Alistair Beaton: Now the spinmeister can become the celebrity he always longed to be

Villains are always attractive to the dramatist. There is an intense pleasure in being able to invest a character with ruthless ambition. The writer can even find himself becoming quite fond of his monster. Something similar happens with audiences. They may find the character repugnant, but they greatly enjoy witnessing wickedness in action. When the character wields enormous power, the fascination is all the greater.

When my play Feelgood opened, the character everyone responded to most passionately was Eddie, the ruthless and manipulative press secretary, played with relish by Henry Goodman. Some people thought Eddie was based on Alastair Campbell. This was not the case, though I certainly intended the play to nail New Labour and the politics of spin.

As fascinating as power itself is the idea of power behind the throne. From Rasputin to Carole Caplin, we somehow like the idea of a sinister shadowy figure skulking in the background. I remember standing on the floor of the Winter Gardens in Blackpool in 1994, watching the Labour Party leader, Tony Blair, deliver his big conference speech. Not far away, lurking behind a pillar, was Campbell, in his characteristic watchful pose. Mysteriously, the paper version of the speech distributed to journalists had the last three pages missing. These, it turned out, were the pages in which Blair was to announce the dropping of Clause IV. This was done not only to keep the journalists guessing. It was also a means of keeping the news from the rest of the party: the decision to abandon Labour's historic commitment to nationalisation had been taken in secret by Blair and Campbell and a few key advisers. In fact, the only member of the Shadow Cabinet informed in advance was John Prescott. As Blair finally delivered the big news to Conference, few hacks noticed the brooding image of Campbell leaning against the pillar, arms folded and with the hint of a smile playing round his lips. It was a potent image, foreshadowing the Blair-Campbell relationship when they finally got to Downing Street. And that, of course, was the problem. Campbell carried the methods of opposition into government. The public grew increasingly aware that presentation was winning out over substance, and could sense Blair's growing dependence on Campbell. Blair certainly could not have done without him in the selling of an illegal and unpopular war to a sceptical Commons.

Maybe that's why the usual exchanged pleasantries that follow a political resignation this time have the air of genuine loss. They are more akin to funeral orations. "A great transforming leader of the Labour Party and a great transforming Prime Minister," gasped Campbell. "An immensely able, fearless, loyal servant of the cause he believes in, dedicated not only to that cause, but to his country," sobbed Blair. At one point during his testimony to the Hutton inquiry, Blair even seemed to imply that impugning the honour of the director of communications was more serious than impugning the honour of the Prime Minister.

It may well be that Campbell performed a last great service to Blair by resigning when he did. Many column inches that might otherwise have been devoted to analysing Blair's bizarre performance in front of Lord Hutton will this weekend be dedicated instead to the departure of the spinmeister.

Perhaps Campbell's new freedom will allow him to become the celebrity he apparently longs to be. The signs are propitious. Just before writing this, I dropped in to a good Italian restaurant in north London, not far from where Campbell lives. Chalked up on the menu board on the wall were the words: "Chef's Special: Gamberetti Arrivederci Alastair." Perhaps the staff there are fond of him. As Blair said in response to Campbell's parting panegyric: "Those who know him best, like him best." Nice soundbite. I wonder who wrote it.

Alistair Beaton, the dramatist, is the author of ?Feelgood?