Tribute to Lord Tebbit by Lord Dobbs: 'Skinhead turned Saviour; Bruiser turned Carer'
Lord Tebbit: 29 March 1931 – 7 July 2025 | Image by: PA Images / Alamy Stock Photo
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Former union official, Tory cabinet minister, son of a pawnbroker and devoted husband, for many ‘the Chingford Skinhead’ was a man out of place. Inspirational and brave, politics to Norman was an extension of war – and mostly he won
Norman Tebbit was my friend for almost 50 years. Totally loyal. Inspiring. Wicked sense of humour. One of the bravest men I’ve ever known, intellectually as well as physically. And a man of extraordinary tenderness.
For many, he always seemed to be a man out of place. Pawnbroker’s son, no uni, former trade union official. Not a man the Tory Party was always comfortable with – but they didn’t feel particularly comfortable with Margaret Thatcher, either.
His first cabinet job was employment; his instructions were to fix the trade unions. His richly deserved reputation as a parliamentary bruiser had preceded him; his senior (mostly soft-left) civil servants were aghast. He gathered them on his first day and told them: “If necessary, I’m going to surround this place with barbed wire. We must be ready to bring in troops, even tanks…”
Cue incipient official meltdown.
“… before I let a single one of those union leaders get themselves put in prison.”
He had a nose for both causing and avoiding trouble. As party chairman, he was approached by a businessman “wanting to be helpful”, who opened a suitcase filled with a staggering sum in cash. Norman threw him out (a scenario I recreated in House of Cards).
Eighteen months later, that same man was in a dock being found guilty of fraud.
Norman came to be trusted as both a leader and a team player. His sharp tongue could inspire fear, just as his sharp mind inspired admiration and his still sharper wit sparked a thousand stories. He loved his Spitting Image puppet. In tribute to Michael Foot’s taunt, he incorporated a polecat into his coat of arms (it’s not clear whether it was semi-housetrained). Yes, he could be bloody rude. And he was immensely successful. Politics, to him, was an extension of war, and mostly he won.
He lived for two Margarets, but he never had any doubt which Margaret came first
Then – the bomb. And that grey, dust-covered face twisted in agony, being dug out of the ruins.
While he and his wife Margaret lay buried in the rubble for hours, they didn’t think they would make it. They held hands, said goodbye.
But they did get out. Margaret was paralysed for the rest of her life. What the world doesn’t know is how severely injured Norman also was, not just broken bones but great chunks torn out of him that would require regular surgery and leave him in daily pain.
Even though he went on to deliver a huge re-election victory for Mrs Thatcher, he had decided long before that he would leave the cabinet to devote himself to caring for his wife. He lived for two Margarets, but he never had any doubt which Margaret came first.
His devotion to her was total. Skinhead turned Saviour; Bruiser turned Carer. The tenderness he could show was awe-inspiring, maintained every day for the following 35 years. Margaret died five years ago, a few days before Christmas, during lockdown. Only 30 people were allowed to attend her funeral, socially distanced in a freezing St Edmundsbury Cathedral.
The injustice of it all made Norman bitter. He would not forgive. There had been a time when he might have been prime minister, perhaps a great one, but not after the bomb. He regretted not having the opportunity to try.
John Biffen was asked to write Norman’s obituary. Norman thought it a great idea – on one condition. “It must include a deliberate mistake.”
“But why?” asked John.
“Because I’m going to give you a letter. You must deliver it to the editor on the day he prints my obituary. It will read: ‘Sir – just because I’m dead, don’t think you can…’”
We may not have heard the last from Norman Tebbit.
Lord Dobbs is a Conservative peer
