Right from the get-go, it’s safe to say that my newborn political career didn’t have an auspicious start. Arriving at the home of a Rochdale Labour activist, Avis, her 18-month-old grandson Teddy took one look at me and burst into tears.
Thankfully, Teddy – an adorable toddler who quickly settled down when his mum picked him up – wasn’t a template for the people of my hometown.
Even though I failed in my bid to win the Labour candidacy for the coming Rochdale by-election – I lost out to Azhar Ali, who will be a fabulous MP – along the way I met many local party activists who gave me a warm welcome after I took this leap into the deep end.
But what was most striking about the whole selection process was just how it exposes you as an individual. There is no official party apparatus to back you. You’re on your own – standing or falling on the merits of your own personal story, of your beliefs and values.
Before I took my jump into the unknown, I was warned by a good friend that selection is politics at its most raw. It’s the roughest, toughest bit of our Parliamentary system, and can feel like walking across a minefield blindfold.
During the past few days, I’ve had so many messages of support, and commiseration, from MPs and activists across the political spectrum – Labour, Tory, Lib Dem. Many told me of triumphs and failures of their own selection attempts, and the upsides and downsides of baring your soul. “Selections are the very worst part of the gig,” one MP put it.
There are local networks and nuances to navigate, histories and relationships that run deep, but can shift. And along the way, all you can do is try to speak to as many of the tiny selectorate as possible (about 350 in this case), as quickly as possible.
Twitter doesn’t matter, national media doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting yourself and your message across to the people who are going to turn out and vote. Your comms become hyperlocal, with direct text and email hugely important.
In the case of Rochdale, what made it doubly difficult for all the candidates was that the whole process was being conducted at a lightning speed. Usually selections take a few weeks, but this was done in three days (from the shortlist to the hustings and vote).
So at breakneck speed, I had to scramble to find a designer for leaflets, a printer who could print them, work out how on earth to send mass text messages, source photos, write a mini-manifesto and parcel up spreadsheets of members. Oh, and write and deliver the speech of my life – and it’s literally about your life, too.
My childhood bedroom in my mum’s council house became my campaign control room: me sitting at a desk, hammering the phone, fixing up meetings, having all those crucial conversations to tell members exactly what I believe in and why.
Recovering from flu, I lived off “chippy teas” from the local chip shop, worked from six in the morning to midnight, covering as much ground as possible. I couldn’t have done any of it without the support of local activists who helped fill the spreadsheets and vouch for my good character to their friends and colleagues.
And that’s the thing about such swift selections. Whereas I’ve built up 26 years of friendships and contacts in Westminster, unsurprisingly, none of that matters to people who have never met you before. You have to win their trust, rightly, one at a time, without much time.
The result was painful but overall the experience was so rewarding. You get to talk to people about the politics that really mean something to people’s daily lives: the tenants trying to save their blocks from demolition, the 20-somethings desperate for youth facilities, the foodbank charity helpers, the Ukrainian refugee hosts, the councillors’ plans to attract jobs, tourism and vocational education, the football club’s struggle for funds.
When the crunch came, and the votes were counted, I saw the ballot papers agonisingly but decisively pile up higher for my main opponent. Close but no cigar, as they say.
The final tally felt like a sucker punch, but politics is a team game and there was no animosity at all between we three contenders. We had all shared our nerves in the green room beforehand and chatted about how we had handled the Q&A. Now we were all united on winning this by-election for the party.
I always knew running for Parliamentary selection would be a gamble and there was a real sense of jeopardy in failing. I had agonised about leaving behind my cherished role as this newspaper’s chief political commentator, but felt I had to stop being a spectator and get on the pitch of public life. I won’t be going back to that job – it’s so important to uphold i’s reputation for trusted, non-partisan political reporting.
Some fellow journalists, some in very senior posts, privately messaged me that they wished they’d had the courage to do the same thing. Some thought I was truly mad. Many just got the fact that my hometown meant so much to me.
Among the texts I’m most proud of was one from a backbench Conservative, who was stunned that I was a Labour supporter. “I had no idea! Which is a tribute to your professionalism. Best of luck.”
I am a strong believer in the principle that political journalists – just like civil servants – must be as impartial and fair as possible. It’s not just common sense in winning people’s trust, it’s a vital duty and responsibility that comes with the job – you’re acting not for yourself, but for your readers.
It’s certainly been both discombobulating and liberating at the same time to end my decades of impartiality. It’s like opening a hermetically sealed part of my brain and after so many years of vigilance, it’s a relief to be able to pick a side.
As one former Conservative Cabinet minister texted me: “Even though I’m not going to be knocking on doors for you, I’m genuinely pleased…to see a journalist commit himself to public service in seeking office, especially at a time when too many good people, from left, right or centre, are being deterred by the toxic character of much contemporary political debate.”
And the risks to personal safety are serious. That’s all too apparent to anyone looking down on the Commons chamber from the Press Gallery, seeing the memorial plaques to both Sir David Amess and Jo Cox, both brutally murdered in their constituencies.
I lost in the end, but every one of the 68 votes I managed was precious. And I was doubly consoled after my loss by a Labour member who came up and shook my hand after the Rochdale hustings and said: “I’m an i reader. Love your columns. I voted for you.”
Just as a newspaper has to prove its worth every single day to its readers to earn their loyalty, politicians have to try to prove their worth to the voters to earn theirs. The reader, like the voter, is your judge – and often a fair one.
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