by Chris Mullin
Tuesday, 31 October
A meeting of ministers in JP’s office. The first for three months. JP is to make a statement this afternoon. As usual, he was slumped in his armchair, huffing and puffing, but what he said made sense. ‘We’ve got to start planning for windy and wet, rather than cold, weather. We can’t continue calling this weather exceptional. It isn’t. Two or three more of these and the insurance companies are going to say sod it.’ He went on, ‘Why is it that the power lines on our railways come down every time we get a bit of wind? It’s because British Rail, at the insistence of the Treasury, went for the cheap option years ago. It isn’t true to say that the current problems are all down to privatisation. Railtrack are investing more than British Rail ever did.’
Thursday, 2 November
With exquisite timing, given the floods and general pestilence, I have to give a speech on sustainable drainage at a conference in Newcastle tomorrow. The official draft was execrable so I spent two hours drafting my own, almost managing to render sustainable drainage interesting. I sent my draft back to officials and they came back with a couple of quibbles. I conceded the first, but not the second – my suggestion that we are addicted to the motor car. All day they kept trying to change my mind, but I held out. My, what sensitive flowers we are.
An extraordinary journey home. I went to King’s Cross in good time for the 18.00 only to be told that the track was flooded and there were no trains north of York (on Monday there were none running south of York). I decided to chance it. To begin with all seemed well.
We reached York in three hours, which wasn’t bad considering the diversion around Hatfield. At York we were loaded onto a bus and set off for Darlington. It was raining heavily and in places water was running across the road. The further we went the more inundated the roads. The A1 was already closed so we headed up the A19, only to discover that was also blocked. We reached Northallerton to find the town centre was a lake (the roofs of cars just visible in the water). Three of the four roads out were impassable. Three times we had to make three-point turns in narrow roads. And the rain kept falling. We passed soldiers, firemen, abandoned cars. Backwards and forwards we went, splashing through floods that smaller vehicles dared not enter. ‘I’m running out of options,’ said the driver, ‘if the Swale has overflowed, you’ve had it.’ And so we had.
Sometime after midnight the coach was brought to a halt by a dreadful scraping sound. A large piece of metal underseal had become detached. The driver, who remained in good humour throughout, clambered down into the mud and rain and set about extricating it. His radio sprang to life. A woman’s voice inquiring anxiously where we were. None of us knew and the driver was busy under the bus. ‘Don’t worry,’ said the voice, ‘GNER will look after you.’ At which a great cheer went up. Morale was high.
At about 1.30, having been driving round north Yorkshire for four hours, we were deposited back at York station and shepherded into an empty train. This was the low point. Despite assurances to the contrary, it looked as though we might spend the night there. But no. Within half an hour we were off again and before we knew it, booked into a four-star hotel. GNER, God bless it, was sparing no expense.
Friday, 3 November
Sunderland
Up at seven, after four hours’ sleep. The television news is showing scenes of devastation in York city centre, less than half a mile away, where the river is said to be 17 feet above normal. But here all is tranquillity. By breakfast, bright sunshine. From my table by the huge Georgian dining room window, a fine view of the twin towers of the Minster, set against a clear blue sky. Last night’s mayhem is no more than a bad dream.
After breakfast we set off again, by bus. At 12.40 – almost 19 hours after leaving King’s Cross – we are deposited at Durham Station. ‘The frustrating thing is,’ remarked a young man sitting beside me, ‘there is no one to blame.’
As for my much-laboured-over speech on sustainable drainage … I never got to make it.
Tuesday, 7 November
A chat with John Major in the gents’ loo on Upper Corridor South (he asked to borrow my Listerine). John says he’s not going to the House of Lords when he stands down next year. ‘I wouldn’t feel right in my skin,’ he said. Adding mischievously, ‘You right-wingers don’t understand what working-class boys like me feel about the place.’ I pointed out that (on our side at least) the Lords is full of working-class boys. He’s working on two books: ‘one about cricket and the other is a secret – except that it’s not about politics’. I suspect he may be trying his hand at a novel.
For the second time this term, Sarah and Emma are off school because water is pouring through its roof and the heating has packed up.
To bed just after 1.00 a.m. According to the television Al Gore is
likely to be the next US President.
Wednesday, 8 November
Awoke to find that George Bush is in the lead. Everything hangs on the outcome in Florida, which is on a knife edge.
Jack Straw at his most illiberal addressed the weekly party meeting.
The Cambridge MP, Anne Campbell, referred to animal rights protesters against Huntingdon Life Sciences, in her constituency, as ‘terrorists’, a sentiment which Jack endorsed. ‘It’s time we stopped pandering to the anti-vivisectionists. No one wants to be gratuitously cruel to animals, but we do actually eat them.’ (Speak for yourself, I thought.) Our scientists were too restricted, he went on. Medicines had to be tested on animals. It was time we faced up to this.
Then someone complained about travellers and that really got Jack going. ‘If you think there are one or two liberals left among officials in the Home Office, you should try the DETR. Isn’t that right, Chris?’
I indicated assent. At which point JP came to life, giving me one of his blackest looks. ‘Do you agree?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we must do something.’ He scribbled furiously.
Actually, it’s true. We are forever getting complaints about the huge quantities of litter and other detritus left by unauthorised campers: 10, 20, 30 tons of rubbish are not uncommon and yet the law appears to be virtually useless. Officials just make excuses. The latest is the Human Rights Act. ‘Surely,’ I say, ‘the victims have human rights, too,’ but they just giggle uneasily.
Much merriment at Prime Minister’s Questions, at the discovery that Hague was a member of the Cabinet committee which gave the go-ahead to the Dome. He was even party to the wildly optimistic projections of visitor numbers which has haunted us ever since. As a result The Man effortlessly brushed aside poor William’s attempts to stir up righteous indignation. An unexpected bonus. We shan’t always be able to shelter behind the follies of the previous regime, but it’s fun while it lasts.
Thursday, 9 November
Another meeting, against official advice, with Putney MP Tony Colman about night flights. After our previous meeting (which officials also advised against) it was agreed that the British Airports Authority would set up a meeting with the airlines to discuss channelling night flights into a narrower time frame, but needless to say nothing has happened. Our official who sat in on the meeting made no secret of his view that nothing can be done and deeply resents my meddling. He grew more surly as the meeting progressed and after it was over he had a long quiet chat with my Private Secretary, Chris, outside in the corridor. Later, Chris ticked me off for showing up the official, but I am unrepentant. The relationship between the airlines and the Department is far too cosy. The only hope of doing anything about night flights is to link them to the fate of terminal five. For that I must first get Gus and JP on board.
Tuesday, 14 November
Lunch with Bruce Grocott in the Millbank Room. Bruce is one of the most sensible people at court. An antidote to all those immature New Labour types who infest the higher reaches. As he says, ‘Apart from Tony, I am the only person in Number 10 who is elected and who travels regularly beyond the M25.’ Along with Alastair Campbell (of whom Bruce speaks high
ly) he is the only one who can be relied upon to tell The Man to his face what he might not want to hear. Bruce says he is regarded as an amiable eccentric by the courtiers. He is wholly opposed to the air traffic sell-off and has told The Man so. ‘We had almost succeeded in making “privatisation” a dirty word and now we are making it respectable again.’ I pointed out that with air traffic control, as with so many other things that get us into trouble (single-parent benefit, the 75 pence pension increase, the ridiculous over-spinning), the trail leads back to Gordon, who, when the shit hits the fan, is nowhere to be seen. Why doesn’t The Man stand up to him? ‘I think Tony is rather in awe of Gordon,’ says Bruce. He adds that, since the fuel crisis, The Man has become more receptive to advice. ‘Until then, New Labour had it too easy. They didn’t have to listen, and they didn’t.’
Bruce went on, ‘I don’t believe New Labour has abolished the economic cycle either. Sooner or later there is going to be an economic crisis.’
Has he said this to The Man?
‘Yes.’
Wednesday, 15 November
Cold, foggy, frosty. The Palace of Westminster invisible from Lambeth Bridge and in St James’s Park the pelicans still have their heads under their wings. I spent the morning drafting a speech for a conference of local councillors I have been asked to address on Friday in place of Hilary Armstrong. The official draft was useless. Full of New Labour claptrap about strategies, visions, challenges and opportunities, which I was expected to stand and chant like a Mormon missionary. I rewrote it without reference to the official version and even included a couple of cautious paragraphs about proportional representation which upset the officials, but when I checked them with Hilary she was relaxed.
A breakthrough on night flights. To my pleasant surprise Gus has reacted sympathetically to my note and agreed that I should write something for inclusion in the aviation White Paper in December. The airlines won’t be happy. Nor will officials. Incidentally, Keith Hill recalled lunching with Sir John Egan* four years ago and being told that the airlines would be willing to trade night flights in exchange for terminal five. He is the second person to tell me that (the other was Tony Colman). The trouble is that nothing is in writing and the airlines seem to have gone off the idea now they are confident of getting their new terminal anyway. I must find a way of smoking this out.
Friday, 17 November
A wicked piece by Simon Hoggart on the ‘urban’ White Paper which was launched in Manchester yesterday.
This is a classic New Labour document, being printed on glossy paper and illustrated with colour pictures of the Elysium that is the new Britain. Happy people, many from ethnic minorities, gaze productively at computer screens. Pensioners get off a gleaming, streamlined tram which has just delivered them promptly and inexpensively to their grandchildren … The prose has the same unreal quality. Nothing actually happens. Nothing tangible is planned. But we are promised there will be ‘innovative developments’, ‘local strategic partnerships’ and ‘urban policy units’. Town councils will have new powers to ‘promote well-being’ … and, just in case we think this will never happen, we are promised that ‘visions for the future will be developed’. There will be a ‘key focus’ here and a ‘co-ordinated effort’ there. The government in its wisdom has ‘established a framework’. The whole thing resembles those fantastical architect’s drawings in which slim, well-dressed figures stroll across tree-festooned piazzas with no mention of empty burger boxes or gangs of glowering youths.
Monday, 20 November
A meeting to discuss night flights. The memo from Gus has had the desired effect. This time the top official appeared. He was amiable and straightforward. He is wholly opposed to rescheduling and will resist every inch of the way. The airlines, who he described as ‘bastards’, will mount tough resistance. They may even, he suggested, use the Human Rights Act against us, ‘corporations are people, too’. He considers it his job to see terminal five agreed with as few conditions and little fuss as possible. I asked him to provide me with a note setting out how a ban on night flights might be achieved. He reluctantly suggested that the idea might be floated at the aviation summit in February and that, if we decide to go ahead, it could be linked to the terminal five announcement next summer. The problem – as officials well know – is that I shall be gone from the Department by then and they will still be here.
Friday, 23 November Sunderland
Lunch with Denise Barna, who runs the Neighbourhood Centre in Pennywell. During her time Pennywell has been transformed. Public money poured in and most of it was put to good use. All the same, she was pessimistic. Many residents, she says, are trapped in a huge benefit culture and determined to remain that way. Just about all the single mothers who registered with a child care provider (to qualify for Working Families’ Tax Credit) withdrew their children as soon as they had qualified. Also, the first dozen women from an Into Work programme for single mothers found part-time work in order to qualify for the bonus on offer. Within weeks, however, all but one were back on benefit. The last followed soon afterwards. No doubt they all feature as successes in the figures reported back to Whitehall. She is worried about what will happen when the regeneration money dries up in three or four years. Says Denise, ‘It will take at least a generation to make any permanent changes.’
Wednesday, 29 November
Mike O’Brien, a Home Office minister, whispered that he had come close to resigning today after a row with Jack over animal testing.
There have been repeated complaints about Huntingdon Life Sciences and Mike wanted to set up an inquiry, but Jack overruled him. Jack also insisted that Mike sign a letter refusing an inquiry, which Mike was reluctant to do since he had more or less committed himself to one. Eventually, after considerable agonising and rewriting, he signed.
Thursday, 30 November
JP has sent Gus a note saying that he wishes to be kept informed about our plans for night flights. This in turn has triggered a note from Gus which, reading between the lines, appears to be backtracking on his earlier enthusiasm. Shayne, in my private office, has appended a note to the bottom: ‘This looks ominous.’
This morning, in the absence of Gus, I was asked to sign a letter to the Foreign Office setting out the Department’s view on continuing with the ban on air travel to Afghanistan. Naively, I suggested a minor amendment. ‘Oh, that’s not for you,’ blurted my attentive Private Secretary.
‘So why are you asking for my approval, if I am not allowed to change anything?’
A weary smile. He disappears. Five minutes later he is back. ‘I’ve passed on your concern.’
‘I don’t want my concern passed on. I want to amend the letter.’
Off he trots to retrieve it. His demeanour leaving me in no doubt of his disapproval. The letter reappears. I duly add a sentence.
Some hours later: a call at the House. ‘The option you suggested had already been considered by the Foreign Secretary and rejected so your final sentence has been deleted. I hope that’s alright.’
‘No, it’s not alright. We were asked for our opinion. Why can’t we give it?’
‘Too late now. The letter has gone. I couldn’t get hold of you.’
Of course he could. He knows precisely where I have been since the moment I left the Department. It is not the first time this ploy has been used. If I protest, I shall be told that I should have a pager. If I had a pager, some other excuse would be devised.
A sad little scene on the tube. A boy and a girl of East European appearance. He about ten. She perhaps 15, beautiful with her hair in a long plait. They are both well-dressed. The boy has an accordion which he shows no sign of being able to play. She, over her dress, is wearing a brand-new Father Christmas outfit. They are both wearing Father Christmas hats. They move along the carriage, the girl proferring a paper cup which she holds out to each passenger. Only one man drops in a few coins. ‘What kind of parents do they have?’ snorts the man next to me. ‘They must be desperate,’
I venture. The girl looks intelligent. Does she go to school? It must be humiliating. What is going on in her head as she pushes a cup under the noses of surly commuters?
Sunday, 3 December Sunderland
Philip and Marjorie Deakin to lunch. The children acted out The Very Hungry Caterpillar for them. At the end Emma rolled up into a ball, disappeared under a coat and, after a bit of wriggling, emerged as a beautiful butterfly. Philip and Marjorie were most impressed.
Tuesday, 5 December
A quiet chat with John Major, who confirmed that he had contemplated banning foreign ownership of British media. He said he had been provoked by the continual attacks on him in the Murdoch press and in the Telegraph, which is owned by Conrad Black, a Canadian. I asked if he had commissioned any work on the subject and he said he had, but it was buried with the papers of the last government. He added, ‘I’m not interested in any blow that isn’t fatal.’ Me neither.
Wednesday, 6 December
Nick Raynsford says that Alistair Darling is signed up to giving local authorities discretion to stop paying housing benefit direct to rogue landlords. Until now the Department of Social Security has been dragging its feet. Nick also says that it may even be possible to do something before the election since primary legislation is not needed.
Perhaps, after all, I shall leave behind a small footprint. When I first raised the subject Nick was sceptical and so were officials, but now he’s completely on board.
Later, ran into Alistair who was not so upbeat. He denied having reached any firm conclusion and said that primary legislation would almost certainly be necessary.
More pressure required.
To the House for the State Opening. Or rather not to the State Opening, for in 13 years I have never yet attended one. However, Her Majesty was still on the premises when I arrived so I tarried at St Stephen’s entrance to watch her depart. Whatever one thinks of our ruling class, they do a good line in State occasions. Long lines of ramrod-straight Guards in blue coats and busbies; a resplendent herald in yellow and scarlet; four troops of Horse Guards in gleaming helmets (and moving incongruously among them, workmen in yellow jackets labelled Onyx, scooping up the droppings). Open-topped carriages manned by flunkies in tricorn hats parked by the Peers’ Entrance. And in front of them, a rather-too-conspicuous ambulance, on stand-by in case of accidents – or worse. I had thought that the Queen would depart in one of the open carriages, but no. Hers was parked out of sight under the arch of the Victoria Tower. Much barking of orders and stamping of feet preceded its emergence, drawn by four large white horses and preceded by a magnificent ruling class specimen on an even larger white horse. What would the girls have given to see this?
