers would have been tossed and gored, while the Lady protested that she had never seen such a bad draft and seemed in a mood to work until she had to go on the platform. She always needed an entourage of people whom she could entirely trust, whose devotion would never falter – with whom she could unwind. In her own phrase, Alistair, Gordon and Tim became her “laughing boys”. As much as their more formal activities, this was of immense importance. It helped Thatcher to be Thatcher.

Alistair enjoyed laughing. His duties never burdened him. He seemed to have no difficulty in raising all the money that the Party needed.

There was a blip after 1979. Until then, Peter Thorneycroft had appeared happy with the role of non-executive party chairman. But once Mrs Thatcher was embroiled in the premiership, he asserted himself and closed down the fiefdoms that he had not controlled. The Conservative Research Department was moved into Central Office; Alistair was eased out.

That did not last. Lord Thorneycroft, the patron saint of the Tory Dries, the man who had resigned from the Macmillan government because of excessive public spending, announced that he was suffering from rising damp: he thought that Mrs Thatcher was squeezing the economy too tightly. She sacked him.

Back in charge of the party treasury, Alistair had a valuable aide. In those days, most senior industrialists had done military service. Joshing them about the inadequate size of their cheque, Maj-Gen Sir Brian Wyldbore-Smith would speak to them as if he was a CO upbraiding an idle subaltern. The cheques kept coming.

Indeed, Alistair would always say that his problem was not raising money, it was spotting wrong ’uns whose cash needed to be gently deflected. In those days, the Party could accept foreign donations, and there was discreet private plane traffic from Hong Kong.

At the 1983 election, Alistair had another unusual task. Labour produced a manifesto that Gerald Kaufman, then a Labour frontbencher, described as the longest suicide note in history. That did not complicate the Tories’ task. Gordon Reece became Labour HQ’s best customer, highlighting passages in the manifesto before sending the copies to Lord Superstore and the Duke of Omnium. Their cheques arrived by return of post, and even the general was impressed by the amounts.

It was all so easy. The party paid for one newspaper advertisement, comparing and contrasting the Labour and Communist Party manifesto; there were no contrasts. By the final week, that election was won. So – without telling their leader – Alistair and Cecil Parkinson (the new chairman) decided to cancel all further advertising and make a healthy profit.

This was a high point in Alistair’s life. As one of Margaret Thatcher’s closest friends, he was helping her to make history, while still having plenty of time for other pleasures. He took a National Trust house at West Green, he built up an eclectic collection of works of art and a serious wine collection. He kept some of his cellar at the Garrick Club, which did not have a bad wine list of its own. It could not equal Alistair’s first growths.

By the mid-Eighties, it seemed as if Thatcherism would go on for ever, and Thatcherites could enjoy themselves.

Every year, Alistair would give late-night parties at the party conference. Tables would strain under the weight of lobsters, langoustines and oysters. Gordon Reece could not have drunk all the fizz: Alistair still had plenty left. Alexander Hesketh and Nicholas Soames would try to break the world crustacean-eating record that they had set the previous year. Denis Thatcher would usually be there, on scotch rather than champagne, discoursing on favourite topics such as sporting links with South Africa and crime in south London: somehow, he thought that there was a connection.

On another occasion, Alistair and I were staying with Alexander Hesketh. Charles Powell was there, but had to go to Chequers to help finalise the re-shuffle – and he would not divulge any of its contents. So when he left, Alistair and I thought that we would ambush his wife, Carla: perhaps she knew something. She was by the swimming pool, we each seized a foot to tickle it. Alas, her yells were so loud that we had to desist. Happy days.

The 1983 parliament was not an easy one, yet the Tories still won again in 1987, and by some 100 votes. The Liberal/SDP Alliance was in retreat, Neil Kinnock was making no impact. The economy was buoyant. “Ten more years,” they chanted in the party conference hall. Why not?

There were lots of reasons why not. The economy turned nasty. So did many Tory MPs. Thatcher was incapable of responding adequately: just the old records, now wearing out. With brutal suddenness, she was gone.

Margaret Thatcher never recovered. During her last few years, she was rarely contented. In America, she was always feted. But that was not enough. She wanted a country to run.

Alistair was dissatisfied, too. He moved to Australia, then to Italy. But there was no focus. His marriages broke down, his health suffered. I believe that there had always been a streak of depression in his make-up. That became more apparent. Margaret had given his life a meaning. Thereafter, there was a sense of aimlessness.

He had never been a Tory, only a Thatcherite, and never forgave the party for how it treated her. He always bitched about John Major, which was unworthy of him. This cut him off from a lot of political friendships. He drifted towards Jimmy Goldsmith’s Referendum Party and the ultra-Thatcherite irredentists. Even his record came under question. When he was chairman, Chris Patten would grumble: “If Alistair was such a genius, why did I inherit a party which was broke?” By the end of the Eighties, he probably had taken his eye off the ball.

Thereafter, there was never really a ball worth hitting. Finally, there was that horrible allegation about paedophilia. When it broke, in November 2012, he was in Italy. It is hard to prove a negative. He must have feared that he would never be clear from “no smoke without fire” sniggerers. Fortunately, he was able to clear his name, though the whole wretched business probably shortened his life.

He deserved better. At a most perilous juncture in British history, he was part of the personal infrastructure that helped Margaret Thatcher to save this country. He was also a life-enhancing character. Few if any men who played such an important part in politics were also so good at dispensing fun. We should salute his passing.