Read Online A Journey by Tony Blair - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tony Blair
Tags: Historical, History, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Military, Political, Political Science, Modern, 21st Century, Leadership, Political Process
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Certainly not a very frightening one. I even remember his name. He had been on at me for weeks. I hated it, and dreaded going into the class where he was, and avoided going wherever he would be. Then, for some reason or no reason, out there by the school gates when he came upon me unexpectedly and started up, I turned on him and told him I would hit him if he didn’t stop. He could tell I meant it, because I did and my eyes would have shown it – so he stopped. Silly, isn’t it, to recall that tiny moment of character development after all these years.
Later, you learn courage in different situations: the first time onstage, when you wish you had never agreed to do it, you curse your pretensions and lament your ego, and want only to go back into the corner. But somehow you don’t; you step out. Going down to London aged eighteen on my own for the first time; spending months alone in Paris, as I did after my Bar exams in 1976; making that call; seeking that meeting; pushing and striving and driving. Each step is fearful, yet each refusal means not only remorse at an opportunity missed, but, worse, despising yourself for not even summoning up the courage to try.
Sometimes I marvelled at the way I did indeed step forward, but more often I was aware of the constant struggle to make the choice to do so. For it is a choice. The alternative option always beckons and does so adorned with good arguments: it’s not a propitious moment; it is a risk too far; others are against it; there will be another moment. Often there isn’t, however, and in any event, deep down you know the reason: the fear of being out there, exposed, prone to fail. If you never try to succeed, you never have to fail. So why do it?
There are people I’ve come across who are shorn of such doubt, who have that inner courage to step out instinctively and without forethought, and for whom it is as natural as breathing. Their problem is rather different: mine is about the battle between courage and fear, while theirs is the consequence of being fearless. Fear makes you calculate and calculation can sometimes save you (though over-calculation finishes you off); for those who don’t calculate at all but go headlong, the risk can be foolhardy and lead to downfall. But I always admired that temperament, liked its swagger and absence of manipulation.
After leaving Oxford I had joined the Labour Party. Geoff Gallop, who had left the year before me, had decided to join the Australian Labor Party. ‘It may be a sell-out,’ he said cheerfully, ‘but it’s the only way we are ever going to make change.’ His free spirit had finally rebelled against the dogma and blinkers of the far left, and I suspect he was also prodded by the vast Aussie common sense of his wife Bev.
From 1975 to 1983 I toiled away in various parts of the party. But my views began to shift. For a start I was working, and really hard work it was. Through a girlfriend, I got an introduction to the famous Derry Irvine, then only thirty-six and regarded as one of the best and brightest junior counsels at the Bar. And so began that life-changing relationship.
Derry taught me how to think. In intellectual terms, I had only ‘passed exams’ before meeting Derry, and I hadn’t a clue how to think. I mean really think – analyse, dissect a problem from first principles, and having deconstructed it, construct a solution.
As my pupil master, he was tyrannical but a genius. I used to help write his opinions and do the pleadings. I remember the first time I wrote an opinion, I gave it to him expecting him to read it, make a comment or two and then bin it, because naturally I thought he would write it himself. He glanced at it, signed it and to my horror told me to tell the clerk to put it out. ‘Is that wise?’ I said, absolutely aghast. I mean – I was only a pupil!
‘Well,’ he said, looking up from his desk, ‘it’s your best work, isn’t it?’ He was growling and I was terrified. I
Later, you learn courage in different situations: the first time onstage, when you wish you had never agreed to do it, you curse your pretensions and lament your ego, and want only to go back into the corner. But somehow you don’t; you step out. Going down to London aged eighteen on my own for the first time; spending months alone in Paris, as I did after my Bar exams in 1976; making that call; seeking that meeting; pushing and striving and driving. Each step is fearful, yet each refusal means not only remorse at an opportunity missed, but, worse, despising yourself for not even summoning up the courage to try.
Sometimes I marvelled at the way I did indeed step forward, but more often I was aware of the constant struggle to make the choice to do so. For it is a choice. The alternative option always beckons and does so adorned with good arguments: it’s not a propitious moment; it is a risk too far; others are against it; there will be another moment. Often there isn’t, however, and in any event, deep down you know the reason: the fear of being out there, exposed, prone to fail. If you never try to succeed, you never have to fail. So why do it?
There are people I’ve come across who are shorn of such doubt, who have that inner courage to step out instinctively and without forethought, and for whom it is as natural as breathing. Their problem is rather different: mine is about the battle between courage and fear, while theirs is the consequence of being fearless. Fear makes you calculate and calculation can sometimes save you (though over-calculation finishes you off); for those who don’t calculate at all but go headlong, the risk can be foolhardy and lead to downfall. But I always admired that temperament, liked its swagger and absence of manipulation.
After leaving Oxford I had joined the Labour Party. Geoff Gallop, who had left the year before me, had decided to join the Australian Labor Party. ‘It may be a sell-out,’ he said cheerfully, ‘but it’s the only way we are ever going to make change.’ His free spirit had finally rebelled against the dogma and blinkers of the far left, and I suspect he was also prodded by the vast Aussie common sense of his wife Bev.
From 1975 to 1983 I toiled away in various parts of the party. But my views began to shift. For a start I was working, and really hard work it was. Through a girlfriend, I got an introduction to the famous Derry Irvine, then only thirty-six and regarded as one of the best and brightest junior counsels at the Bar. And so began that life-changing relationship.
Derry taught me how to think. In intellectual terms, I had only ‘passed exams’ before meeting Derry, and I hadn’t a clue how to think. I mean really think – analyse, dissect a problem from first principles, and having deconstructed it, construct a solution.
As my pupil master, he was tyrannical but a genius. I used to help write his opinions and do the pleadings. I remember the first time I wrote an opinion, I gave it to him expecting him to read it, make a comment or two and then bin it, because naturally I thought he would write it himself. He glanced at it, signed it and to my horror told me to tell the clerk to put it out. ‘Is that wise?’ I said, absolutely aghast. I mean – I was only a pupil!
‘Well,’ he said, looking up from his desk, ‘it’s your best work, isn’t it?’ He was growling and I was terrified. I
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