A View From The Foothills

by Chris Mullin

  Sunday, 9 July

  A family outing to Dam Sen, a huge water park in what was once a Viet Cong-infested mangrove swamp. The entry fee is two and a half dollars a head, a price that only the prosperous can afford. Most of the small boys are overweight. A quote from V. S. Naipaul comes to mind: ‘India is a very simple country. The poor are thin and the rich are fat.’

  Monday, 10 July

  To Tan Son Nhut airport, the scene of several tearful goodbyes in days past. Ngoc’s family have been as generous and hospitable as ever and it is always good to see them, but Saigon no longer holds the romance that it once did. The dirt, the chaos, the skyscrapers do nothing for me. I long for the (relatively) fresh air and green fields of England. I am reading (as I do each time I come back) The Quiet American. A reminder of an age of innocence. A time when Saigon was a village of bicycles, cyclos and villas with red tiles and green shutters. Here and there the past can still be glimpsed, but it is fading rapidly and soon it will be gone for ever. There will be no one but a few naive and sentimental foreigners to mourn its passing.

  Wednesday, 12 July

  Among the messages awaiting my return, a stern e-mail from Bob Ainsworth, the Department whip. ‘I need to talk to the Minister about repeated applications for absences on Thursdays …’ The cheek of it. The implication is that I’m somehow skiving when in fact I’m worked out of my skull. I rang Bob, but he was in no mood for discussion. I have been ordered to cancel a visit I was due to make to Nottingham tomorrow and to stay down until late on Thursday. In vain did I protest that I was due to address a conference of industrial chaplains, on the New Deal, in Sunderland at 9.30 on Friday morning. Our flagship policy, no less, but I was ordered to cancel that, too. No skin off my back. In fact it saves me a good deal of work, but I do hate letting people down.

  Betty Boothroyd announced that she is to retire at the end of the summer. She did it with great aplomb. ‘Be happy for me,’ she said when Members indicated disappointment.

  Thursday, 13 July

  Today sees the publication of the government’s annual report. As last year, it has been received with general derision. Among the achievements for which we congratulate ourselves, a national sports centre in Sheffield which doesn’t exist. Another self-inflicted wound. Why do we do it? In the corridor behind the Speaker’s chair I ran into The Man and took the opportunity to bend his ear about the importance of a high-level visit to Vietnam. ‘I’ll send JP,’ he said. He looked washed out. A nerve was twitching in the side of his face, something I have never noticed before. I realised afterwards that he had just received a battering from Hague over this foolish annual report so I had caught him at a bad time. Saw Jim Cousins in the Library. ‘We’ve talked ourselves into a crisis,’ he said, ‘and the truth is that there isn’t one. It’s the Blairistas who’ve done it. How on earth would they handle a real crisis?’ Jim reckons that Gordon is planning a putsch soon after the election. Gordon’s henchpersons, says Jim, are already putting out feelers. Jim has been approached. He named two of our colleagues, both disappointed seekers of office. One even suggested that Blair had a serious character defect (a bit rich coming from a fan of GB).

  We were kept here until almost 1 a.m. in support of Jack Straw’s Bill on football hooligans. In the event only six people voted against. By the end I was like a zombie. Since arriving back from Vietnam, I’ve only had one decent night’s sleep.

  Monday, 17 July

  The Murdoch press has got hold of a memorandum, dated 29 April, written by The Man himself which is, to put it mildly, embarrassing. For a man whose greatest strength is his ability to think long term it is remarkably shallow and short term. There is an air of panic running through it. He focuses on five issues – the Martin case,* asylum, crime, defence and the family. ‘These things add up to a sense that the government – and this even applies to me – are somehow out of touch with gut British instincts.’ He goes on to call for ‘eye-catching initiatives’. Example: ‘Locking up street muggers … something tough with immediate bite.’ (No doubt this is the origin of Jack Straw’s nasty little Bill to mete out rough justice to football hooligans that is currently keeping us up half the night.) Needless to say the Tories and the media are having great fun. It is another spectacular own goal. Here is The Man saying in his own words that New Labour is out of touch.

  1.40 a.m.

  Bob Marshall-Andrews berated me in the Library corridor for not resigning over the Football Disorder Bill, which he regards as an affront to civilised values. In vain did I protest that it was only a minor piece of wickedness and probably wouldn’t be much used. ‘Oh, I see. You are supporting it because you think it won’t be used. Is that it?’ Actually, no. That isn’t it. The truth is that you can only resign once and I don’t consider this pathetic little Bill worth resigning over. ‘Is there anything you would resign over?’ he shouted. He was very po-faced. I’ve never seen Bob in such a mood before. Usually he is affable. I consoled myself with the thought that the hour was late.

  Tuesday, 18 July

  Gordon emerged from his Treasury bunker to announce his new three-year spending plans. Never has a Labour Chancellor had a better story to tell. Indeed, seldom has any Chancellor. This was Gordon the Magnificent. He stood erect at the Dispatch Box, his notes laid out upon two thick copies of Hansard so that he scarcely had to bend his head. His finest hour. No ya-boo. No waffle. Just fact after remorseless fact. Beside him The Man, worn down from the battering of recent days, looked a pale shadow. Were the throne to become vacant now or at any time in the near future there is no doubt who would succeed.

  Portillo made a lacklustre response. I’ve never seen him so bad.

  Not really his fault. What could he say? His only hope was to begin with a little self-deprecating humour, but instead he opted for phony indignation and was, as a result, doomed from the outset. The Tories looked pale. Not a spark of light from any of them. I guess they were reflecting that a government presiding over an economy so sound as ours could not possibly lose an election – no matter how hard we try.

  Wednesday, 19 July

  The Murdoch press have got hold of another damaging memo. This one from Philip Gould. It seems that the Tories have acquired a pile of internal memoranda and are controlling their release with a view to inflicting maximum damage. ‘Our current situation is serious,’ opines the King of Focus. ‘… For much of the time the government has been drifting … The New Labour brand has been badly contaminated. It is the object of constant criticism and, even worse, ridicule. Undermined by a combination of spin, lack of conviction and an apparent lack of integrity …’

  Among his less remarkable insights: ‘The Tories have outflanked us on patriotism …’ On and on he drivels, digging the pit deeper with every paragraph. Panic seeping from every pore. New Labour is imploding. As Jim Cousins says, they are talking us into a crisis that doesn’t exist. This man Gould is a complete disaster. This is the third of his doom-laden memoranda to be leaked. Any good he has ever done (and I’m not aware of any) has been far outweighed by the damage his leaks inflict. If we are not to self-destruct, The Man needs to get a grip. We must start leading and stop following. We must aim to please no more than 60, rather than 100, per cent of the electorate. Above all, we should dispose of the entire menagerie of spinners and focus-groupies – starting with Brother Gould.

  ‘We need a step change,’ I remarked to Clive Soley before he disappeared into the parliamentary committee this afternoon: ‘Sack Philip Gould.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ replied Clive airily. ‘He tells the PM things he doesn’t hear from MPs.’ Maybe, but unfortunately he also tells the entire world.

  Monday, 24 July

  Awoke to the news that there is to be no reshuffle this summer. Damn. I had been counting on it.

  To JP’s room at Eland House for end-of-term drinks. He is looking happier and more relaxed than I have ever seen him. The bags under his eyes have receded. He has a ready smile and exudes goodwill to al
l men. The reason, of course, is not hard to divine. After years of toil and ridicule, JP has emerged triumphant. He has squeezed more money out of the Treasury than any environment secretary or transport minister in history.

  Tony Benn has slipped me a copy of a spoof memorandum he has concocted on Downing Street headed notepaper. He says mischievously that he has only given a copy to Jean Corston and me and that, if it leaks, he will know where from.

  TOP SECRET

  To: PRIME MINISTER

  Subject: NEW LABOUR: A MEDICAL REPORT

  New Labour is suffering from BOGUS SPIN EXERCISES (BSE) and has brought about a condition known as CONTAMINATED JARGON DISORDER (CJD) which can prove fatal in political parties.

  A further bulletin will be issued later.

  I would be grateful if you would treat this report as being completely confidential.

  Professor Philip Gould,

  Medical Director,

  The Millbank Clinic.

  Wednesday, 26 July

  We were due to announce our plans for dealing with leylandii today but, to my dismay, Michael Meacher cancelled the press conference at the last moment because he couldn’t make it and flatly refuses to delegate even a matter so trivial as this. Instead he has rearranged the announcement for mid-August when I am on holiday and only he is available. I love Michael dearly and he is an excellent minister, but anything remotely interesting or likely to generate even a morsel of publicity, he greedily hoards. His idea of delegating is to let me sign the letters and do the adjournment debates. He is notorious for it. Angela Eagle once told him that he needed a secretary rather than a junior minister. I could have a row with him, but it’s not worth the energy.

  Friday, 28 July

  Sunderland

  To the University to make a speech about the environment at a little conference organised by the local authority. Its purpose is unclear. Principally, I suspect, so that the council’s director of environment can tick a box showing that he has, in the best New Labour tradition, gone through the motions of consulting.

  ‘How are you getting there?’ asked my assistant, Pat, as ever solicitous for my welfare.

  ‘I’m walking.’

  ‘But it’s on the other side of the river.’

  ‘Yes, Pat, it is the best part of a mile … but after all I am going to be talking about persuading people to leave their cars at home and there has to be some sort of connection between words and action.’

  In the event it was a lovely walk. The sun was shining. Mowbray Park was blooming. Huge flower baskets are hanging from every lamp post in Fawcett Street. The scaffolding has been removed from the rear of the old Corn Exchange affording a fine view from across the river. How the city centre and the river front have been transformed from the low point we reached ten years ago after the loss of the shipyards and the mines. For all the complaining we must be doing something right.

  We were supposed to be talking about sustainable living, but all anyone wanted to talk about was the depredations of the underclass and the failure of the council and the government to deal with the problem. On and on they whinged, unprepared to concede that anything, anywhere had changed for the better. Some of those who had come to talk about the bigger picture walked out. The chairman ruled some of the questions out of order, which only made matters worse.

  The underclass problem dominates everything. There are no quick fixes. Maybe there are no fixes at all. Will we ever put the genie back in the bottle?

  Monday, 31 July

  My attention was drawn to Andrew Rawnsley writing in yesterday’s Observer. His theme is the alleged growing ineffectiveness of Parliament and includes the following:

  I always took Chris Mullin to be an MP of quality, intelligence and a man of independence. Unfortunately Tony Blair spotted that as well. The MP for Sunderland South was turning into an outstanding chairman of the home affairs committee. Then the Prime Minister tempted him with the greasy pole. Since he became a junior minister, Mr Mullin has been buried as effectively as if he had been fitted with concrete over-shoes and dropped into the Thames.

  Tuesday, 8 August Gamekeeper’s Cottage, Northchapel, West Sussex

  I saw the woodpecker this morning. For years I have sat in this garden listening to the tap tap tap in the trees around the cottage, but never actually seen him. Today, while I was reading, he appeared in the laurel tree near the front door, no more than three yards away. Green with a red head-dress. Sarah says she saw him on the lawn outside her window yesterday.

  Monday, 14 August Isle of Wight

  Something dreadful has happened. A Russian nuclear submarine has gone down in the Barents Sea. There are 118 men on board and they have oxygen for seven days.

  Tuesday, 15 August

  With the children to the beach. The tide was high and it was crowded, unlike yesterday. The white cliffs make a magnificent backdrop. As I sit in the sunshine, watching the children play, I can’t get those Russian boys out of my mind – the cold, the dark, the terror.

  Wednesday, 16 August

  A truly massive pile of correspondence awaits signature. My Private Secretary, Chris, estimates there are the best part of a thousand letters.

  It seems the signing system during recess has broken down because Michael Meacher, who was the duty minister before my stint, refused to sign any letters but his own. I am, therefore, left with everyone else’s in addition to my own – and I already handle far more correspondence than any other minister in the Department, possibly in the entire government. Really this is too much. Much as I love Michael, he is not a team player.

  Friday, 18 August

  An interesting little insight into the mad world of nuclear warfare passed my desk today. I was asked to approve deletions, on grounds of national security or commercial secrecy, from reports by the Competition Commission into the pricing policy of two water companies.

  One related to a 1989 directive to water companies about what would be required of them in the aftermath of nuclear war. One of the requirements – which not surprisingly the Powers That Be do not want publicised – is that the companies must be capable of supplying water to 20 per cent of the population, presumably the optimum number of likely survivors.

  Sunday, 20 August Sunderland

  Norwegian divers have entered the Kursk and found no sign of life.

  The question is might it have been different if they had been called in sooner? Probably not. All the same, many Russians must have noticed how foreigners were able to do in a few hours what their own navy had been unable to do in a week. It is time Russia’s rulers stopped pretending to be global players and concentrated instead on looking after their people.

  Wednesday, 23 August

  Hardly a day passes when I don’t compose my resignation letter. Version One goes something like this:

  Dear Tony,

  As you may recall from our discussion at the time I was appointed, I was reluctant to trade one of the main select committee chairmanships for one of the lowliest posts in the government. My only excuse for doing so was the hope that it might lead to something better. I now realise that this is unlikely. After much thought, I have concluded that my present incarnation is not a sensible use of my limited talents and I would therefore be grateful if you would accept my resignation.

  Please be assured of my continuing support.

  A more robust version might omit the final sentence, remind The Man of his various assurances and suggest that my present job is more suited to an ambitious thirty-something. But that is liable to lead to charges of sour grapes, quite apart from which it would gratuitously upset all the ambitious thirty-somethings in the parliamentary party.

  A light touch is called for. Pomposity or the appearance of sulking to be avoided at all costs.

  Friday, 1 September Sunderland

  Half a dozen girl guides came to ask questions. An interview with an elected representative being a requirement for a Baden Powell Award. They were bright, intelligent 14-year-old
s, but one thing they said depressed me. ‘When we receive our awards we don’t want our picture in the Echo.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because the other kids at school would make fun of us.’

  Their leader added, ‘It’s not cool.’

  The alleged north–south divide came up at the monthly meeting of my local party this evening. I said there was a lot of claptrap talked about it. If you turn left at the end of my street you come, within a few hundred yards, to houses that are unsaleable. Turn right and you soon come to houses which change hands for £250,000 and more. The two communities live within a mile of each other, but they might as well be on different planets. They never meet – unless one burgles the other. The problem isn’t a north–south divide. It’s a class divide and it exists to a greater or lesser extent in every city in the country. What’s more, anyone with a secure job on a national salary scale – teachers, nurses, doctors, MPs – is far better off in Sunderland than Surrey because the housing costs are so much lower. To my surprise, no one challenged this.

  Wednesday, 7 September

  A great new crisis over the Dome, triggered by the news that yet another huge wodge of lottery money has had to be thrown at it. The tabloids are baying for the head of poor Charlie Falconer. Most unfair considering that this great folly was well underway by the time he came on the scene. Peter Mandelson, the real culprit, is over in Northern Ireland keeping his head well below the parapet. This wretched Dome has become an albatross. A symbol of all that is wrong with New Labour: shallow, over-hyped, naff.