by Chris Mullin
Tonight’s Standard reports that the air traffic controllers are planning a strike. It’s not JP who needs to be leaned on, but Gordon. He’s the one pulling the strings and he will get off scot-free if the sell-off goes wrong. Just as he did over the single-parent benefit fiasco.
Wednesday, 20 October
I am savaged by Polly Toynbee in her column in today’s Guardian for allegedly selling out the select committee system by joining the regime. She enumerates and then retracts all the good things she said about me when I took the chair of Home Affairs two years ago and then quotes me as saying, as I did, that I had no interest in being Minister of Folding Deckchairs. This she correctly observes is precisely what I have become. Some of it is unfair (it is not as though I just flitted through the select committee – I was on it for seven years), but she does have a point.
This evening was my debut at the Dispatch Box, replying to a Lib Dem motion on transport safety. Needless to say, I was completely out of my depth since, apart from air traffic control, none of it fell within my brief. It is much more difficult to wind up than to open a debate. The opener can just read from a prepared text, but the winder-up is supposed to respond to points made during the debate. To make matters worse, no one except the handful who have attended throughout are interested in what is being said. The rest just chat among themselves while awaiting the division.
My worst fear was drying up halfway through. I am absolutely hopeless at ad-libbing on matters that I know little or nothing about. As a precaution, I came armed with a 15-minute speech which, if the worst came to the worst, I could just read out. It was a low-key debate. No one, apart from Shaun Woodward (who spoke for the Tories) wanted to score cheap points in the wake of the Paddington tragedy. Don Foster led for the Lib Dems with a very competent, sober speech. Keith Hill, for our side, made a similar response. The complicating factor was the large, brooding presence of JP. Transport, of course, is something he knows all about. As Shaun Woodward got into his stride, JP started muttering, cursing, heckling. Before long he was keeping up a continual barrage, winding up Woodward still further. ‘You want the politics, I’ll give you the politics,’ he shouted. With that he started drafting notes for me to use in reply. There were references to dates (apparently plucked from the air), committees of inquiry headed by people of whom I had never heard, mysterious acronyms … All scribbled in barely legible black felt pen, accompanied by a continuous, high-speed, running commentary. On he went, long after Woodward had sat down. Confusion reigned. I began to panic. Visions of a breakdown at the Dispatch Box loomed. Notes were now pouring in from officials in the civil servants’ box responding to points other speakers were making, but I could hardly absorb the contents, let alone hear what was being said, because of the overwhelming, disruptive presence of JP. Fortunately, with about an hour of debate to go, he finally shut up and I managed to sort the notes into some sort of order. At 9.15 a new crisis dawned. A whip, David Jamieson, appeared, to say that the debate was drying up and I might have to speak for more than half an hour instead of the expected 15 minutes. Oh terror. ‘Impossible,’ I replied. ‘When I’ve said what I have to say, I will sit down regardless of the time.’
‘You can’t,’ hissed Jamieson. JP, sitting next to me, overheard all this. I half expected him to come down on Jamieson’s side and tell me not to be such a wimp. Not a bit of it. JP, God bless him, told Jamieson that it was unfair to expect me to busk. It was his job to keep the debate going. Jamieson slunk away. At this point I forgave JP everything. In the event John Heppell saved the day by getting up and speaking off the cuff for ten minutes. As it happened I probably could have filled the time. When my turn came I spoke very slowly and, using the notes that had come from the box, replied point by point to each of the speakers. Then I turned to my prepared script, but only managed a single sentence before time was called. It was a hesitant, nervous performance, but at least I scraped by.
Thursday, 21 October
I am in danger of falling out with Jessica who is getting fed up with my constant whingeing about the rising tide of pointless activity that my job seems to entail. ‘Nick Raynsford worked much harder than you do,’ she complained, blushing as she spoke. I could tell she was angry.
I pointed out that I was usually in the office by 8.30 a.m. and worked until 10 or 11 at night. I am frequently one of the last people to leave the building. ‘When,’ I asked, ‘did Nick do all the work that I don’t do?’
‘At weekends,’ she said. ‘He saved his letters up until then.’
‘Weekends,’ I replied, ‘are non-negotiable. I have a family.’
Whatever happens, I must avoid alienating Jessica.
Bob Ainsworth, from the whips’ office, came in for a discussion with Keith Hill and myself about how to tackle the uprising over air traffic control. About half of backbench members have signed a motion objecting, although many will clearly fall by the wayside when the going gets tough. We agreed to divide them into groups of ten and invite them to the Department for a conversation.
Tuesday, 26 October
My first Question Time. A rising sense of terror. Answering is an entirely different art from asking. Gordon Prentice is first up. Needless to say he is asking about air traffic control and bound to attract supplementaries. In vain I try to memorise the brief. In truth, most of the answers are obvious, if only I could relax sufficiently to enable my brain to function. My greatest fear is being struck dumb.
The moment comes. Gordon rises and welcomes me. Then he asks his question. I can hear someone muttering about political suicide. To my right Dennis Skinner murmurs, ‘He’s drawn the short straw.’ I affect nonchalance, leaning on the Dispatch Box, turning to face Gordon, beaming at him. I thank him, adding, ‘I hope I continue to justify the honourable gentleman’s confidence.’ Everyone laughs. There is goodwill everywhere. Even on the Tory benches. Everyone knows that selling air traffic control wasn’t my idea. The awful Shaun Woodward rises, his every word a sneer. By now my confidence has returned. I swat him easily. Cheers from our side. Even some of the Tories look pleased.
Next, an exchange with Ann Winterton, who has asked about drivers under the influence of drugs. I treat her respectfully. Then one of our colleagues rises and refers to ‘spliffs’.
‘The honourable gentleman is more conversant with the terminology than I,’ I begin. Laughter all round. Congratulations flow in. Even JP is pleased. On my part, huge relief. It is over. I have survived – until next time.
Later, Gus Macdonald and I have a meeting with Sandra Osborne, whose marginal constituency is full of angry air traffic controllers. The poor woman has been attending meetings of up to 400 at a time. Before the election she was passing on assurances that we had no intention of privatising air traffic control. Now she is struggling to explain the difference between privatisation and a public-private partnership. She has been placed in an impossible position. She said that no one believes her assurances that Prestwick is safe.
Wednesday, 27 October
The more I talk to Gus Macdonald, the more I realise that he, too, is sceptical about selling air traffic control. He remarked today that he doesn’t have a single ally in the Lords. He says he told the PM two weeks ago that selling this is going to be very damaging. It will eclipse all the good things in the Transport Bill. ‘Up to you,’ Gus told The Man, ‘to decide if it’s worth all the aggro.’
Congratulations continue to flow in for my little performance yesterday. Even JP went so far as to concede that it went alright. ‘You’ve got the humour. They like that. And they sympathise. They’re all saying, “That bastard Prescott’s dumped you in it.”‘ JP has strengths as well as weaknesses. Ann Clwyd, who worked with him in opposition, says he is loyal to colleagues. I must try harder to like him.
Friday, 29 October
Sunderland
A very heavy surgery. Three child abuse cases and a Somali whose children are trapped in a refugee camp in Kenya. His mother, who looks after them, is suffer
ing from malaria and could die at any time, leaving them to fend for themselves. He is terrified of losing contact with them and desperately wants to bring them here. Rarely have I seen a man so depressed. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes downcast.
Periodically, he burst into tears. ‘Life is horrible,’ he kept repeating, ‘I will kill myself.’ He is an illegal immigrant and seemed to think that I had it within my power to let him stay. If only I did. I promised to do what I can to hurry his case along and he shuffled miserably away.
Later, at home, I leafed through our photo album at the pictures of Sarah and Emma enjoying themselves in Cornwall, Sussex, Northumberland. What lucky little lives my children have.
Saturday, 30 October
‘Just occasionally, even amid the waste of seaweed which characterises Commons debate in our dreary one-party state, something spiny shows through,’ writes Matthew Parris in yesterday’s Times. He goes on,
When this happens on the government benches a sensible chief whip makes sure to capture or destroy the creature.
Chris Mullin is an example. A fearless interrogator and select committee truth seeker, he represented a small threat to the even flow of government in the subject he knew best: home affairs. So in the last reshuffle Tony Blair made him a junior minister – in the Department of Environment, Transport and the Regions. He has not been heard of since.
Right about the last point. Wrong to blame it on the Chief Whip. The fault is entirely mine.
Monday, 1 November
To London on the 10.45. Among my mail another piece of New Labour vulgarity: an invitation to have my photograph taken with Alistair Darling in the act of handing over a giant cheque to celebrate the fact that pensioners are about to start receiving their £100 winter fuel allowance. So far, so good, but the missive goes on: ‘To make a real story for your local paper you are invited to bring along a pensioner …’ It gets worse; ‘Speed is essential … If you are bringing a pensioner, please warn them there is no time to talk to Alistair and no autographs …’ Yuk.
Tuesday, 2 November
Sarah’s tenth birthday.
Walked up Victoria Street, self-consciously carrying my two, very heavy, red boxes. They are lead-lined so that in the event the unfortunate minister is blown up, the government’s papers will survive. People stared. Half the pedestrians in Victoria at 8.30 a.m. are civil servants on their way to work and they aren’t used to seeing ministers lugging red boxes through the mean streets of London. All part of the price I pay for refusing an official car. Sooner or later some troublemaker, probably one of the drivers, will report me for breaching security.
Behind Eland House I came across Roy Hattersley and his dog, Buster. ‘You’re looking immensely ministerial,’ he said. Kindly adding, ‘I don’t know if you are aware, but your right-hand box is about to burst open.’ I looked down and, sure enough, he was right. Disaster narrowly averted.
Although she is not slow to point out (usually in a tone of exasperation) my many shortcomings I begin to notice that Jessica is reluctant to consider the possibility that she may sometimes be mistaken – not that she is very often. On the contrary, she is extremely competent.
This morning, however, I had a little triumph. She couldn’t unlock one of my two boxes. A technician was summoned and about to force the lock when I appeared and offered to unlock it. ‘But we didn’t give you a key,’ said Jessica in a tone that brooked no contradiction. Whereupon, in full view of the office juniors, I produced the very key with which she had indeed supplied me and triumphantly turned it in the lock. Voi-là. I threw it up, caught it and disappeared smugly back into my office leaving Jessica temporarily speechless. For at least the next half-hour I bathed in a warm, self-satisfied glow.
Wednesday, 3 November
Jean Corston reported that, at today’s meeting of the parliamentary committee, The Man remarked, ‘It does seem strange without Chris.’
Thursday, 4 November
To bed at 1.30 a.m., up at 5.45.
My existence is now almost entirely pointless. This week I have, among many other things, replied to two adjournment debates and made speeches to the British Geological Society, the Institute of Waste Management and the Association of Residential Management Agents. In between I have worked my way through red boxes piled with letters to sign and papers, almost all of which are marked ‘To See’ rather than ‘To Decide’. People keep asking if I am enjoying myself. ‘Up to a point,’ I reply, but how could one possibly derive enjoyment from so pointless an existence? With hand on heart, I can say that I have less influence now over government policy than at any time in the last eight years. The only possible excuse for doing this is the hope that it will lead to something better.
Friday, 5 November
Sunderland
The Somali who came to my surgery last week now haunts the office almost every day. My assistant, Graham, says he cries and bangs his head against the wall. We have been asking the Home Office to fasttrack the case, but they refuse saying that there are hundreds of similar cases with equally tragic stories. I offered to contact the Red Cross to see if we can obtain some up-to-date information about his family, but for some reason he doesn’t want me to. Goodness knows what will become of him. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear he had been found floating under Wearmouth Bridge.
This evening, to the monthly meeting of my management committee. The local party is visibly disintegrating.
Monday, 8 November
To Leeds to see the chief executive of Yorkshire Water, Kevin Bond, a bright, pleasant man, not at all the stereotypical fat cat. He spent 18 years in the West Midlands police and, as a young PC, was on duty in Birmingham city centre on the night the bombs went off. He says he left the police because they were unwilling to change. ‘There was a ray of hope with Sheehy, but they saw him off, too.’ On water, he wanted (i) a stable and transparent system of regulation, (ii) to be allowed to take over smaller water companies – ‘otherwise foreigners will take over the entire industry.’ (The man from Thames Water, whom I saw the other day, made the same point.) Mr Bond added that the water industry had been given away (by the Tories). ‘It was immoral.’
In the evening JP, Gus Macdonald and I had a meeting with a delegation of backbenchers led by Martin Salter. It went off well enough, but JP was f-ing and blinding up to the moment of their arrival. Throughout the first part of the meeting he maintained an unprecedented silence while the MPs stated their case, which they did calmly and moderately. Gus responded while JP, eyes down, sat scribbling furiously. Then when everyone had said their piece, he suddenly sprung to life. Words spouted like a huge geyser from which a temporary blockage had been removed. He was still talking when the division bell brought the meeting to a close.
Tuesday, 9 November
To Brighton, to address 250 housing wallahs. One of Nick Raynsford’s hand-me-downs. Utterly pointless, since we have nothing to say.
With as much enthusiasm as I could muster I read out the lacklustre speech that had been prepared. The applause was lukewarm. The announcement that the minister had to get back to London and would not, therefore, have time to answer questions was greeted with a cynical titter. Goodness knows why we do this sort of thing. It is so damaging.
Wednesday, 10 November
A talk with Richard Mottram about air traffic control and the Treasury.
He referred to Gordon as ‘PM in all but name’. The first time I have ever heard it suggested that The Man may not be wholly in charge. Richard went on, ‘Gordon thinks his writ runs everywhere. To some extent we are protected by the Deputy Prime Minister, but some secretaries of state and permanent secretaries only find out about Treasury initiatives affecting their departments when they are announced.’
To the Department of Trade and Industry to take part in the launch of a report calling for bigger and better airports. The place was full of men in suits who, happily, had been infiltrated by someone from Friends of the Earth. It was left to me – and to be fair Lor
d Marshall (of British Airways) – gently to draw attention to the environmental consequences. I had to send back the original lily-livered draft of the speech I was given to read out. It came back much improved.
Our consultation document on leylandii has been given a very low-key launch. Downing Street is worried that, if we do anything about leylandii, we’ll be accused of introducing a nanny state. I’ve never heard anything so pathetic. We’ve even got the Daily Mail on our side.
To Number 10 for the official photograph of last year’s parliamentary committee. I am included. My first contact with The Man since my demotion. ‘Hello, Minister,’ he said. He seemed a little distant. I’m not sure he entirely approved of my being there. The picture was taken upstairs at one end of the state rooms. The walls were hung with bright new portraits of cultural glitterati – Naomi Mitchison, Dirk Bogarde, P. D. James, Kazuo Ishiguro and Darcey Bussell, to whom The Man referred as ‘that Tory dancer’. I assumed that the paintings (which were much better than all that modern junk in Gordon’s salon) were his choice, but he said they are changed without reference to him.
Two photos were taken. One of last year’s committee and one of this year’s. After the camera had flashed for the first one, I stood up and bowing slightly in the direction of The Man said, ‘Positively my last appearance.’ This triggered a touching little round of applause in which even Prescott joined. Afterwards JP took me aside and indicated that he’d prefer me not to write to Ian McCartney (who is conducting a review of the government car service) on the grounds that a letter could cause embarrassment if leaked. Instead he suggested I communicate orally with Ian. He was perfectly affable, even conceding that I had a point, but he doesn’t want a letter sent.
