by Chris Mullin
Wednesday, 12 January
Clare Short, resplendent in a handsome red jacket, addressed the parliamentary party. Now here is someone who has a job she patently enjoys. Indeed what better job has a Labour government to offer than redistributing the wealth of the middle classes to the poorest people in the world? She was passionate, committed, optimistic – and she has a good story to tell, especially on debt relief where we are leading the way. By 2020, she says, there will be nine billion people on the planet. After that there is a chance of stabilising the world population, but only if we can educate women so that they can take control of their lives. She was very critical of the EU, through which we are obliged to spend a third of our aid budget. ‘A tragedy,’ she said. ‘Very inefficient. Even when committed the money can’t be spent and much of what is spent goes on political gestures rather than to help the poorest.’
An American senator came to see me, accompanied by a blazered goon from the embassy with dead eyes and a square jaw. He came to talk about EU plans to insist on quieter planes, which has implications for the American aviation industry. ‘Hey, Chris,’ he greeted me as though we were old friends, but appearances can deceive. He was all business. I patiently explained that threatening to ban Concorde wouldn’t cut much ice with the European Parliament since no one, apart from the Brits and the French, cares about Concorde. Undaunted, he kept referring to the need for ‘leverage’. I just managed to restrain myself from the suggestion that they send B52s to take out Strasbourg.
Friday, 14 January
A call from Ian Dewhirst to say that he is shutting his clothes factory at Peterlee. Another 800 jobs down the pan. He explained that it was all down to the decision by Marks & Spencer to source offshore. He claimed that his three Sunderland factories, also heavily dependent on M&S, are safe for the foreseeable future, but he didn’t sound very confident.
Saturday, 15 January Sunderland
A government car arrived at St Bede’s Terrace this morning with a red box. The first ever to cross the threshold. It contained a briefing for the committee stage of the Transport Bill, which starts on Tuesday.
Jessica thought I ought to read it on the train down and, reluctantly, I conceded. I opened the box and sent it away immediately. It wasn’t in the house for more than five minutes. Red boxes at weekends must not become a habit.
Monday, 17 January
To London on an early train in order to be on time for the first meeting on the Transport Bill, which looms like a vast black cloud over the next three months. The first 90 clauses, on which I am expected to bear the brunt, are on air traffic control. I can’t bring myself to read more than a few clauses at a time and much of it seems gobbledegook.
Today I took a real decision. I agreed to place a 10 mile-per-hour speed limit on Lake Windermere, thereby outlawing power-boating. A tiny victory for civilisation over barbarism. Unbelievably it is seven and a half years since the matter was first referred to the Department. Even now the by-law which I have ratified won’t come into force for another five years. The power boaters are such a mighty vested interest that they have everyone running scared. For months officials have been warning that I must not utter a word on the subject, for fear of inviting judicial review. Even now it will be another three weeks before the decision can be made public, to allow yet more time for lawyers to crawl through the small print. But one day – five years hence – I shall be able to look out over the tranquillity of Windermere, sans power boats, and say, ‘I did that.’
Tuesday, 18 January
Alan Haselhurst, a very civilised Tory, came to see me about Stansted Airport. He says it’s growing like Topsy and blighting the lives of his constituents. The noise is intolerable, roads jammed, commuter rail services disrupted. Estimates of the likely number of passengers are continually being revised upwards. Already there is talk of a second terminal and another runway. Alan wanted to know the government’s attitude if the local authority tried to enforce the 15 million passenger limit which he expects to be breached before long. A good question. Sooner or later politicians are going to have to summon the courage to put an end to this madness (Ryanair are presently offering flights to Dublin for £4 return, plus taxes). Do we just accept exponential growth and the massive blight that comes with it? Or do we draw a line? And if so, where? Needless to say, the brief I was given was equivocal.
Wednesday, 19 January
To a posh hotel in Mayfair to address 300 deeply sceptical councillors and officials on the wonders of ‘Best Value’, the latest New Labour local government wheeze. The speech, one of Hilary Armstrong’s hand-me-downs, was abysmal. The phrase ‘Best Value’ featured 43 times without any clear explanation of what it was about – I bet the hapless official who wrote it didn’t know either. I was simply expected to stand and chant it like a Maoist slogan. I sent it back three times and by the last draft it was just about deliverable.
A briefing on the Transport Bill. Nick Raynsford, who is completely new to the subject, presided and I watched in awe as he picked his way with apparent ease through the maze of clauses and sub-clauses, showering officials with intelligent questions. I did my best to seem on top of it, but in truth it’s all way above my head. My eyes glaze over when I look at the Bill whereas Nick’s light up. Thus far I have survived mainly by bluff and good fortune, but it can’t last. Any day now my cover will be blown. Afterwards, I remarked to Jessica how well-informed Nick seemed. ‘He has been reading the Bill since before Christmas,’ she said. Adding acidly, ‘Any minister involved in the Bill would read it.’ Jessica, of course, knows that until last Friday my copy of the Bill was lodged, untouched, in the middle drawer of my desk. My strategy is to keep just a few clauses ahead of the committee. I’m not capable of absorbing any more.
Friday, 21 January
Bad news. Jessica called to say that the Countryside Bill is now expected to be consecutive and not concurrent with the Transport Bill. Now they are clearing my diary for May and it could go on into June. How I wish I had never taken this loathsome job.
Monday, 24 January
Among the letters set before me for signature today were two declining lunch invitations from journalists on The Times and Telegraph. The invitations were dated 9 September and 26 October.
‘Have I seen these before?’
‘Er, no, Minister.’
‘Why not?’
‘There’s a block on them. All invitations from journalists have to be cleared with the Deputy Prime Minister’s office.’
So, I am not even allowed to decide who I have lunch with.
Tuesday, 25 January
An interesting little exchange about performance targets, at this morning’s ministerial meeting, while JP was out of the room. Richard Mottram, the Permanent Secretary, complained of ‘a naive, pseudo-management tendency’ at the Treasury. ‘All we are doing by setting unrealistic targets is setting ourselves up to fail. They take no account of politics.’ Why set yourself up to be bashed? A particularly sore point in our department since 40 per cent of targets dreamed up elsewhere fall to us to deliver. Apparently, we are pleading with the Treasury not to set us any more but, according to Richard, ‘It’s a dialogue of the deaf.’
‘In business,’ said Gus Macdonald, ‘targets are private and aspirational. You don’t announce them to the world.’
A difficult morning on the Transport Bill. The Tories unleashed Portillo, who asked lots of difficult questions and stirred up confusion. Poor Keith Hill responded manfully, but was clearly struggling. I just
sat there thanking heaven it was Keith rather than I who was in the firing line and dreading my turn. I tell myself that I am not intellectually inadequate, it’s just that I can’t be bothered to come to grips with things that don’t interest me. Comforting though such thoughts are I fear they may not be the whole truth. What little repute I have accumulated over the years has been achieved by only opening my mouth when I know what I am talking about. Suddenly, I find myself required to open my mouth o
n subjects about which I know nothing and I am simply not up to it.
Wednesday, 26 January 3.40 a.m.
We are discussing a bizarre little piece of legislation designed to enable members of the Dáil to stand for the Northern Ireland Assembly and vice versa. No one seems to know where it came from or why it was so urgent. The general view is that it is another sop to Sinn Fein, and the Unionists, predictably, are up in arms. There is also some irritation on our side since patience with Sinn Fein is wearing thin. They are being given just about everything they asked for, but as yet there is no sign of the IRA handing over a single weapon.
The Unionists, along with a tiny band of backbench Tories, have mounted a filibuster. Our whips seem prepared to let it run on even if we lose tomorrow’s business. At the last division we had a majority of 220 with only 13 in the opposition lobby. I go in search of the pairing whip, Tommy McAvoy, who as ever seems to be deriving sadistic pleasure from keeping us up all night. I find him, red braces stretched across his large belly, slumped in an armchair in front of a television.
The programme, appropriately, is about Stalin. We had the following exchange.
‘Tommy, do we really need to win every division by a majority of 200-plus?’
‘Can you guarantee that the Tories won’t suddenly turn up and vote?’
‘They will if we keep this nonsense going until they return refreshed from a night’s sleep.’
‘This is class war, Chris.’
‘In case you haven’t noticed, Tommy, the other class is at home in bed.’
It cut no ice. We had to get the business through and that was that. No matter if half the government are too worn out to do any governing. We march until we drop. That is how things have always been done in this asylum and, if the likes of Tommy McAvoy continue to have their way, this is how it will be for ever.
4.30 a.m.
Keith Bradley, one of the more merciful whips, sends me home. Left a message with the office cancelling my first two appointments and caught a taxi back to the flat. It was 5 a.m. before I crawled into bed.
Thursday, 27 January Brixton Road Jessica rang. ‘Bad news. The Department of Trade and Industry are insisting that we have a minister on the Utilities Bill. Michael Meacher has refused, so that means you.’ Like hell it does. I am already on two Bills which will last into June. How can I possibly cope with a third?
If necessary I shall appeal directly to JP.
Friday, 28 January St Bede’s Terrace, Sunderland
A car abandoned outside Millie Brodie’s house was torched by yobs last night.
Customers at tonight’s surgery included a deranged minor hoodlum who has been stalking me for eight years. Just when I think he has gone away, he reappears. ‘You must sort out my problem,’ he says, fixing me with his dead eyes, ‘or I’ll keep coming back. I’ll never go away.’ Home to find that the main item on the news is that Nigel Jones, the Liberal MP for Cheltenham, has been attacked in his surgery by a madman with a Samurai sword. His agent, who intervened to save him, is dead.
Monday, 31 January The news this morning is that Peter Kilfoyle has resigned from his lowly post at the Ministry of Defence on the grounds that the job is not the best use of his talents. I know exactly how he feels.
The papers are full of stories about revolting farmers. They are demanding another half-billion in subsidies on top of the three and a half billion they already get. Elliot Morley and Ian Cawsey were on the train this morning. Elliot says pig farmers are the only ones with a case for help, but the Treasury is unsympathetic. The Man is going to the conference of the National Farmers’ Union this week and Elliot reckons they will boo him. ‘It’s time to start confronting the farmers, not appeasing them,’ I said and Elliot agreed. Ian, who has a large rural constituency, says the only letters he has ever received suggesting that the farmers should be given more money come from farmers.
Tuesday, 1 February I got off lightly at the Transport Bill today. Nick and Keith did most of the work and by the time my turn came the Tories had lost interest.
Portillo disappeared halfway through the morning, saying he was off to Alan Clark’s memorial service and later we heard that he had been appointed Shadow Chancellor. Seeing him at close quarters has been fascinating. It is hard to see why he arouses such fear and loathing.
He is always calm, with a ready smile and a nice, easy debating style.
Only when sitting scribbling and concentrating hard do his lips curl downwards and one gets the impression that he could be ruthless. During the morning I was called out to take a call from Michael Meacher. Would I go on the Utilities Bill?
‘But I’m already on two Bills. Isn’t there anyone else’?
‘No.’
There is, of course. Michael could do it himself. Here is someone else whose charm belies a certain ruthlessness.
Wednesday, 2 February
To the parliamentary party meeting for a pep talk from The Man, who looked remarkably cheerful considering the slings and arrows raining down upon him these last few weeks. As ever, he was far-sighted, relaxed, confident. The message was upbeat. We are in a better position than any previous Labour government. The economy is strong. We are building up the public services. Everything will be okay, if only we keep our nerve. His best line was ‘MPs must be ambassadors for the Labour Party, not shop stewards for every grievance.’ He was well received. No one was openly hostile. A couple of calls for uprating the minimum wage. Dennis Skinner wanted more redistribution in the next budget, but even he was restrained. (Although he would never admit it, I suspect Dennis is an admirer of The Man.) Someone else called for a substantial pensions increase. The nearest anyone came to criticism was a mild expression of concern from David Winnick about control freakery.
At lunchtime, in the queue in the cafeteria, Don Brind took me aside and offered what he called a comradely warning. He had been present at a meeting with JP at which someone had remarked of me, ‘He doesn’t read his briefs.’ JP had responded, ‘We can’t have that. I’ll talk to him.’ Needless to say he hasn’t. Don was unable to identify the traitor, beyond saying that he wasn’t a minister and that he didn’t think he was a civil servant. The culprit was probably one of the legion of spinners who plague the regime.
Monday, 7 February A 34-year-old Frenchman has been appointed to rescue the Millennium Dome. He is alleged to be the saviour of Disneyland Paris, but a story in today’s Times says he was only one of 11 vice-presidents. In any case, do we want the dome Disneyfied? It is supposed to be a symbol of new, young Blairite Britain and ends up being run by a Frenchman. If it fails, I fear it will become a symbol of all that is alleged to be wrong with New Labour.
Tuesday, 8 February
A brief about Archie Norman’s business interests was circulated for use at Questions this afternoon. JP demurred. ‘I’m not in favour of all this mud-slinging. It demeans politics.’ Yet more evidence that underneath that fearsome exterior there lurks a fundamentally decent human being.
Our little secret is out. Until now we have been assuring the world that the state will retain a 49 per cent stake in air traffic control. Now here we are on the Bill committee moving an amendment that allows the strategic partner to sell shares to the point where the state holding is diluted to a mere 25 per cent. There had been talk of omitting any reference to dilution for fear of muddying the waters, but the lawyers advised that it must be on the face of the Bill. The Tories seized on it immediately. Our lot, who had been forewarned, kept quiet – apart from Gavin Strang, who protested mildly. Happily it was left to Nick Raynsford to supply the justification, which he did with his customary panache. The line is that there is no intention to float the company. It’s just a fall-back in case of emergencies. Nick did most of the work today. I wasn’t called upon to utter a single word, which meant that the time passed slowly.
Jessica had an interesting little spat with the government car service. We occasionally hire a car to transport boxes from the Department to my room i
n the House. We pay by the hour for what is a journey of no more than 15 minutes, although the driver is also expected to deliver them to my room on Upper Corridor South. Today unusually, there were four boxes, which meant two trips from the Members’ entrance to my room. The car service tried to insist that we hire two cars. Drivers, they said, could only handle two boxes at a time. Have you ever heard such nonsense? It’s the London print unions all over again. Only when Jessica rang the chief executive did common sense prevail.
Thursday, 10 February My sojourn on the Transport Bill is over. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Nick Raynsford relented on his earlier insistence that I stay put until the bitter end. We were drifting towards a situation where, by some point in March, I was likely to be on three Bills simultaneously and until now none of my many superiors were willing to grasp the nettle.
Bob Ainsworth, the Transport Bill whip, who has been sympathetic all along, said yesterday, ‘The Tories will murder you if you only show up for the water clauses of the Utilities Bill’ (which did wonders for my morale). Now the knot is cut. Next week I will put in an appearance at Utilities, although it will be some time before I have to open my mouth. From here on in, the Transport Bill is on congestion charging, local transport plans and a strategic rail authority. Keith Hill is much happier. ‘Terra firma,’ he has written in red ink at the top of Part II. It isn’t terra firma to me. Just another bog. Thank goodness I’m free of it.
Monday, 14 February
To committee room six in the Lords, for a meeting of ministers to discuss the Department’s submission for the coming spending round. JP, beneath a huge picture of Mr Gladstone and his Cabinet, presides. He takes each of the four ministers of state in turn and invites them to justify their bids. This is JP at his best. Acting for once like a chief executive, rather than just letting off steam. Short sensible questions, no waffle (at least not much), on top of his brief. I begin to see him in a different light.
‘Have you noticed,’ I whispered to our esteemed Permanent Secretary, Richard Mottram, ‘that Gladstone managed to run the British empire with a Cabinet of just 14 members?’ He had.
