Alastair Campbell’s diary: My late friend’s final message: Never work for the Daily Mail

Last Saturday, off we went to a celebration of the life of Alison Irvine, art expert and wife of Derry Irvine, Tony Blair’s pupil master when TB was a young lawyer, and who went on to be our lord chancellor. Derry was there, of course, so were Tony and Cherie, and many friends from the Blair years, all looking older, though I comfort myself in thinking that, so far, I have aged better than most.

Then, on Thursday, to the funeral of Chris Boffey, a close friend from way back, when I was a young reporter on the Mirror and he on the Daily Star, one of several newspapers, tabloid and broadsheet, that he served with distinction and irrepressible humour. He also worked for the Blair government for a while, when I persuaded him to become an adviser to education secretary Estelle Morris. 

His funeral was at “the journalists’ church”, St Bride’s, off Fleet Street, which was packed out, with a choir singing Four Tops and Cole Porter songs, three great speeches, including one from son Daniel who reminded us of Chris’s first rule of journalism: “Never work for the Daily Mail.” Great guy. Solid views.

Finally, (for now) on Friday, off to the north-east to say farewell to John Burton, at the little church in Trimdon, now with a plaque outside to commemorate the place where Tony Blair made his “People’s Princess” tribute to Diana.

To describe John as “Sedgefield constituency agent” is to understate his role in TB’s life. John was one of those people who ahead of most felt that Labour needed to modernise to get properly in touch with working people, and who saw in Tony, despite his relative poshness and lack of north-eastern connection, a political talent who could make that happen.

Famously, when Tony first showed up in Sedgefield in 1983 to sound out the key party people, they kept him waiting because John and his mates were watching Aberdeen beat Real Madrid in a European final. But for the rest of his life, John remained one of those down-to-earth, real people sounding boards that all politicians, especially prime ministers, need. Tony delivered one of the finest eulogies you will ever hear, his love and respect for John clear to all.

I have so many fond memories of John. Perhaps fondest of all, in the kitchen of Tony’s house in Sedgefield, Myrobella, on election day, 1997. He is making tea as I come down the stairs from a restless sleep. He is listening to the Today programme. 

“Oh, Christ, turn it off, John,” I said, “the campaign is over, there’s nothing more we can do, let’s have some music.” I fiddled with the radio until I found a music station. And what was playing? Abba’s The Winner Takes It All. 

We looked at each other, laughed, and shared a gigantic hug. It was the moment I finally allowed myself to think we were definitely going to win.

Alison, Chris, John, RIP. God, if you are out there (as John believed you are), can you perhaps give me a few weeks without a funeral?

Sorry to stick with death, but I actually missed two recent New Labour funerals – one because I was overseas, the second because of a chest infection picked up while away. Both were of Labour Party general secretaries, first David Triesman and then Tom Sawyer, who both played key roles at different times. Honestly, it is so depressing how many of the great people I worked with are now dead.

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Alastair Campbell

In Belfast recently I ran through just some of the key players from the Good Friday Agreement days who are no longer with us… Mo Mowlam, David Trimble, John Hume, Seamus Mallon, Martin McGuinness, David Ervine… I could go on and on, but I won’t because you’re probably getting a bit depressed by all this now.

And in any event, I have a new motto in life, which I spotted when I randomly wandered into a fashion design exhibition while out walking in the Madrid sunshine when there to interview Spanish PM Pedro Sánchez. 

Below a collection of ridiculously modern – and by me at least, unwearable – men’s clothing was the slogan: “Too young to die old.” It’s my new outlook – stay young, no matter how old you are.

And so to another fabulous European capital, Vienna. Europe, don’t you think, is so superior to the US, whose leaders keep warning of our civilisational erasure?

I was there for a conference, organised by Uefa, of all the national associations. So you had Armenia sitting not far from Azerbaijan. You had Ukraine at the front, close to the stage, and a few rows back I spotted the Russian flag too. Russia are banned from competing, but not from conferences.

It was a fascinating event on so many levels, with some really interesting insights into how football audiences are changing. Get this, for example –more than 5 billion people watched the last Euros, but among 18-34-year-olds, only 19% would watch a whole game at home, and only 1% watch without doing something else (mainly social media).

I learned that the Dutch FA has created 3.6 million individual fan profiles (that is 21% of the entire population of the Netherlands), who get individualised content sent to them about football. I learned that the All Blacks, despite having a home fan base of just 5 million in New Zealand, are the number one brand in world rugby, valued at $282m, and that in 2024 their digital platform had more than 1 billion views, a quarter of which were in the US and the UK.

I learned that Formula 1 has grown its fan base by 63% in seven years, that 43% of its fans are under 25, and 42% women (up from 10% in 2017), and the reason is widely thought to be the Drive to Survive documentary series.

Several of the associations were chatting about the World Cup, and which teams beyond the US the Orange Man Baby would want to associate himself with. My money was on Scotland, his mother’s homeland.

I have been to several World Cups as a Scotland fan, but am boycotting this one. It would be hard to say no, I guess, if Trump said he would like to drop by at the Scotland training camp with Fifa supremo Sycofantino.

But given my fear that the 2026 World Cup is being viewed by Trump much as Hitler regarded the 1936 Berlin Olympics, I am more settled than ever in my decision not to go.

Finally, well done the New World and Alan Rusbridger for last week’s exposé of Ofcom’s chocolate teapot approach to GB News. I have never been prouder to be associated with this paper, or magazine, as Matt Kelly insists we call it, and will happily support the TNW campaign to watch an hour a week, and report Ofcom breaches to Ofcom.