Zac Goldsmith

ZAC Goldsmith doesn't believe a word most politicians say. He says this so casually, I assume he means only when they talk about the environment – but no, he says, "On every issue." Really? "Well I don't think anybody does, If you were to ask 100 people on the street, most would say they don't." Which is probably true. But they are not standing for parliament as a Conservative party candidate – whereas Goldsmith is. It is, in one sense, the natural path for a young man like Goldsmith to pursue. As a rich gentleman farmer and old Etonian, the son and heir of a billionaire businessman, his route to the Tory benches via the leafy seat of Richmond Park follows a tradition of politics and privilege stretching back for centuries. It is also, however, on the other hand, the most wildly implausible ambition. His late father Sir James' great contribution to political life was, in his son's words, to give the Tories "a bit of a spank" and "rough them up" – assisted by the young Zac himself, who was out on the doorstep in 1997 campaigning for the rival Referendum Party. Now 34, until recently he edited the relatively radical environmental magazine, The Ecologist, which was founded by his uncle Teddy – who used to say that the sort of revolution he wanted was one which put him up against the wall first - while Goldsmith himself once famously claimed the only way he'd vote Tory would be if someone drugged him first. More recently, he admitted that whenever he thought about standing for the Conservatives , he'd remind himself that "It wouldn't work – I'm too much of a loose cannon, no good at going along with things I don't believe in." But now here he is, welcoming us into the constituency office from where he'll fight the general election for the Tories – one of David Cameron's most glamorous celebrity A-listers. Much has been written about his beauty, but it's still a shock to see in real life – the sort of physical perfection which makes all those clichés about gilded youth suddenly make sense, with his sculpted cheekbones, bee stung lips, honied voice and tall, liquid grace. When he talks, he tends to duck his head and glance upwards, like Princess Diana – a mannerism simultaneously coy and commanding, co-opting the innocence of the ingénue ("I'm just a newcomer to all this," he says several times) whilst implying authority. Like most political novices, he gives the impression of concentrating hard on not making a gaffe, prefacing almost every sentence with a modest "in my view" – but even so, his self-assurance is striking, as he navigates his way through the peculiar political paradox of his position. I put the last point to him first, and ask how he hopes to dispel the impression that environmentalism is a rich man's game. Goldsmith has just written a book, The Constant Economy – a compilation of political, rather than individual consumer, solutions to the great environmental problems of the day, which he has drawn from all over the world. "That's the point of this book," he continues, "it's not a self help guide telling people how to live their lives, I'm simply encouraging people to use their vote effectively and use their collective political muscle. We all have political muscle, and that's something we can all do, and must do. Effective green policy will result in those elite green choices becoming available to all of us, and that's the key." But many of the solutions proposed in his book go "way beyond", in his own words, current Conservative party policy. When I ask him what has changed since he believed that standing for the party "wouldn't work", he says: "Well I was just sick of seeing clone MPs simply parroting out the party line. There's more of an appetite for people to stand up what they believe in," and insists he comes to politics with "the same cynicism and scepticism as everyone else". But how can he therefore square a commitment to these ideas with a career in a party that may well not embrace them? Really?