by Chris Mullin
Thursday, 11 November
Yvette Cooper, Ed Balls and their beautiful baby were on the train going home. A golden couple. He an intimate of one of the most powerful men in the land and she, in her early thirties, already a minister. Yvette is bright and pleasant, but a swot rather than a natural talent. Lacks the magic to reach the top, but she will get close. Who knows, one day she and Ed may sit together in the Cabinet. I took the opportunity to bend his ear about air traffic control, ‘We urgently need help.’
‘We want to help, but first we have to be asked,’ he replied.
‘But you have been asked. I saw the letter.’
We talked obliquely to avoid being overheard.
‘How many pages?’
‘Three.’
‘The one that arrived was less than a page. It didn’t ask for anything. Just listed five principles.’
Would you believe it? JP, or someone, has backed down. We are still steaming full speed ahead towards the rocks.
Friday, 12 November
Sunderland
Rang Jessica and asked her to find a copy of JP’s letter to Gordon. She faxed it back within the hour. Sure enough, it consists of just half a page. Pages two and three of the draft which was circulated have been deleted. All it asks for is ‘an early discussion of the best way forward’.
A fat lot of good that will do.
Jessica also reported that the unions have blabbed about our talks the other day and JP has blown a gasket. Word has come that I am not to organise the other meeting that we promised. Oh dear, whenever JP gets involved the misunderstandings multiply.
The sad Somali turned up at the surgery again. He simply won’t accept that I don’t have the power to legalise his entry. I offered to make inquiries about his family, but he won’t have it, which makes me a little suspicious of the story he tells. I gave him a tenner to get himself something to eat, since he had missed supper time at Camrex House, the hostel for homeless where he is staying. Graham thought that was unwise.
Monday, 15 November
Another dreadful cold and another little homily from Jessica about my refusal to use a pager. As ever, I replied that I could think of no reason why I needed to be constantly in touch with HQ.
‘We haven’t been busy yet,’ she says.
‘What about last week – there was not an evening when I was in bed before 1 a.m. or up later than 6.30 a.m.’
‘That was only medium busy.’
‘Well, I am not proposing to manage on any less than five hours’ sleep a night.’
Officials take no account of time spent at the House. So far as they are concerned, the day ends when they go home. The fact that the wretched minister’s working day still has another eight hours to go is of little or no relevance. Well, I ain’t standing for that.
A talk with Gus Macdonald about the letter to the Treasury that never arrived. It transpires that, although I am laughingly known as the Aviation Minister, there have been a number of developments of which I am unaware. In particular Gus has just had a meeting with Crédit Suisse at which there was discussion as to whether we could get away with selling only 20 per cent. The conclusion was that there were not likely to be any takers for so small a stake. Gus apologised for not inviting me, but I am not in the least concerned. Let events take their course, say I.
Tuesday, 16 November
JP was in subdued mode at the ministers’ meeting this morning. His conduct was businesslike, going out of his way to solicit other opinions. He even made a couple of self-deprecating jokes. Has someone – Gus perhaps – given him a talking to? It won’t last, of course. Indeed before the hour was up the strain was beginning to show, but it was interesting to behold.
A complicated little minuet is taking place over air traffic control. One possibility discussed this morning is for the State to retain the 5 per cent that was destined for the unions thereby giving the public sector a majority. But, as Joe Irvin remarked, the key question is whether – if we kept 51 per cent – any borrowing would count as part of the PSBR. JP wasn’t all that concerned. He seems to have made up his mind to go with what was agreed. As we were leaving I remarked, ‘It would be useful at least to see whatever options the Treasury has come up with. We wouldn’t want to find out in two months’ time that the Treasury had thought of an alternative, but hadn’t told us because we didn’t ask nicely.’
‘Pah, it’s fucking dancing on a pinhead,’ snorted JP. And that seems to be the end of the matter.
Gus reported on the review of our press office. It appears it has a staff of 118 rather than the 40 or so that we originally supposed. Which makes it all the more inexplicable that we are unable to find anyone to turn out a decent speech. Many of them apparently concentrate on specialist magazines. Others are churning out pointless releases. Some are engaged in ‘research’ into goodness knows what.
The consensus seems to be that we need to concentrate on putting out a few simple, common messages. The real difficulty, however, is that JP has a serious image problem. This ‘Two Jags’ business has taken hold and he just can’t shake it off. Unfair, but the plain fact is that he just isn’t taken seriously by the world at large and no press machine, however well-oiled, can cope with that.
To Number 10 for the reception on the eve of the Queen’s Speech.
The Man made only a brief appearance and told a lovely little story about the computer course he is taking. Students are apparently tested repeatedly to see how they are getting on and Tony kept failing. He noticed that the young man at the neighbouring terminal was getting extremely agitated.
‘Am I making you nervous?’ he asked.
‘No,’ the lad replied.
‘What’s the matter then?’
‘It’s because you keep failing these tests and I keep passing – and I’ve been unemployed for 18 months and you’re the Prime Minister.’
Elliot Morley and I bent Home Office Minister Mike O’Brien’s ear over fox-hunting. ‘All this dithering is inflicting serious damage on the Party,’ said Elliot. Mike was unclear whether the inquiry recently announced by Jack is intended to kick the issue into the long grass or to resolve it.
Back to the office, where I worked until past midnight.
Thursday, 18 November
Environment was the theme of today’s Queen’s Speech debate so I spent most of the day at the House. We escaped lightly on air traffic control. Only Gavin Strang and Martin Salter made much of it. Gwyneth Dunwoody was particularly merciful. I remarked on this when I saw her afterwards in the taxi queue. ‘It’s going to get a lot rougher from now on,’ she replied amiably.
The word is that we go ahead as planned. No more discussion of alternatives. A few concessions designed to offer reassurance on safety, but that’s all. I am relaxed. The arguments about safety are tosh. There is no great principle at stake, unless you believe that state ownership is by definition safer than the private sector. In which case presumably you would prefer to travel Aeroflot than British Airways. The only issue is a practical one. And on that front, unless I am mistaken, things are calming down.
Friday, 19 November
Sunderland
A meeting with the Grove Cranes unions. The American owners have decided to close the plant with a loss of several hundred jobs. ‘We were better off under the Tories,’ they whined. ‘The government has done nothing for the north-east …’
When we shook hands at the end only two of six could bring themselves to look me in the eye. I came away as depressed as they and the blackness stayed with me all day.
Monday, 22 November
To the Cabinet Office to see Ian McCartney. I put it to Ian that it is not credible for ministers to go around making speeches about reducing car use while being driven everywhere themselves. Junior ministers at least could do without cars and drivers – they could have access to the pool when necessary. Ian listened politely, but I had the impression that he was rather attached to his car.
We talked of the Great
London Mayor Fiasco in which Ian has been closely involved. Ian said he thought The Man had been illadvised to denounce Ken – because he may well end up having to work with him.
Swallow Hotels are to be taken over by Whitbread, which means Sunderland will lose the head office as well as the brewery. Exactly what everyone has been predicting since they got rid of Vaux. The directors have just taken the money and run. Derek Foster said that a businessman of his acquaintance had remarked to him that ‘our entire manufacturing sector is up for sale’.
Thursday 25, November
To Swanwick to see the new state of the art Air Traffic Control Centre.
An impressive space age concoction of glass and stone set tastefully among trees and lakes just outside Southampton. It is not yet up and running but the training has started. I was shown the computer screens which will track every incoming and outgoing flight, sector by sector. Terrifying.
Later, at Great Minster House in Horseferry Road, I sat in on a meeting between Michael Meacher and representatives of non-government organisations – ranging from Friends of the Earth to the National Farmers’ Union. On Sunday Michael is off to Seattle for a big meeting of the World Trade Organisation and he wanted to sound them out before going. The NFU rep urged him to raise farm animal welfare. Now there’s a sign of the times.
Afterwards I walked with Michael to Parliament. We talked of JP. I asked how he handled sophisticated negotiations like Kyoto. According to Michael he can be formidable. ‘I have seen him in a room full of people much cleverer than himself, drive things through by sheer, raw force.’
Jessica says she is having trouble persuading the drivers to carry me on the rare occasions when I need the use of the car, even when sharing with another minister. ‘They see you as having done one of their colleagues out of a job.’ The more I learn about it, the clearer it becomes that the government car service is run for the convenience of the drivers, not the government. They can be as pig-headed as they like, but I shall not give in to them. I heard today that another minister, Ross Cranston, has refused a car. The revolt is spreading.
Tuesday, 30 November
Ministers’ meeting. The first 29 minutes – I timed him – were occupied by a monologue from JP. Mercifully, he was interrupted by a fire alarm about halfway through which brought some light relief, but he paused only to swear at the disembodied voice, and then ploughed on regardless. Gus Macdonald just stared blankly at the table. Keith Hill sat with his eyes raised to heaven, occasionally pulling a face to which I dared not respond since I was in JP’s direct line of fire.
Question Time. The second of my short incumbency. Not a single one of the questions on the order paper related to my brief (I later discovered that this was because most of them had been planted by the parliamentary private secretaries and no one had thought to consult me). In the closing minutes, just when I appeared to have muddled through, Desmond Swayne, one of the Tory troublemakers, got up and asked, ‘What about particulates?’ That’s all he said and then he sat down. I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. I opened my mouth, but no words came. The place suddenly went quiet. The Tories began poking fun. ‘Help,’ someone called. Then JP, whose interventions are not usually helpful, mumbled something about ‘difficulties with Europe’. I duly repeated this with as much authority as I could muster, adding with a smile, ‘The Hon. Member can rest assured that our finest minds are working on the problem.’ A masterstroke. The House erupted. Betty Boothroyd beamed. Everyone was suddenly on my side. With one leap I was free. Once again disaster narrowly averted, but it is a dangerous way to live. The ice is very thin.
Despite his utter alienation from the regime, Tony Benn continues to be nice to me, poking only gentle fun whenever our paths cross. Today in the Tea Room he insisted on getting my cutlery, reciting as he did so, Gilbert and Sullivan:
… the privilege and pleasure
That I treasure beyond measure
Is to run on little errands for the Minister of State.
Wednesday, 1 December
To the weekly meeting of the parliamentary party to hear JP address the troops on the forthcoming Transport Bill. He spoke well, promising ‘blood, sweat and tears’ and giving a passionate defence of his – I should say ‘our’ – plans for air traffic. There was one hilarious moment when the following words escaped his lips, ‘I’ve had more sex with Gordon …’
‘Success’ was what he meant to say. However, he recovered well and was warmly applauded. Still no sign of this great rebellion we keep hearing about in the media – only one person, Mike Connarty, raised the subject.
Today I have addressed a conference of industrial water users in the City, spent an hour and a half in committee debating an Order on aircraft training regulations, addressed the all-party animal welfare group on the regulation of zoos and circuses and held a half-hour telephone discussion with EU Commissioner Neil Kinnock about how to defuse the row between Britain and the US over hush kits. None of these are subjects I know anything about. I live from hour to hour, never staying with any subject (except air traffic control) long enough to learn anything useful, praying that I can retain just sufficient information from the briefing to enable myself to bluff my way through without humiliation. As soon as it is no longer required, I press the mental delete button and the information is wiped from my mind, lost beyond recall. This is how it is every day. No wonder barristers flourish in this environment. I am beginning to lose my identity. Who am I?
Thursday, 2 December
‘Prescott under siege’, declares the front-page headline in today’s Guardian over a classic piece of synthetic journalism. ‘Chaos’, ‘disarray’, ‘disaffection’ – all the usual buzzwords so beloved of political journalists with nothing better to do. The report goes on to predict ‘the biggest revolt of this parliament over air traffic control’, although the only evidence for the proposition is quotes from Martin Salter and Gavin Strang, who are Usual Suspects. Poor JP, it is true he is sometimes his own worst enemy, but he does not deserve all the shit heaped upon him. First, because many of his so-called U-turns have been forced upon him by Number 10, which has had a failure of nerve when it comes to taking on the car lobby. Second, because he is up against problems for which there are no overnight solutions. To read the nonsense in the press anyone would think that traffic jams started in May 1997.
Friday, 3 December
Sunderland
Seventy mile an hour winds. The street is littered with debris. The big ash tree by our gate sways menacingly. One of the flower pots on the front steps was blown over and smashed.
I visited Camrex House, a doss house now taking asylum seekers.
Men from disintegrated societies – Somalia, Togo, Afghanistan … Only about 60 so far, but under Jack Straw’s plans for dispersal, Sunderland is due to receive a thousand by April. Little or nothing has been done to prepare for them. Many speak no English and they are very vulnerable. Disaster looms unless we get organised. I undertook to put pressure on both the local authority and the Refugee Council.
Saturday, 4 December
Ran into a boilermaker who was made redundant from the shipyards.
To my pleasant surprise, he was upbeat. His daughter, he says, is £12 a week better off as a result of Gordon’s tax credits and he cites a single mother who has gained more than £20.
Monday, 6 December
Brixton Road
The pear tree in our London garden has gone. It disappeared one day last week. It was 150 years old and 80 feet high and all that is left is a sawn off stump about six inches above the ground. True, it was dead and would have had to be removed anyway, but I had intended to cut it at a height of six feet and grow a clematis up the stump. I rang the neighbours. Jeremy knew nothing, but Katrina from the top flat said that men from Lambeth Council called last Monday and said they were going to cut it down. She did not object, assuming that Jeremy or I had made the arrangement. Why should Lambeth Council cut down our tree? I can only think that
they believe they own our house. They don’t, of course. Theirs is the one next door. Several years back they put up scaffolding and decorated our house. Twice I told the decorators that they had got the wrong house, but they wouldn’t listen.
Tuesday, 7 December
The JP crisis is mounting. The Tories have called a debate for tomorrow. Effectively it is a motion of no confidence in JP, who is cutting short his trip to India and travelling back overnight to reply. The poor fellow will be exhausted. ‘We have to save John from himself,’ Hilary Armstrong whispered to me in the Tea Room. ‘He must be persuaded to lie low in the New Year. No interviews, no speeches. He must leave all that to Gus Macdonald and concentrate instead on preparing for the next public spending round.’
Already there are signs that Downing Street is launching a ‘Save JP’ offensive. On 13 December he is to make a major speech at the ICA
in the Mall, relaunching our transport strategy to focus on some clearly defined, achievable targets. A note has come round outlining tactics. It says that JP will walk the short distance from his apartment in Admiralty House to the ICA accompanied by a pool television camera. He will depart immediately after delivering his speech. Questions will be left for Gus to answer. JP will give no interviews. The unmistakable hand of Alastair Campbell. The question is, of course, will JP listen to anything anyone is telling him?
Wednesday, 8 December
The return of JP. He arrived in the early hours, taking care to travel from Heathrow by public transport, television cameras dogging his every step. Gus and I were upstairs, appearing before Gwyneth Dunwoody’s select committee, so I missed the debate. By most accounts it was a triumph. Redwood, who had risen from his sickbed for the occasion, performed poorly. JP, by contrast, was on good form. The crisis is over for the time being. The hacks will have to find somebody else to hound.
