Self-deprecating, self- effacing and a little self-aggrandising, that is. The former Labour leader does all three for
Not for the first time in his life, Neil Kinnock is running through the reasons why Labour lost the 1992 general election. He mentions the curious appeal of John Major and the viciousness of the Tory press. But there is no question who he blames most: himself.
"I'm the guy everybody wanted to live next door," begins the former Labour leader. "They just didn't want me to be prime minister. I'll scare off the burglars! I'll prune your roses! I'll fix your electrics! Just don't ask me to run the country!"
He laughs like a drain. The two PRs monitoring the interview break off from their frantic note-taking to laugh too. "John Humphrys and I have this theory that it could be explained by the large number of English people who had Welsh teachers at school. It must have had some kind of negative subliminal effect. Ha ha ha!"
Later in the interview, when talking about his new job as chair of the British Council, and discussing what it means to be British in the 21st century, Kinnock will remark that "to understand this country is to understand that we are world champion self-lacerators. If there was an Olympics in self-criticism, we'd be serious contenders for the gold".
But surely such a team would need to look no further than the former European Union Commissioner to find its captain. Kinnock is to self-laceration what Sir Steve Redgrave is to rowing. He self-deprecates, he self- criticises, he self-effaces. It's a curious characteristic, as the world is hardly short of people willing to do the job for him.
Only in the past month he has been lacerated at the hands of the media over a succession of issues, not least his decision to accept a life peerage and for claiming in an interview that he never wanted to be Labour leader. Recently he had a particularly bruising encounter on Have I Got News For You.
Nevertheless, Kinnock looks cheerful as he chats in his offices at the British Council, off Trafalgar Square, where he has been working for the past seven weeks, and where he plans to work three days a week for the three years of his appointment. But then, despite the beatings, self-inflicted and otherwise, the 62-year-old has a good deal to be cheerful about.
He has a prestigious job as head of the organisation that exists to promote British culture overseas and, after working 70-hour weeks at the European Commission, he can look forward to having a bit more time to himself. He will not necessarily see any more of his wife, Glenys, who, as a Welsh MEP and member of the EC's development committee has a hectic schedule visiting aid projects in the third world, but he already has plans to watch a lot more theatre and midweek sports matches.
And though the chair is an unpaid position, he hardly needs to worry about money: another thing that the press have been beating him up for is the massive payoff he has received from the European Commission. According to reports, as a retiring commissioner, he will receive a "transitional allowance" over three years of £277,000, as well as pensions from the EU and House of Commons.
He refuses to comment on this, so I move on to asking about his plans for the British Council, which has a presence in 110 countries worldwide and an annual budget of £476m. There comes an answer that is high on management speak, low on information. "To continue and strengthen the diversity and quality of the provision and performance already achieved . . . to reinforce the effectiveness of our work in public diplomacy, to enhance our reputation for mutuality and independence."
The two PRs increase the pace of their note-taking, making me fear that I am missing something vital. But having listened to the tape carefully, it turns out there was little to miss. In short, his plan is to bolster the finances of the British Council, to promote understanding of British culture around the world, especially in areas torn apart by conflict and suspicion, and to boost the image of the British Council in the UK.
As the chair's role is a non-political one, I ask Kinnock if he plans to avoid politics for the duration of his appointment. No, he replies, pointing out that his predecessor, Baroness Helena Kennedy, was also a Labour peer, and adding that he will campaign in the Lords for causes close to his heart. Ah, the Lords. What is his defence for joining an institution that he once claimed was peopled by descendants of "brigands, muggers, bribers and gangsters"?
"There's not a defence, just a series of realities," replies the man who will officially become Lord Kinnock of Bedwellty in nine days time. "I retain the views I've got about the Lords and will hap pily advocate the replacement of an appointed house by a substantially-elected house. But if we are going to have a bicameral parliament I think there should always be a reserved place for people whose background and experience are critical to the welfare of the nation." Can he see why people might be sceptical about his position on this? "Yeah, sure."
As we're on difficult subjects: what about his recent claim that he never wanted to be leader of the Labour party? A claim that led to some accusing him of reinventing history. "The reason I became leader of the Labour party is because it was essential at the time." He sighs. "No one could gladly have subscribed their forties to doing that job. It just had to be done. There are politicians who seethe with ambition all the time and there are a lot of other politicians who don't. I'm in the second category, that's all."
Kinnock sounds utterly sincere when he says this, but it is hard to imagine that a man who went through so much professional agony for so long could have not been driven by deep ambition. The self-deprecation, in this case, seems disingenuous. Indeed, the longer one spends with Kinnock, the more one realises that the self-laceration comes mixed with dollops of self-justification and self-aggrandisement.
There is certainly a whole load of the latter when we touch upon the subject of the Commission, which Kinnock joined in 1995 as Transport Commissioner, before becoming vice-president in charge of Commission reform. In response to a question about whether he enjoyed his time in Brussels, he launches into a list of his achievements. Particular emphasis is given to the introduction of the Galileo satellite navigation system, which Kinnock estimates will be worth "about $30bn a year to the European economy, and will savagely reduce, if not eliminate, some traffic problems".
Of his second job at the Commission, he says: "We set out an extremely ambitious programme of modernisation and we did it with broader effect than any comparable administrative reform and we saved the taxpayer money into the bargain. Very few substantial reform programmes could make that claim in public or private sector."
The press weren't quite so positive about his time in Brussels, I remark. "It is virtually impossible among many newspapers in the UK to get any fair factual analysis of the EU, including the Commission. Any breakdowns, deficiencies, inadequacies and missed deadlines are going to be represented as a failure of the project."
He must get very tired of how the press portrays him. "Infuriated, never tired," he says, sounding very tired. "I've got a steady suspicion of the press, sometimes amounting to loathing. But my fury tends to erupt rather than being a constant state. You could eat yourself up if you were in a constant state of enragement. It would guarantee an early death. But frankly, things are so bad with the press now, the only reason to trust the football scores is you know there were a lot of witnesses at the game. Ha ha ha!"
As we are looking back at his past I ask Kinnock what he would most like to be remembered for. As John the Baptist to Blair's Messiah, as someone once called him? Or as a successful EU Commissioner? "My wife was asked that question and she said, as a blonde - ha!" He plunges into a sudden silence. Is he torn between saying something self-deprecating and something sincere?
"It's a bloody difficult question that is. How the hell do you answer that without sounding pompous? Which is why Glenys' answer is much better. So I'll say: I'd like to be remembered as a fella with a nice full head of hair! Or as a six-footer! Ha ha ha!" His laughter ricochets around the room. There is another pause as he rethinks. "But the thing that has guided me always is a sense of justice. I'd like to be remembered as somebody who tried to promote justice."
We are running out of time, but before we part I want to ask Kinnock if he has any advice for Tony Blair and Gordon Brown, who seem intent on attacking each other more than the Opposoition. The PR had warned beforehand that Kinnock wouldn't answer such a question, but I pose it anyway. "I think that Tony and Gordon are taking their own advice, I'm very happy to say," he remarks briefly.
Maybe he has some advice for Michael Howard, who seems now to be in a position similar to his own in the 1980s - heading a major political party bent on committing suicide. "He has to change his party and that's a tough business. I can't pretend it breaks my heart though. The extraordinary thing is that only the other week Michael Howard was quoted saying, 'If we lose, I'll still be here'. Wait a minute! That is not what you say! Even if you know it in your gut! You can't afford to say it!"
I think Michael Howard made the remark by accident, I say. It was a slip. "Slips are unforgivable! This is something else of which I have extensive experience! Ha!" Suddenly, all the slips come to mind: that famous pratfall on Brighton beach on his first day as party leader, his altercation with a lager lout outside a restaurant, his over-the-top performance at a rally in 1992 that saw Labour's lead evaporate and the Tories returned to office.
"Slips are unforgivable by others but most of all by yourself. Any reasonable grown-up is his or her greatest critic. I don't think there is anything anybody could say about me that could begin to compare with what I say about myself in my shaving mirror."
