by antiaristo » Tue Aug 09, 2005 6:09 pm
For those less than familiar with British politics, this obituary will give an idea of why some of us feel we have lost a friend.<br><br><!--EZCODE ITALIC START--><em>The many myths of Robin Cook<br>I urged caution over Iraq, but he was determined to oppose the war<br><br>David Clark<br>Tuesday August 9, 2005<br><br>Guardian<br><br>Of all the things that have been said about Robin Cook over the last few days, the one that has made me smile the most is the suggestion that he didn't suffer fools gladly. Thankfully for me, that wasn't true. I hadn't been working for him very long when I accompanied him by train to a Labour conference in Birmingham. My first mistake was to persuade him, against his better judgment, to get off at the wrong station, leaving us miles from the venue. My second was to turn away as some local youths made off with his briefcase and the only copy of the speech he was about to give. <br>If he had sacked me on the spot I wouldn't have complained. But realising my distress, his first instinct was to reassure me that everything would be OK. When we eventually arrived at the conference, late and flustered, he delivered a barnstorming, off-the-cuff speech far better than the one in his missing briefcase. Robin was certainly capable of being irritable and abrupt under pressure, but he also had an immense capacity for personal kindness and understanding that stood in sharp contrast to his public image. <br><br>This came across in the consideration he showed to colleagues on all matters, personal and political. He was so upset by the loss of several of them at the recent general election that he organised a special dinner in their honour. It was a typical gesture of comradeship, a trait that conflicted with another aspect of his reputation: the idea that he was a loner. This label was the one he probably resented the most. He took pride in a strong collegiate ethos, telling me when I joined his staff that I should think of myself as working for the Labour party first and him second. I can't think of many politicians who would even appreciate the distinction. <br><br>Even so, it wasn't difficult for those who knew Robin to understand why people saw him as they did. For reasons that have as much to do with personality as intellectual choice, he never developed the habit of gathering round him a closed circle of political intimates who would do his bidding. He disliked factionalism, but was in any case too self-contained to relate to others in that way. Consequently, although he had many admirers, there were no Cookites in the way that there are Brownites and Blairites. <br><br>One of the keys to understanding this became apparent to me several years ago when Robin confided that he often found it difficult to overcome his own natural shyness in dealings with others. This translated into a certain awkwardness that was too easily mistaken for aloofness or arrogance. It is certainly true that he had immense intellectual self-confidence, yet he always seemed to doubt his ability to inspire affection and respect in others. In this he sought constant reassurance. As foreign secretary, he was so anxious to live up to the expectations of high office that he adopted a style that was stiff and unnatural. His detractors put this down to pomposity; it was the opposite. <br><br>The myths about Robin abound, not least in relation to other senior Labour figures. Hate is one of the most overused words in political journalism, and I heard Robin express personal animosity towards very few politicians, and none of the ones you might imagine. There is no doubt that he found Gordon Brown's behaviour exasperating at times, but I was often struck by how generous he would be in private about his rival's strengths and instincts as a politician. There was genuine admiration there, affection even. <br><br>Much the same could also be said about his attitude to Tony Blair. Here his overwhelming emotion was one of disappointment that Blair's immense talents could not be allied to a more progressive purpose. When I last saw Robin, 10 days before his death, the prime minister had just called on judges to respond to the public's desire to get tough on terrorism and he was shaking his head in disbelief that a trained barrister could be so contemptuous of judicial independence. Yet there was no personal animus, even after the bitter disappointment of his demotion. Robin's lack of rancour was one of the things I admired about him most. <br><br>Not all of the myths about Robin counted against him. The widely held belief that he read the Scott report in two hours cemented his reputation, but it also obscured the real source of his effectiveness as a politician. The reason he was able to master its contents so quickly was that he had familiarised himself with the inquiry's proceedings in such detail that he was able to anticipate which sections would contain the most damning conclusions. In this, the truth is scarcely less impressive than the fiction. <br><br>He liked to prepare thoroughly for every political encounter, setting aside most of the day if he was appearing on Question Time, for example. Part of this was intellectual pride, but a larger part still was his desire to take his audience seriously. He was never happy simply to repeat prepared lines on the issue of the day. He always wanted to understand the issues for himself and give his own thoughts in his own words. That's why he came across as independent and authentic. He was both. <br><br>One thing that has been remarked on that no one should doubt was his political courage. In February 2003, when Robin first told me that he might have to quit the government over Iraq, I urged caution. We both agreed that the threat from Iraq had been grossly inflated and that Saddam was being effectively contained. But I said that the invading troops would probably unearth some rusting stockpiles of chemical weapons left over from the first Gulf war and that Blair would be able to claim vindication. His allies were already briefing that those who opposed the war would put themselves "on the wrong side of history". <br><br>Robin agreed with my assessment, but dismissed it as a consideration: "This war is wrong and I will oppose it in any case." Those who knew him well will agree that by putting his intellectual reputation on the line he risked losing something far dearer to him than his ministerial limousine. That was the true measure of his courage. <br><br>Robin Cook was never allowed to realise his full potential as a politician, but he did meet that one essential standard of greatness. History is made by those prepared to risk being on the wrong side of it. Those content to go with its flow may achieve high office as a result, but they will never be anything more than passengers. In this, he set an example that others would do well to follow.</em><!--EZCODE ITALIC END--><br>· David Clark was an adviser to Robin Cook from 1994 to 2001 <br><br>Guardian Unlimited © Guardian Newspapers Limited 2005 <p></p><i></i>
