Once in a while, a candidate gets the chance to kill a giant by running against and defeating a Cabinet minister. The external affairs minister was to be my opponent. She was prominent, formidable, and had whacked the Liberals in 1984 and 1988. I loved the idea of taking her on, of launching a brilliant political career as the “giant killer.” She decided not to run. I heard the news from my wife in a phone call. “You shit,” she said. “What did I do now?” I asked. “You shit,” she continued. “You were supposed to raise your profile and lose. Now you’re going to win!”
I was distressed. I wanted to win, had secretly intended to all along, but only with panache, by knocking over a high-profile opponent. Now my hopes for big-time media attention, fancy celebratory dinners (where I would be called upon to pronounce on the new liberalism), and a Cabinet position were all dashed. Then, out of the blue, I got a media break. The Financial Post Magazine wanted to profile the “new generation of political leaders,” and they wanted to talk to me. Me. Fantastic. The article had the promising subhead “Forget Mulroney, Chrétien and McLaughlin . . . The boomers are ready,” and the text gushed, describing me as impressive, a real believer. There was a very sympathetic picture of me at my most approachable and earnest. One other newbie politician — John Tory Jr., my law partner and, later, leader of the Ontario Tories — was also profiled. I paid him no mind. This piece was about me; I fell in love with myself all over again.
I soon learned that the article pissed off “the Boss.” The suggestion that he should move on went over with a thud. Heck, the little guy from Shawinigan had barely started, and the Financial Post was saying he should butt out. I made an urgent call to assure him that this idea had not come from me. The article also bemused the civil servants who were warned to watch out because someone “as smart as they were” was coming to Ottawa. For all those raised eyebrows, this was “earned media,” and we took it, reprinted thousands of copies, and dropped them in mailboxes across the riding.
The Tories decided they had to run a star candidate in St. Paul’s and nominated a well-known female broadcaster, “Worthy Opponent” — never smart to give your adversary free publicity by mentioning her name. Despite knocking on 7,000 doors, I still had virtually no name recognition. Worthy Opponent was off the charts.
“Forget her,” said Wagon Master. “Keep knocking.” Wagon Master was tough. He set one condition, and he had one piece of advice. The condition: “I run the campaign, you knock on the doors.” His advice: “Forget your friends and their promises. They’ll do shit.” “But we need a fundraising chair, a volunteers’ chair, a sign chair, a policy chair,” I protested. “We need an official agent, a liaison with the party, a liaison with the community. I’ve got some great people who want to help out.” “I’ll get the people you need,” replied Wagon Master icily. “What will I tell my friends?” I asked. “Tell them to join the riding association and write a cheque. Maybe one of them can be in charge of raising money. The rest can serve on some committee that you won’t meet with.”
Dog people spoke to me through half-open doors while “Brutus” thrashed about, barking, or through mail slots or intercoms, drowned out by deep, husky growls. I wondered if they would be able to leave their homes to vote. I still have a half-eaten piece of campaign literature retrieved after a tug-of-war with some nasty pet of indeterminate breed. The canine had grabbed hold of my flyer as I attempted to stuff it into a mailbox. Wagon Master warned me that every piece costs money and advised me that dogs don’t vote so I shouldn’t waste campaign material on them. I’m not making this up.
In addition to the usual suspects — Liberal, Tory, Reform, ndp — St. Paul’s featured candidates from the protectionist National Party, the pro-environment Greens, the Marxist-Leninists; plus a candidate from the Natural Law Party, which proposed a brigade of “yogic flyers” to erase the deficit; a Libertarian Party candidate; an Abolitionist candidate who promised to abolish not slavery but interest rates, and whose campaign literature listed her telephone number as 1-800-no-usury; a representative of the Party for the Commonwealth of Canada, whose platform was baffling; and a disgruntled former Liberal who ran as an independent. (The independent’s campaign was so tight for cash that he used literature featuring my signs with my name crudely airbrushed out and his inserted over top.)
It was a circus, and I had a lot of local material to work with. But once the writ is dropped and the election campaign is under way in earnest, you lose all latitude as the media frenzy begins. Your lines are now scripted to follow the party platform, to parrot the daily blast faxes or emails from the war room setting out the day’s messages, or explaining away yesterday’s screw-ups.
When journalists live in your riding, they can kill you, and hordes of them call St. Paul’s home. They can also make your day. Television reporter Colin Vaughan did a live feed from in front of my campaign office, speaking of the challenge Worthy Opponent was facing. He said, “She’s got a battle on her hands from Liberal candidate Barry Campbell,” who, he went on to say, “had been parachuted into the riding by the Liberals.” I decided to leave it alone, but my seven-year-old son wrote Vaughn a letter. “My daddy wasn’t parachuted anywhere, he drives to work,” he scrawled in crayon. We faxed the letter to Vaughan. He read it on air and apologized to my son for getting it wrong — campaign gold.
Nominated candidates may receive money from the party (which has to be paid back). You will receive pamphlets you must buy, and a candidates’ handbook to help you prepare. The Liberal handbook was chock full of policy Q&As, which, they hoped, you would memorize and parrot back to constituents. Not to be shared with anyone was the section about family life. This chillingly frank description was the equivalent of the warning labels on prescription drugs. The political spouse was instructed to take over all household chores, to free the candidate from mundane day-to-day tasks so he could focus on what is, after all, the most important task: getting elected. Reading the “Instructions to Candidates,” I felt like a prisoner about to lose his belt and shoelaces. I put the Liberal handbook away and pretended I knew what I needed to know. I never showed it to my wife.
Comments