Chris Moncrieff, the former political editor of the Press Association, who has died aged 88, was perhaps the most influential political journalist of the past 50 years, with an unrivalled reputation for breaking stories that set the Westminster news agenda for generations. His reporting made many reputations and broke numerous others but was characterised by scrupulous professionalism and fairness.
His quick wits and an instinctive news sense would always have guaranteed him a successful journalistic career, but as a reporter in the Palace of Westminster he also recognised the intrinsic importance of trust in the relationships he forged with MPs of all parties and he never stopped working. He left home before 5am every day of his working life and was an indefatigable, dedicated reporter.
Every politician at Westminster knew that Moncrieff was available at any time – several announced their resignations to him in the small hours – and he had their numbers: literally, in the years before mobile phones, and, always, figuratively as well.
He cut a shambolic figure in a crumpled suit, invariably with a sheaf of papers beneath one arm. During the Falklands war, Alexander Haig, the US secretary of state, was so bemused by the sight of Moncrieff that he asked, rhetorically, where he got his suit. But this appearance belied an astute political reporter whose copy was phoned in with speed, accuracy and authority.
During the Westland affair, it was a notorious leak to Moncrieff of a letter written by the then solicitor general that led to the resignation of the trade and industry secretary, Leon Brittan, in 1986. Among other resignations he revealed was that in 1988 of the Labour defence spokesman Denzil Davies, who waited until the early hours so that the office of the then party leader, Neil Kinnock, could not interfere. Moncrieff confirmed to me after Davies’ death last year that Davies was not inebriated, as had been suggested by Kinnock’s office afterwards. However on another occasion when an MP had clearly “drink taken” before phoning to resign, Moncrieff did wait until the following morning – and the resignation was rescinded.
Sir Anthony Meyer, the Tory MP who stood as a stalking-horse candidate against Margaret Thatcher in a 1989 campaign that would precipitate her later departure, told Moncrieff that he would not have forced the leadership election but for a report by Moncrieff suggesting that his challenge was imminent, which strengthened his resolve. Moncrieff was first with the news of the departures of Nigel Lawson as chancellor earlier that year and of Geoffrey Howe as deputy prime minister in 1990; and then, after a tip-off from her press secretary Bernard Ingham, of Thatcher herself.
He did not seek personal glory – he twice turned down offers to become political editor of the Sun – and enjoyed his status as an agency journalist with a duty to get the news on the national network.
He was never tempted to leave journalism, nor did he ever display any personal political predilections. He unreservedly rejected an attempt by Nigel Farage to recruit him as a press officer for Ukip.
Moncrieff was unfailingly good-humoured and convivial, a hilarious raconteur who could reduce audiences to tears of mirth with speeches delivered in a high-speed bellow, in a manner reminiscent of the comedian Alexei Sayle. Until 1983, he was famed for an intake of Guinness as prodigious as his output of stories, but a “witch’s warning”, allegedly from a seafront fortune-teller during a party conference, led him to become teetotal.
He never had another drink, but his certificate for a single share in the Guinness company, bought for him by a group of admiring MPs, remained framed behind the press gallery bar until a refurbishment when the bar itself was named Moncrieff’s in his honour. Before then generations of children at the press gallery annual party, previously unfamiliar with the aroma of Guinness, had been wont to complain that Father Christmas “smelled funny”.
His conviviality remained unaffected by this change in diet – he had never previously been seen to eat – and he was a role model for dozens of young reporters and the most generous of colleagues to his contemporaries. He called everybody “old fruit”, regardless of their age or status, greeted people with “How the devil are you?” and, when looking for quotes from his retinue of MPs, would ask them for “a few well-chosens”.
Moncrieff was the son of Robert Wighton Moncrieff, a distinguished scientist, and his wife, Winifred (nee Hydon). He had a sister, Ruth, and a half-brother, Ian. He was born near Derby and briefly attended the private Moravian girls’ school (“My parents sent me there because they didn’t think the council schools were good enough”) – a source of “eternal shame”, he claimed - where he won a prize for knitting an egg cosy, actually created by his sister. He attended Nottingham high school and was then sent to board at Ellesmere college in Shropshire.
Throughout his boyhood he wanted to work as a newspaperman, but his parents insisted that he should become a solicitor when he left school at 16. The few miserable months he spent in a conveyancing office in Holborn, London, were spent writing to local newspapers for jobs and his parents relented when he secured a post on the Harrogate Herald in 1949.
After training on that paper for four years and acquiring immaculate shorthand, he did national service with the Intelligence Corps during the Malayan Emergency in the far east. He returned to spend three years on the Coventry Evening Telegraph and two on the Nottingham Evening Post before joining the PA political staff in 1962.
At Westminster he became a lobby correspondent in 1973, political editor from 1980 until 1994 and then, after officially “retiring” from PA, continued as a regular contributor and columnist. He chaired the parliamentary lobby in 1986 and the press gallery in 2003. He was appointed CBE in 1990. His role in the life and times of every politician of public note is recorded in his two books, Living on a Deadline (2001) and Wine, Women and Westminster (2008).
It was his working hours that made Moncrieff a legend in his own lifetime. He had a devoted marriage to Maggie (nee Ferguson), who wrongly believed for much of his working career that PA only permitted staff to take two weeks’ annual holiday. She was fiercely proud of him and the reality was that they both understood his commitment to his work and his belief in what he was doing.
They had married at St Columba’s (Church of Scotland), in Pont Street, Chelsea, in 1961 and Maggie subsequently gave up her career in acting to raise their four children.
Maggie died in 2016. Moncrieff is survived by his children, Joanna, Sarah, Kate and Angus.
• Christopher Wighton Moncrieff, journalist, born 9 September 1931; died 22 November 2019
