My Life

My Life - Oswald MosleySix weeks before the election in November 1924 I entered the fight in Birmingham. Itseemed to me unfair to some of my old associates to fight in Harrow, though with myfirm roots in that constituency I might have had a better chance of winning than inBirmingham. Also, I wanted to give some striking service to the party which had sowell received me. The Chamberlains and their machine had ruled Birmingham forsixty years, first as Liberal-Radicals and then as Conservative-Unionists. Their partymachine was at that time probably the strongest in the country. We had six weeks inwhich to smash it. I chose to fight Neville Chamberlain, who sat for the working-classconstituency of Lady wood in the centre of the city; his brother Austen was theneighbouring M.P. and their names and abilities made them a formidable combination.Our own organisation had a paying membership of some two hundred, but when westarted the canvass only three elderly women and two young men would accompanyus. They were fine people, typical of the English workers, and closely resembling theother pioneers later attached to our new Movement before and after the Second WorldWar. They were all manual workers, and against them were the serried ranks of someof the ablest businessmen in the country who with the aid of the massed middle classand of many Conservative working men constituted the powerful machine of ouropponents.My colleagues among the candidates we found on the spot were a rather simple lot. Agrand old pioneer of religious bent called Frank Smith was fighting the neighbouringconstituency against Austen Chamberlain. We held a meeting together with FrankSmith in the chair, packed with our working-class constituents, but with the front rowoccupied by prominent businessmen who had come to see the new freak. Thechairman began with what seemed an interminable oration about his own peculiarbrand of metaphysics, and just as I was entertaining some transient hope of itsconclusion, pulled out a football referee's whistle, blew it and shouted 'Half-time'. Hethen called for prayers, flopped down on his knees and said them. Soon he got up,blew his whistle again, said 'Half-time is over' and continued his speech. After anotherthirty minutes of the best, he called on me. It was an inauspicious start.However, my raging speaking campaign, both indoor and outdoor, and the superbwork done by Cimmie in leading the canvassing team, eventually turned the scales. Itwas a joyous day when in the courtyards running back from the streets in theBirmingham slums we saw the blue window cards coming down and the red going up.The court leaders of some hundred people were usually dominant old women, andwhen mother turned they all turned. Mrs. Chamberlain worked magnificently on theother side in street canvass, but when it came to demagogy Neville was not in the ring.An able administrator—despite F.E.'s jibe that he was an adequate Mayor ofBirmingham in a lean year—he had no great appeal to the masses. During the counthe sat huddled in a corner, either exercising an iron self-control or in a state of nearcollapse; his agents did everything and he never moved.The count was a drama: there were two re-counts. First Chamberlain was in by seven,then I was in by two, and finally he was in by seventy-seven. It was alleged by someof our people that votes had disappeared, and uproar broke out with men fighting inthe crowded public gallery and people pointing to the floor as they bellowed—'Thatone's got 'em in his pocket'. It appeared from our enquiry that their allegations couldnot be sustained. Chamberlain was declared the winner, and we left the Town Hall atsix o'clock in the morning to find an enormous crowd in the square outside which had148 of 424