John Sergeant: Margaret Thatcher 'handbagging' made my career
Ex-BBC chief political correspondent says mistake in front of former prime minister brought him to the attention of the public
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John Sergeant has said his ‘handbagging’ moment with Margaret Thatcher made his career. Photograph: Gerry Penny/EPA
Sergeant, writing in Wednesday's Daily Telegraph, says the incident on the steps of the British embassy in Paris just two days before Thatcher quit was a defining moment in his career. "From then on, I was a well-known TV reporter," he said, adding that he has "no difficulty in saying she was my favourite PM".
He added: "The truth is that from the moment she became leader of the Conservative Party in 1975 through to her 11 years in power, I was in thrall to Mrs Thatcher".
His sentiment echoes that of Jon Snow, the Channel 4 news presenter, who authored a self-mocking portrait of Thatcher which was screened on Monday night.
He recalled how Thatcher used her matron-like status in an all-male cabinet to triumphant effect and how she enjoyed humiliating the journalists who followed her and her retinue.
Sergeant recalls how he waited outside the British embassy in Paris in 1990 reckoning she was not going to give an interview to the BBC, as she had just heard that Michael Heseltine had the support of 152 Conservatives in the first round of the leadership battle.
Out of the blue she emerged unknown to Sergeant who was facing his camera crew to the front of the building.
The London crew were shouting "she's behind you" and as she swept past Sergeant her press secretary, Bernard Ingham, could be seen elbowing him out of the way. That became known as the handbagging moment.
"I have a great deal to thank Margaret Thatcher for; she made my career," he said. "You can work in TV news for a long time night after night, and somehow the public are totally unmoved by your presence. Something needs to happen to bring you to their attention, and in my case that involved making a big mistake in front of a very large audience".
He went on to recall another humiliating incident when he was on the press plane taking Thatcher to Moscow in 1987 tucking into a generous meal and vintage wine. She came down to his seat and his immediate reaction was to stand up knocking his entire tray to the ground.
"She knelt down and told me firmly to stay where I was. She would sort this out – the meaning was clear: I was an idiot male," recalls Sergeant. As the horrified staff rushed forward to stop her cleaning the mess up, he turned red with embarrassment.
"She loved it. It was her sort of joke," said Sergeant.
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John Sergeant: Being handbagged by Margaret Thatcher was the making of me
BBC TV reporter John Sergeant became a well-known figure outside the British embassy in Paris in November 1990 after the Conservative leadership ballot
Panto performance: Bernard Ingham,
centre, trying to push John Sergeant away from Margaret Thatcher outside
the British embassy in Paris in November, 1990
I have a great deal to thank Margaret Thatcher for; she made my career. You
can work in television news for a long time, night after night, and somehow
the public are totally unmoved by your presence. Something needs to happen
to bring you to their attention, and in my case that involved making a big
mistake in front of a very large audience.
The night that Mrs Thatcher knew that her career was almost certainly over
came when she confronted me outside the British embassy in Paris in
November, 1990. She had just heard that Michael Heseltine had the support of
152 Conservative MPs in the first round of the Tory leadership election. I
was convinced that this was such a serious blow that she would not want to
be interviewed. This view was supported by one of her staff and I duly
repeated it live on the BBC’s Six O’Clock News.
Communications with the Television Centre in London were far from perfect and
I did not hear the newsreader shout: “John, the prime minister is behind
you.” Audience research later showed that 13 million people were watching. A
very large proportion of those must have shouted at their televisions:
“She’s behind you.”
It became known as the pantomime incident, or the moment I was handbagged by
Mrs Thatcher. What gave the scene its special power was that her press
secretary, Bernard Ingham, could be clearly seen desperately trying to elbow
me out of the way. He wanted her to bypass me and head straight for the
press corps on the other side of the courtyard. Many viewers came to the
conclusion that the prime minister and her team had lost their grip on
power. And they were right. Mrs Thatcher resigned two days later.
I have sometimes referred to the events of that night while admitting that as
a result my career had been made and hers had been finished off. From then
on I was a well-known television reporter. But the truth is that from the
moment she became leader of the Conservative Party in 1975 through to her 11
years in power, I was in thrall to Mrs Thatcher.
She provided so many stories, so much excitement, and often a feeling of
watching history being made. I have no difficulty in saying she was my
favourite PM. I slogged away with many others, from Harold Wilson, through
to Gordon Brown, via John Major and Tony Blair, but as a headline-grabber
she had no equal. In personal terms it mattered that she was
unapologetically a woman. She was not a feminist, pursuing a female agenda.
She thought if women were good enough they should be able to rise to the
top, as she had done. But she had no doubt that being female is an
advantage, if you take care of yourself.
A hairdresser has to be summoned each morning; some unpleasant European summits aren’t suitable for a favourite dress; and wearing high heels when you’ve sprained an ankle is admittedly painful. But providing a striking image as the only woman in the ranks of a host of prime ministers can make you the most famous person in the world. And men, well they can often be outmanoeuvred.
As far as I could tell Mrs Thatcher had no sense of humour, but she could be playful and sometimes couldn’t resist the chance of knocking the stuffing out of someone like me. I was on the press plane taking her to Moscow in 1987. Having been told she would not be coming down to see us for a while, I tucked in to a generous meal with vintage wines.
The prime minister suddenly appeared at my side. I stood up, being the gent that I am, and the food and crockery tipped on to the floor. She knelt down and told me firmly to stay where I was. She would sort this out – her meaning was clear: I was an idiot male.
As the horrified aircraft staff rushed forward I turned red with embarrassment. She loved it. It was her sort of joke. And as she rose steadily from the mess I had created, her triumphant smile said it all. “And did you want an interview?” she inquired sweetly. It was the beginning of one of her most successful foreign trips.
The visit to the Soviet Union ended in Georgia. In a large motorcade she travelled a few miles from the state capital, Tbilisi, to the airport. Looking out of the window we took in one of the most moving sights I have seen. Friendly crowds lined the roads. Two million people had stopped work to say goodbye. They weren’t simply showing respect to a great prime minister, they were paying homage to a superstar.
A hairdresser has to be summoned each morning; some unpleasant European summits aren’t suitable for a favourite dress; and wearing high heels when you’ve sprained an ankle is admittedly painful. But providing a striking image as the only woman in the ranks of a host of prime ministers can make you the most famous person in the world. And men, well they can often be outmanoeuvred.
As far as I could tell Mrs Thatcher had no sense of humour, but she could be playful and sometimes couldn’t resist the chance of knocking the stuffing out of someone like me. I was on the press plane taking her to Moscow in 1987. Having been told she would not be coming down to see us for a while, I tucked in to a generous meal with vintage wines.
The prime minister suddenly appeared at my side. I stood up, being the gent that I am, and the food and crockery tipped on to the floor. She knelt down and told me firmly to stay where I was. She would sort this out – her meaning was clear: I was an idiot male.
As the horrified aircraft staff rushed forward I turned red with embarrassment. She loved it. It was her sort of joke. And as she rose steadily from the mess I had created, her triumphant smile said it all. “And did you want an interview?” she inquired sweetly. It was the beginning of one of her most successful foreign trips.
The visit to the Soviet Union ended in Georgia. In a large motorcade she travelled a few miles from the state capital, Tbilisi, to the airport. Looking out of the window we took in one of the most moving sights I have seen. Friendly crowds lined the roads. Two million people had stopped work to say goodbye. They weren’t simply showing respect to a great prime minister, they were paying homage to a superstar.
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