Downsizing Read online

  I then exited the kitchen and trudged upstairs, wondering how I was going to explain myself in the morning. A-ha, they’ve got a pet cat, I thought. I’ll blame him…

  My Bakewell-tart binge shocked me into taking action, though – my overeating was getting ridiculous – and within days I’d signed up to Weight Watchers (now WW) online. I was far too busy (and far too ashamed) to attend the group sessions at a local community centre, so the organisation’s recently launched website seemed a more viable option. However, despite sticking rigidly to the programme for a few months – I meticulously planned my meals, and obsessively counted my calories – I only shed a few paltry pounds. For whatever reason, Weight Watchers and I were incompatible.

  ‘God knows where I’m going wrong,’ I remember lamenting to Siobhan. It was as puzzling as it was dispiriting.

  *

  In February 2001, at the age of 34, I decided to run for a seat in parliament. I had been encouraged to put my name forward by a handful of AEEU members in my prospective constituency, West Bromwich East; evidently they’d been impressed with the work that I’d done on the Rover task force, a government-organised group that had helped to prevent the closure of the Birmingham-based car plant. The prospect of becoming an MP was not a decision I’d taken lightly – I loved my union job, and I also had Siobhan to consider – but in the end it just seemed like the right thing to do. My former mentor, Fraser Kemp, had sensed my anxiety and, over a pint one night, had proffered some words of wisdom.

  ‘If you want to change things in society and make a difference, Tom, you have to seize every opportunity,’ he’d said.

  ‘It’s a bit of a leap in the dark, though, mate…’ I’d replied.

  ‘Maybe it is. But I reckon you should go for it.’

  On Thursday 7 June 2001 I was duly elected as an MP, as part of Tony Blair’s second administration, and my whole world changed overnight. While I relished my new life as a politician – it was an absolute honour to represent my constituents, and to serve alongside such luminaries as Dennis Skinner and Margaret Beckett – I found my work schedule immensely challenging. In order to fulfil my parliamentary and constituency commitments, I spent most weeks shuttling between Westminster and the West Midlands, attending a cavalcade of meetings, briefings, surgeries and conferences. No day was ever the same, but the vast majority began extremely early and ended very late (occasionally beyond Big Ben’s midnight chimes if there was a vital House of Commons vote). Not only did these long hours and erratic schedules disrupt my sleep patterns and heighten my blood pressure, they also played havoc with my eating habits.

  With neither the time to do a weekly shop at the local Tesco, nor the inclination to rustle up a home-cooked meal, the food cupboards in my Bromley flat – which I’d maintained as my London base – remained sparse. The contents of my fridge usually amounted to a packet of roast ham (often past its sell-by date), a litre of full-fat milk and a few cans of Guinness.

  I always stocked up with breakfast cereals, though – a healthy and nutritious way to start the day, I reckoned – and would habitually grab myself a bowl or two of Kellogg’s Cornflakes or, when I was feeling particularly peckish, a supersized serving of Scott’s Porage Oats, into which I’d stir a banana and a dessertspoon of honey. If I was ever pressed for time, though, I’d grab a couple (yes, two) bacon sandwiches in the Commons’ canteen, traditionally referred to by MPs as the ‘Members’ Tea Room’. Comprising thick rashers of bacon, encased in soft, white, buttered bread, these butties were the best I’d ever tasted.

  A couple of hours later, when my mid-morning hunger pangs inevitably took hold, I’d gladly help myself to the plates of biscuits that were always laid out in meeting rooms in the Commons. More refined colleagues than I might have nibbled at a Hobnob, or munched a couple of Jaffa Cakes, but I’d regularly scoff the whole lot. I was acutely aware that I was committing a social faux pas – I tried to ignore all the tuts and the raised eyebrows – but, as time went by, I realised that my need for satiation outweighed any sense of decorum.

  Lunch in the Tea Room would usually comprise a large portion of pie and mash or, if we had a sitting session on a Friday, a plateful of fish and chips. Whenever the afternoon lethargy set in (much to my shame, I’d sometimes find myself nodding off at my desk) a chunky KitKat usually did the trick, giving me a much-needed sugar hit and acting as a timely, albeit temporary, pick-me-up.

  I wonder if other MPs feel as exhausted as I do? I’d ask myself as I aimed the wrapper into the rubbish bin.

  Then, later in the evening, I’d often avail myself of a takeaway.

  ‘Hello again, Tom,’ my friendly delivery driver would say with a grin as he handed over my large stuffed-crust Meat Feast, with a side of BBQ chicken wings and the requisite can of pop. If I was ever feeling double-hungry I’d opt for their 2-for-1 deal – treat yourself, Tom, you’ve had a hard day – knowing that I could polish off any leftovers the following morning.

  An hour later, once the gratification had faded and the fatigue had descended, I’d find myself slumped on the sofa, trying my damnedest to stay awake for Newsnight. Feeling guilty and gluttonous, I’d question my lack of willpower and discipline – why the hell can’t I stop filling my face? – and, by and large, I’d generally reach the same conclusion: here I was, a supposedly intelligent individual (a Member of Parliament, no less) who couldn’t control his own body. Junk food had me in its thrall.

  My bulky frame and my hearty appetite soon earned me the nickname of ‘Tommy Two-Dinners’ around the Palace of Westminster. This soubriquet originated from a food- and booze-fest that took place at the legendary Gay Hussar in Soho, a Hungarian restaurant that was favoured by the Left, back in the day when politics (and journalism) was fuelled by mountains of food and rivers of alcohol. On that particular afternoon I lunched with Guardian journalist Kevin Maguire and Tribune editor Mark Seddon, putting the world to rights and sharing Westminster gossip while we enjoyed a meal of roast duck, washed down with bottles of Merlot. After a couple of hours, Kevin bade us farewell to file an article back in the office, and Mark and I decided to stay in the restaurant and continue through to dinner.

  At about five o’clock we both began to flag, so the Gay Hussar’s manager, John Wrobel, allowed us to sneak off for a recuperative nap in the Tom Driberg suite – a private dining room – where he put up two camp beds for us, and folded up tablecloths for us to use as makeshift pillows. After about half an hour he returned to revive us with hot towels and glasses of champagne, and we staggered downstairs for our second sitting of food and drink. News of our overindulgence soon spread, however. A few days later an item in the Evening Standard appeared, referring to me as ‘Tommy Two-Dinners’, and the nickname duly stuck.

  ‘Here he comes, Tommy Two-Dinners,’ my fellow MPs would say, sniggering, as I queued up for lunch in the Tea Room.

  Colleagues constantly ribbed me about my lack of sartorial style, too. For reasons of comfort, I’d often sport a custom-made, baggy black suit teamed up with an untucked shirt and a loosened tie. Following one particular Commons debate, I was informed by Mark Tami MP – a good friend of mine – that I was ‘the only bloke who could make a five-hundred-quid suit look like a fifty-quid suit.’

  The political ‘lobby’ journalists had their own take on my distinctive appearance, too, and would regularly describe me in print as a ‘bruiser’, a ‘fixer’ or a ‘henchman’, portraying me as a straight-talking, hard-nosed tough guy. While I found this characterisation quite amusing, I also thought it somewhat misplaced; yes, I possessed a rash (and occasionally reckless) streak, and yes, I could occasionally be a bit mouthy, but no more so than most of my Commons colleagues. I certainly didn’t recognise the ‘bovver-boy’ badass featured in their parliamentary profiles and sketches.

  The Guardian’s political cartoonist, Steve Bell, did his utmost to perpetuate this image, too, adding to the sense that I was this brutish, thuggish MP. Many politicians found themselves at the rough e
nd of his pen – former prime minister John Major was given a particularly hard time – but his caricatures of yours truly were especially excoriating. He took delight in depicting me as a grotesquely overweight monster, bursting out of my black suit and glowering behind my heavy-rimmed spectacles, more often than not surrounded by disproportionately skinny Labour Party colleagues. I generally took it in fairly good humour, ever-conscious that a thick skin was compulsory in order to survive in the merciless world of politics. That said, I did find it a bit rich that the satirist himself wasn’t remotely sylphlike.

  In spite of my health and lifestyle challenges I made decent progress in government – Tony Blair appointed me a government whip in 2004 and, two years later, I was promoted to junior defence minister – and, on the whole, I felt pretty confident and comfortable within the House of Commons environs. From a professional perspective I tried not to let my weight issues hold me back or curb my ambition and, among colleagues of all ranks, I never allowed myself to feel inferior. At Westminster I’d happily chair meetings and deliver speeches without an iota of inhibition, and at party conferences and rallies I’d invariably be the last man standing, swapping stories with delegates, sharing pints with reporters and belting out the Kaiser Chiefs’ ‘Ruby’ on the karaoke.

  There were instances, though, when my weight issues brought about some awkward situations at work, none more so than on my first day at the Ministry of Defence in Whitehall. The maximum-security entrance comprised a tall, glass, cylindrical structure featuring two concave doors. The first door would open in front of you, allowing you to step inside the tube and process your ID, before the second concave door opened, enabling you to walk out and continue into the building. But it didn’t quite happen that way for me. As soon as I entered the tube I set off a piercing alarm, which caused both doors to clamp tightly shut.

  I was trapped inside for a few moments, with the sirens still wailing, before a red-faced security guard came over to release the door and free the new minister. Much to my embarrassment, it transpired that the system had detected that two people had entered, not one, and had essentially gone into lockdown (the MOD would later have to reset and reconfigure the system in order to specially accommodate me). I couldn’t have imagined a less auspicious, and more humiliating, start to my new job.

  I had also experienced a similarly toe-curling moment when the Labour Party announced its anti-obesity ‘healthy living’ strategy. I was on frontbench duty in the Commons that particular day, sitting beside the comparatively lithe Secretary of State for Health, Alan Johnson, as he outlined our plans to provide overweight people with incentives to change their diet and to participate in exercise. As I squirmed in my seat, blushing profusely, I could see a few Tory MPs nudging each other and smirking in my direction. God knows what those TV viewers tuning in to News at Ten later that evening must have thought.

  ‘Well, the big fella next to Johnson hasn’t exactly read the brief, has he?’ I imagined Dave from Doncaster sniggering, with good reason. ‘I bet he’s dodged a few salads in his time…’

  From that day onward I did my utmost to steer clear of any committees or announcements associated with health or obesity, since my presence within that context was simply farcical.

  Once I’d exceeded the twenty-stone mark, my activity levels nosedived. The half-mile walk to my workplace was nigh on impossible – I’d since relocated to a new flat in central London – so most mornings I hailed a cab to the Carriage Gates entrance. So indolent did I feel, however, that I was hardly able to look the driver in the eye as I handed over the minimum fare for this two-minute journey.

  Upon arrival at the Commons I’d head straight for the lift, because the steep staircase to my office was a complete non-starter (I couldn’t manage the descent, either). When it came to organising meeting venues – particularly in the afternoon, when my lethargy hit hard – I’d ask my staff to book rooms in Westminster to avoid walking any kind of distance. Indeed, I often found myself trying to duck out of any meetings that were scheduled off-site, even those within a stone’s throw of parliament; if this proved to be unavoidable, I’d have no option but to flag down another taxi, and yet again let the cab take the flab.

  Even more troubling for me, however, was the way my obesity affected the quality time I spent at home with my young family. Sadly, Siobhan and I had decided to separate in September 2010 – the aggressive press intrusion during the News International phone-hacking inquiry was partly to blame, prompting my wife to relocate to the Yorkshire Dales – but we remained firm friends and co-parents, happily sharing the care of our son Malachy (born in 2005) and our daughter Saoirse, three years her brother’s junior. We agreed that I’d look after the children on alternate weekends, in addition to half of the school holidays. Occasionally the kids had no option but to join me on the road, tagging along with me to various political meetings and conferences. I clearly remember Saoirse falling asleep during one of my speeches (‘The Future of the Labour Party’, I seem to recall) although in the circumstances I couldn’t really blame her; it wasn’t the most exciting speech I’d ever delivered.

  While I liked to think I was a caring and capable father (aside from the political events, we had lots of fun times together), I was acutely aware that my obesity often held me back. I couldn’t help Malachy hone his football skills, for example, as I didn’t possess the stamina to go in nets or take a corner. I never took Saoirse to the local swimming baths, either, for fear of not being able to complete a length, and because I lacked the confidence to wear trunks in public. Indoors, there were occasions when I could barely engage my son and daughter in conversation, or read them a bedtime story, because I felt so drained and exhausted. I constantly felt that I was letting my lovely children down – there was a distinct lack of ‘presence’ on my part – and it broke my heart.

  ‘Why are you falling asleep, Daddy?’ Saoirse would ask, midway through a rendition of our favourite Spike Milligan poem, ‘On The Ning Nang Nong’.

  ‘I’m just a little bit tired tonight, Sershy-Wershy,’ I’d reply, mustering up a drowsy smile as my daughter’s big blue eyes stared up at me.

  So, despite my perpetual fatigue and my mushrooming girth, I spent my entire forties – in fact, I wasted my entire forties – sweeping my health concerns under the carpet. I was caught up in a mire of dread and denial, too embarrassed to discuss my predicament with my loved ones, and too preoccupied to attend ‘well man’ check-ups with my GP. Indeed, I always resisted the temptation to google my symptoms, for fear of what I might discover. Something told me that typing ‘incessant hunger’, ‘morbidly obese’, ‘raging thirst’ and ‘excessive fatigue’ into a search engine would doubtless generate a message to GO DIRECTLY TO DOCTOR, which I simply didn’t have the time or the inclination to do.

  Instead, like many middle-aged men before me, I effectively ignored the warnings, donned the blinkers and hoped that my ailments would simply fade away. Even in February 2013, when Dr Nazeer finally diagnosed me with type 2 diabetes, I spent the ensuing three months purposely concealing my illness from my family. I was loath to cause them any upset or alarm – especially my children and my parents – and I was also racked with shame and embarrassment. The way I viewed it, my poor lifestyle choices had got me into this unholy mess, and my failure to act on the omens and flag up my symptoms had been foolhardy in the extreme. It was my fault, and my fault only, that I had jeopardised my long-term health. There was still a huge amount of disbelief on my part, too; the prospect of lifelong diabetes was so scary and unfathomable that I could hardly bear to contemplate it myself, let alone talk it through with others.

  Eventually I’d drum up the courage to speak with my family and friends – cue a succession of frank and honest conversations – and, to a man and woman, they couldn’t have been more supportive. My sister Meg, a qualified nurse, was particularly sensitive to my issues, and was keen to nudge me in the right direction.

  ‘Without wanting to frighten you, Tom,
you really do need to get this under control. It’s such a serious condition. Listen to your doctor, of course, but you always know where I am if you need me.’

  ‘Cheers, sis, I appreciate that…’

  Afraid that my illness might be perceived as a weakness in the Commons bear pit, I initially kept my Westminster colleagues out of the loop, too. Throughout 2013 and 2014 I never breathed a word to a single soul; but, as it turned out, it was through my own carelessness that I was eventually rumbled.

  ‘Here, you left these on your desk,’ whispered my office manager, Karie Murphy, one morning, as she handed me a foil strip of metformin while I turned a deeper shade of puce. Being a former nurse herself, my colleague recognised my medication and understood its significance.

  ‘To be fair, Tom, I’ve been worried about you for a while,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t think it was my place to pry. I’m so glad you’re addressing things, though. Time to keep off those chocolate Hobnobs, eh?’

  2015 proved to be extremely gruelling, work-wise. The springtime general election campaign, with Labour challenger Ed Miliband contesting Tory leader David Cameron, saw me visiting over one hundred constituencies up and down the UK. My public profile had risen in the wake of the phone-hacking inquiry, and as such I was asked to coordinate so-called ‘member mobilisation’ (drumming up support, basically) in key parliamentary seats that Labour had to win or defend. On average, I’d visit four or five constituencies per day, adhering to a punishing schedule that saw me delivering town centre speeches, giving media interviews, posing for photos with Labour candidates and knocking on doors to canvass voters.