by Chris Mullin
To dinner at the Woollacotts. For most of the evening I sat next to Polly Toynbee, who I rather like, despite the clobbering she gave me last year. She reminds me a lot of Liz Forgan. Witty, refreshing, sensible and fundamentally decent. She said a number of people at the Guardian were getting worried by the constantly negative political reporting and were pressing the editor to get a grip on it. Many Guardian journalists – such as David Hencke (who someone recently described as a perpetual adolescent) – seem to regard bashing the government as a game, but the outcome could be serious. We will end up with another Tory government, not one that is more liberal. Polly was very hostile to the People’s Ken. ‘He’s a liar,’ she said. ‘I heard him say in the presence of 40 journalists that Frank Dobson was clinically depressed. Later, he flatly denied having said it.’ Polly says that when she rang Ken and challenged him he was shameless and simply said he had been speaking off the record. Ken, she says only half jokingly, is a monster. Charming, brilliant, infuriating, but a monster nevertheless whose mission is to destroy the Labour Party. A bit rich coming from a founder member of the SDP.
Thursday, 16 March I don’t have to wind up tonight’s debate, after all. The Tories have dropped housing and decided instead to debate the collapse of Rover.
It’s not our fault if no one wants to buy Rover cars, but one way or another we will be blamed. John Humphrys was at it on Today this morning, asking Steve Byers if he was planning to resign. Why should he, for God’s sake? He’s done absolutely nothing wrong. Humphrys, like Hencke, is an opportunist liberal who has never had to take responsibility for anything in his life.
Monday, 20 March
To London on an early train since I had to wind up the second reading of the Countryside Bill, which, among other things, introduces a right of access to four million acres of hitherto closed areas of mountain, moor, heath and downland. Happily, it holds none of the terrors of the Transport or Utilities Bills. At last, I am being sent in to bat for a piece of legislation that I actually care about.
Earlier, I found Ken Livingstone sitting alone in the Tea Room. Everyone is giving him a wide berth and he looked a bit down, so I went up and had a few words but thought it wise not to sit at his table. I didn’t realise, but he had come in to deliver his apology for the failure to declare his outside earnings. When the time came he picked a place in the shadows, at the furthest corner of the chamber, rattled off his short statement and was gone. It was all over in less than a minute. I doubt whether we shall see much more of him in this place. The regime seems entirely reconciled to a Ken victory. There is the smell of doom about Frank’s campaign. Everything he does seems to rebound. Even the fuss over Ken’s outside earnings backfired when it emerged that one of Frank’s henchmen had been involved in setting Ken up. ‘We could have done with a better candidate,’ remarked Jack Straw, who joined me while I was eating my beans on toast during a break from the Countryside Bill. He added that he had favoured Tony Banks, but had been overruled.
Wednesday, 22 March
I showed a delegation of Vietnamese, including a vice-foreign minister, around the House. Afterwards, we took tea on the terrace in bright sunshine, one of them asked the question that I always dread. ‘How much does a British MP earn?’
‘About 75,000 US dollars,’ I replied, taking care to explain that before he translated that enormous sum into dong he should bear in mind that about 30 per cent went in tax and national insurance and that there was a huge difference in the cost of living.
He thought about this for a moment and said, ‘It is a pity you can’t earn this in England and spend it in Vietnam.’
‘I can think of at least one person who does,’ I said. ‘The British Ambassador in Hanoi.’ Then I remembered the Vietnamese Ambassador, sitting next to me, whose salary is probably less than that of a London bus driver. ‘Of course,’ I added, ‘it is not so good to earn your salary in Vietnam and spend it in England.’ They all fell about laughing.
Friday, 24 March Sunderland
To Southmoor School, for a conversation with the head, Mike Crook. A pleasant, cheerful man. Unlike most teachers I meet these days he wasn’t angry or depressed (but then he is retiring in six months). He complained about OFSTED, bureaucracy and overwork. Literacy levels, he says, are still falling. He confirmed that one of the unforeseen consequences of the Working Families’ Tax Credit was a huge fall in the numbers eligible for free school meals and most of those no longer eligible are now going without.
Sunday, 26 March
A bad night. Awoken at three by a dog which barked intermittently. It seemed to be coming from a household with which we had similar trouble ten years ago. After breakfast I penned the owner a polite note and posted it through his letter box as we set off for a picnic at Wallington. When we got back our neighbour, Peter, said an angry man had called and returned my note. On the bottom he had scribbled, ‘My dog died five years ago, so I’d be surprised if you can still hear it.’
Friday, 31 March
Sunderland
How about this for a piece of New Labour claptrap?
Dear Chris I am writing to give you advance notice that Sunderland is one of the local authority areas we have identified to be part of an enlarged Excellence in Cities (EIC) programme … I don’t have to tell you what good news this is … In the next few weeks we shall be asking schools and authorities to form partnerships to develop EIC plans. These will create new patterns of provision – Beacon and Specialist schools; small Education Action Zones; school-based city learning centres; learning mentors and enriched opportunities for gifted and talented children.
Best wishes
David Blunkett
Goodness knows what all this means, although I am sure it is all terribly worthy. No wonder the teachers are so bewildered.
Sunday, 2 April A video arrived from the Parliamentary Recording Unit which includes my first appearance at the Dispatch Box. Not very flattering. All the viewer sees when I’m bent over my script is an aerial view of my bald head. Emma watched it with me. ‘Dad,’ she asked, ‘when you speak in Parliament why do you say “er”?’
Monday, 3 April Brixton Home at 1 a.m. to find a message on the answerphone from a Daily Telegraph journalist: the Guardian were running a front-page story saying I had called for a boycott of Barclays Bank. Would I confirm the quotes? Fell into bed without returning the call. Some mistake, surely?
Tuesday, 4 April The telephone started ringing at 7 a.m. Would I like to appear on the Today programme to discuss my call for a boycott of Barclays? I ignored several calls. Then Shayne from the private office rang. The press office at the Department were anxious to speak to me. The Guardian were running a front-page lead saying I had called for a boycott of Barclays. The word ‘boycott’ was in the headline, 48pt bold. There was nothing in the story to indicate when or where I had made this great clarion call. It was apparently based on quotes from an adjournment debate a week ago. At no stage had I used the word ‘boycott’. All I said was that exhortations from politicians were not likely to cut much ice with a hard-nosed commercial institution like Barclays, but there was nothing to stop customers voting with their feet. When I got to the House there was a message waiting from Alastair Campbell. I gave him my version of events and he didn’t seem bothered. I guess he has to cope with nonsense of this sort every day. Later, I saw the transcript of his morning briefing with the lobby hacks at which my speech was the main item on the agenda. Alastair played a straight bat, sticking up for me throughout. Apparently William Hague was asked about it on Today this morning and, although he distanced himself from the idea of a boycott, he reserved most of his criticism for Barclays. It was left to a woman from the Institute of Directors to huff and puff and say how wicked I was. Needless to say, the entire discussion was based on the false premise that I had called for a boycott.
As the day wore on I began to realise that this little episode might, after all, be something less than a disaster. It has provided a temporary respite fr
om the obscurity into which I have sunk and it seems to have made a lot of people happy. ‘Stick with it,’ said Jeff Rooker. ‘Whatever you do, don’t apologise. This will go down well with pensioners, the rural areas and in the party.’ ‘Don’t worry, you spoke for all of us,’ said Denis MacShane, brushing aside my attempt to explain that I hadn’t actually called for a boycott. ‘You’ve got the best of both worlds,’ said Bob Marshall-Andrews. ‘On the one hand, you can show that the speech is absolutely unobjectionable and on the other you get credit for something entirely different.’ Even the former Tory Attorney General, Nicholas Lyell, who saw the speech on his monitor, was friendly. ‘All you did was lend some encouragement to the working of the market. I can’t see anything wrong with that.’ The whole business is bizarre.
Chris Brain, my new Private Secretary, received a visit from JP’s Private Secretary who said that JP was unhappy that I didn’t have a pager.
‘He hasn’t mentioned that to me.’
‘Ah, Minister, that’s not how it works.’
‘If he gives me a written instruction …’ Pained expression. ‘I hope it won’t come to that … It would be helpful, to the office.’
What nonsense. We’ve managed perfectly well up until now without a car, a mobile telephone or a pager. I promised to reflect, but in the end I expect I shall have to surrender.
Wednesday, 5 April
This morning’s papers are full of the row over my supposed call for a boycott. There is a wonderful Steve Bell cartoon in the Guardian in which I am scruffily depicted as the mascot, clutching a red flag, on the front of a Rolls-Royce containing two very fat cats. One or two of the more serious journalists have taken the trouble to check what I actually said, but ‘boycott’ features prominently in most reports, including another front-page story by Patrick Wintour, who still hasn’t bothered to contact me. Presumably because he is too ashamed.
I am roundly denounced in the Sun and the Mail (just like old times).
The leader in the Mail is headed ‘The louse and the flea’. Barclays is the louse. I am the flea. Gillian Shephard, who was present at the Barclays debate, was most amused. ‘You didn’t say any of that. What you said was about market forces. It was very reasonable.’ I was afraid the subject might come up at Prime Minister’s Questions and that The Man would be forced to dissociate himself, so I alerted Bruce, who didn’t seem at all concerned. In the event, the subject didn’t arise. I think the Tories have realised that this is a two-edged sword. Barclays, which is closing a lot of rural branches, is not very popular right now and no one wants to be seen taking its side. Pat says she spent most of yesterday answering calls from people ringing with congratulations. Many from the Home Counties.
This evening, just before five, I passed Nick Soames bending the ear of The Man in the corridor between the library and the Members’ Lobby. The Prime Minister was pinned against the lockers, Soames’s huge frame loomed menacingly, his face just an inch or two from The Man’s. Suddenly, Soames slammed his fist into the locker a foot or so from Tony’s head. The Man didn’t flinch, his perma-smile remained intact. So far as I could tell the exchange was good-humoured.
Exchanges with Soames usually are. ‘What were you talking to the Prime Minister about?’ I inquired when I saw him in the Tea Room later in the evening.
‘I was telling him he must love the army. He does, but the Treasury doesn’t.’
For the third night running we were kept here until after 1 a.m. There was a lot of hanging around. I spent 40 minutes in the Prime Minister’s room with Bruce Grocott, on the sofa under the picture of Sir Walter Scott. According to Bruce, The Man is unduly impressed by people who are clever. ‘“Very clever” is the highest accolade he can award.’ I said that I realised ten years ago, watching those Birmingham Six Appeal Court judges at close quarters, that it is possible to be very clever and stupid at the same time. Said Bruce, ‘The cleverest person I’ve ever seen in this place was Enoch Powell, and he didn’t do himself any good.’
‘Have you said that to The Man?’
‘Yes.’
On the way out Bruce proudly showed me the new basin installed last summer, at his insistence, in the PM’s outer office. He said the staff were so pleased that they bought a bottle of champagne to celebrate. Unbelievably, they have until recently been reduced to carrying water upstairs in a bucket to make tea for the Prime Minister’s guests. At first the House authorities argued that it was impossible to run water through to the outer office and only relented when Bruce threatened to bring in his son to do it for them.
Later, half an hour in the Tea Room with Archie Norman. He said it costs about £9 million a year to run the Tory party and about another £10 million to run an election. ‘There won’t be any more big poster campaigns because we can’t afford them.’ He added quietly, ‘It is amazing what some people will do for a peerage. I know stories I could never tell.’
Thursday, 6 April
The ‘boycott Barclays’ nonsense has done wonders for my profile in Sunderland. ‘MULLIN DEFIANT IN BANK BATTLE’ was the splash in last night’s Echo. And inside was one of the friendliest notices I have ever received. Sample:
No matter what title may hang on his office door, Mr Mullin is not a parliamentary poodle … Chris Mullin does not appear to fit into the mould of the New Labour disciples who fawn to Tony Blair’s mission. He is first and foremost a constituency MP whose intellect, independence and single mindedness have elevated him to a higher stage on numerous occasions.
And so on. Perhaps I ought to send Patrick Wintour a thank you note.
Friday, 7 April Sunderland
Rang Michael White about obtaining the Steve Bell cartoon. ‘We owe you,’ he said. Adding, ‘You have been traduced in a good cause.’
Among the messages on our answerphone, one from Mildred Brodie, a dear old Tory neighbour. ‘We’re all behind you, Chris. Everyone I have spoken to agrees with you.’
Friday, 14 April Ngoc and I were married in Ho Chi Minh City thirteen years ago today.
Saturday, 15 April To the home of the great engraver Thomas Bewick in the Tyne Valley. We had the place to ourselves for most of the time. The National Trust custodian, a Yorkshireman, made us a cup of tea. He lived in an upstairs flat and said that he was one of 900 applicants for the job. Ten times as many as for a safe Labour seat.
Tuesday, 18 April
‘Clare Short and I are the two happiest ministers in the government,’ remarked Michael Meacher, as we loitered in JP’s outer office this morning. ‘Blair doesn’t regard the environment or overseas development as important, so we are left to get on with it. JP isn’t interested either so he keeps out, too.’ I had noticed. When the music stops, either job would suit me fine.
Wednesday, 19 April My new private secretary, Chris Brain, thinks I say No too much. It’s true I turn down just about all invitations to socialise with vested interests, in keeping with my First Iron Law of Politics: avoid pointless activity. Specifically, Chris thinks I ought not to have declined an invitation to drinks with Richard Branson. It is not as if we have anything to discuss since he directs his angry missives – of which we receive about one a fortnight – to one of my many superiors. The latest – about the refusal to award Virgin a new route to South Africa – went to the Prime Minister, no less. To keep Chris happy I have agreed to show my face, unless something more pressing turns up. Iron Law of Politics Number Two: keep in with Private Secretary.
Thursday, 20 April
Lunch, in the Lords dining room, with John Gilbert. In fine form, despite having come off an overnight flight from Australia. For some reason he has taken a shine to me although we are as different as chalk and cheese. One thing we do have in common, however, is an interest in the big picture. He is full of shrewd insights and useful advice for a budding minister. ‘Avoid publicity. If it’s bad, it will only upset your superiors. If it’s good, they will be jealous.’ We discussed the difference between cleverness and intelligence. John cites David
Marquand, John Roper and Dick Taverne (all of whom defected to the SDP) as examples of people who were too clever by half. ‘You could spot them in the lobbies a mile off. They brayed.’ David Owen, I ventured, was another. ‘No. Owen is not clever. The sort of man who loses his temper with waiters, although he does have a certain charm.
When he chooses to use it.’ Nick Raynsford he cited as an example of a man who was intelligent as opposed to simply clever. ‘My other favourite minister,’ he said. ‘He should be in the Cabinet.’
Thursday, 27 April
An article in today’s Guardian about local election apathy, an area in which Sunderland leads the nation. The piece was illustrated by a brilliant photo of a lone canvasser in a deserted street, bending the ear of a householder propped insolently in his doorway in a pose that suggested complete indifference. My agent, Kevin Marquis, is quoted: ‘When I joined the local Labour Party, aged 19, I was one of the youngest members. I am now 41 and still one of the youngest.’
Friday, 28 April
Sunderland
As I was making my way into the hospital (for a meeting about saving the Cleft Palate Unit) I was waylaid by an angry old bigot who claimed once to have been a shop steward in the shipyard and is, therefore, one of our much-lamented core voters. His complaints were numerous. His language intemperate. He began with a genuine grievance:
the government have done ‘nothing’ for pensioners like himself with small occupational pensions. ‘This gentleman,’ indicating the old boy with him, who remained silent throughout, ‘pays £60 a week for his flat and the woman next door pays just £5.’ In vain did I try to get a word in edgeways. He went on, ‘The Labour Party is full of traitors and poofs.’ The word ‘scum’ also featured. Then he was off on a rant about a footpath on some wasteland near his home and the alleged lack of action by his local councillors, although it was unclear whether he had seriously attempted to contact them. Then he turned to crime and the police. In between he found space to describe his various symptoms – suspected cancer which turned out to be a gall bladder.
