by Chris Mullin
Thursday, 18 January
To Harrow to deliver my ‘Why Politics Matters’ speech to about 50 sixth-formers. Soft-skinned, rosy-cheeked youths whose lives are untouched by the harsh realities of the world beyond their doorstep.
Several were already wearing pinstripes in preparation for their inevitable entry to the City. The young teacher who collected me from the station said that many of the boys were looking forward to the Countryside Alliance march in the spring. The applause was polite, but unenthusiastic. Most of the questions were depressingly predictable.
(Sample: ‘Why is New Labour so obsessed with gays and fox hunting?’ Answer: ‘We’re not, but you seem to be.’) Later, I dined with a group of boys and teachers at the magnificent tied ‘cottage’ of one of the housemasters. Interestingly, none of the three teachers present had voted Tory in 1997 and none seemed likely to this time. One said he thought we would get a bigger majority next time. ‘We talk to the parents and they are not afraid of you any more.’
Before leaving for Harrow I put a copy of my speech in the post for The Man with a jokey little covering note saying that this was an attempt to extend New Labour’s big tent ever outwards. I also sent copies to Alastair and Bruce. I’m not sure it was wise because it wasn’t entirely on-message.
After Harrow, I caught a train to Redhill for another of these wretched ministerial away-days upon which JP insists. Arrived to find the company still at the dinner table, taking coffee. No sign of JP (his
father has died). The venue is a splendid Victorian folly called Nuthill Priory which has recently been converted into a luxury hotel. No one seems to know why we are here. After all, it is an odd time to start bonding. Most of us will have been reshuffled in another four months.
Gus Macdonald and his neighbour, the official in charge of the Department’s software, were discussing computers. For want of something to say, I remarked that I had recently lost 15,000 words on Ngoc’s new computer. At this Gus’s ears pricked up. ‘What were you writing? An account of life at the DETR?’
I laughed uneasily. ‘Oh that’s only worth a couple of paragraphs.’ Gus didn’t press the subject, but I could see he is suspicious. I must learn to keep my big mouth shut.
Friday, 19 January
Nuthill Priory
Breakfast in the cloisters. A great hall, complete with organ. An oak-panelled library and from the bedrooms at the back wonderful, almost unspoiled views across Surrey and into Sussex. The event itself is a complete waste of time. We could have held it in one of the conference rooms at the Department at no cost to the public (instead of the £210 charged for my presence). I kept a low profile throughout, resentful at having to throw away a Friday in the constituency for this. Gus, it has to be said, was on sparkling form. A fount of little insights and witticisms. At times he had everyone in stitches. I whispered to Keith Hill that I had never seen him on such good form. ‘It’s because JP’s not here,’ replied Keith. ‘He’s a free man.’
Monday, 22 January
The Tories are concentrating on Peter Mandelson, who is alleged to have been lobbying for a passport for an Asian billionaire called Hinduja who also put money into the Dome. On the facts so far published, I can’t for the life of me see what all the fuss is about.
An interesting piece by Peter Preston in today’s Guardian about the New Labour obsession with targets. He argues they will lead to our downfall. A manifesto, he says, crammed with targets is in danger of becoming a long suicide note. New Labour, he goes on, is tolerated rather than loved. Blair is effectively a chief executive officer of the NHS, of Railtrack, of the Dome, of the Metropolitan Police. An impossible spin. I am sure he’s right. We’ve got reviews, strategies, targets, action plans coming out of our ears. Our department even has targets for walking and cycling. As Preston says, it’s suicide. In the dismal world of politics in Twenty-First Century Britain, one well-publicised failure (and we are not short of people wanting to publicise our failures) is equal to a dozen successes. He goes on: ‘Governments are not giant corporations. They are, at best, the reconciler of hopes and reality. They can set a direction and, through prudent distancing, leave others to follow through.’ I am sure he is right. Even at the hour of its greatest triumphs, New Labour has sowed the seeds of its destruction.
‘I’ve got the most dangerous man in Britain in my cab,’ remarked the taxi driver who took me back to the flat this evening.
‘Who’s that’?
‘Aren’t you Mr Chris Mullin, the one in charge of that committee?’
Evidence, if any were needed, that I have done nothing memorable since I gave up the select committee.
Wednesday, 24 January
Sensational news. Mandelson has fallen. Again. And this time it is likely to be for ever. No one saw it coming.
I first heard the news from Damian Green, a Tory, at about one o’clock. He said the Tories had been informed that Adam Ingram would be taking Northern Ireland questions today and that Peter had been summoned to Downing Street to discuss his involvement with the Hindujas. Then, soon after one thirty, word reached the Tea Room that he had resigned, but that he would be presiding at Northern Ireland Questions after all. As a result the chamber was packed. Peter took the first question. Flushed and miserable, but very calm. Hands
resting on either side of the Dispatch Box. No sign of self-pity. Several people expressed regret at his passing, but the hear-hearing was muted. The truth is that most people on our side are delighted to see the back of him and are doing their best, with varying degrees of success, not to gloat. A tribute from Nick Palmer was heard in total silence. Dale Campbell Savours stirred things up a bit with a little homily about how vulnerable we all are. This provoked outcry from the Tories and, on our side, silence.
Then The Man arrived to take questions. In contrast to Peter’s red face, his was pale but equally miserable. For him this isn’t just a political disaster, it is bereavement. Hague tried to stir the pot (who can blame him?) by saying that it was all his fault for being so dependent on Peter and for reappointing him (after the Robinson loan), but The Man saw him off easily. He played it just right. No attempt at bluster. Just a dignified, low-key response. Hague’s opportunism brought our benches back to life. There were cries of ‘Hypocrite’, ‘what about Jeffrey Archer?’ and, ‘It’s the economy, stupid.’
In truth, of course, Hague is right. Reappointing Mandelson was a huge error of judgement. Goodness knows how many people have warned The Man about Peter over the years. At least 50. And yet he chose to ignore them all.
Back at the Department, to Michael Meacher’s office for a meeting.
Michael loathes Peter, who, rightly or wrongly, he blames for all the anonymous bad-mouthing of him that used to appear in the press before every Shadow Cabinet election. As I went in Michael seized my hand, ‘Isn’t it WONDERFUL,’ he almost shouted much to my embarrassment. I don’t like kicking people when they are down and in any case the outer office was full of officials whose ears were no doubt flapping.
‘Don’t gloat,’ I said later to Michael as we sat in the back of his car en route to the House.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t dream of saying anything in public …’ ‘I don’t mean in public. I mean in front of anyone.’ He seemed a bit taken aback by that (what Michael doesn’t seem to realise is that, in the current climate, he could be next: the row over his property portfolio has made him vulnerable, too).
This didn’t stop him sounding off again, within the hearing of his driver. No doubt Michael’s views on Peter will be all round the car pool by now.
Nick Soames is very full of himself. That is to say even fuller than usual. He’s going around booming, ‘A nation mourns.’ On Monday night he was raising points of order about Peter and the Hindujas. Now he’s after Keith Vaz. ‘Leicester East is dead,’ he roared as I passed him outside the Tea Room this evening. ‘I’ve pressed the dead button on him.’
Thursday, 25 January
The press has gone bananas. ‘G
oodbye and good riddance’ (Sun); ‘You are the weakest link, goodbye’ (Mirror); ‘The end of the affair’ (Mail) over a picture of Peter and The Man side by side on the front bench yesterday looking miserable. The news that the Nissan plant in Sunderland has been saved has been entirely eclipsed.
A long chat with Mike O’Brien, looking pale and shell-shocked at having been the catalyst of Peter’s downfall. ‘It’s terribly, terribly sad,’ he kept saying. He also fears that, although he is obviously blameless, some of Peter’s bad karma will rub off on him – and he may be right. One intriguing little postscript: Mike’s nine-year-old daughter said to him at breakfast this morning, ‘But Dad, if he’s your friend, why didn’t you just keep quiet?’
I have been reshuffled. As I was getting ready to go for the train, my private office called to say that the Prime Minister was looking for me. I rang Kate Garvey at Number 10 and she said he was up north and would call when he got to Sedgefield. She was at pains to assure me that I wasn’t in any kind of trouble. After I’d put the phone down, it dawned on me that I was about to be reshuffled, but I couldn’t work out where the vacancy was. Maybe Keith Vaz had gone and I was going to be asked to replace him. But no. About half an hour later the phone rang again and, after a lot of clicking, The Man came on and asked if I would like to replace George Foulkes (who is going to the Scottish Office in place of Brian Wilson) at International Development. I replied, ‘Nothing would give me more pleasure than helping to redistribute the wealth of the middle classes to the poorest people in the world.’
A brief silence and then a chuckle. ‘Ah, Chris, that’s not quite how it works.’
‘Don’t worry, Tony, I’ll be discreet.’
And that was that. My career as the lowest form of life in JP’s empire is over. I am now the lowest form of life in a smaller, but more agreeable department.
Friday, 26 January
Sunderland
I am strangely unelated. After I received The Call I went down to the Tea Room and had my usual baked beans with an egg on top. I chatted to Keith Hill, but didn’t mention that we were no longer colleagues.
Elliot Morley and several other colleagues were on the train. They knew that George had gone to Scotland and were speculating about who would replace him. I hinted that it was me, but they thought I was joking so I didn’t press the point.
My first thought was this makes me well placed to succeed Clare should she be moved after the election, but then it dawned on me that she is unlikely to be moved because (a) she’s doing a good job, (b) she is insufficiently on-message for any other Cabinet post, and (c) given the shortage of women in the Cabinet, she is unlikely to be dropped. All of which means I am destined to remain in the lower foothills for years to come. For how much longer can I stand this?
Come the election I shall have to make up my mind whether or not to return to the backbenches and try and pick up where I left off.
A busy day in the constituency. I opened a community shop in Hendon, visited Sister Aelred, the head teacher at St Anthony’s, and presided over the annual meeting of Pennywell Neighbourhood Centre. The surgery lasted the best part of three hours. A good 20 minutes was taken up by a bigot who ranted on interminably about the hospitality afforded to asylum seekers while pensioners like himself were on the breadline. It was classic stuff: ‘I’m not a racist but …’ and ‘I didn’t fight for my country to see it being taken over by foreigners …’ I pointed out several times that he was fighting fascism, but he was beyond irony.
Sunday, 28 January
The feeding frenzy over l’affaire Mandelson continues unabated. Even the deaths of 20,000 people in an earthquake in India has not been sufficient to staunch the unending flow of pettiness and trivia. More and more people are being drawn in. Today Peter has struck back with an article in the Sunday Times, saying he was persuaded to resign ‘in a moment of weakness’ and, saints preserve us, even hinting darkly of a comeback. The Tories are loving every minute of it. Goodness knows the damage this is doing. Why won’t he just go away and leave us alone?
Monday, 29 January
Helen Jackson was on the London train. She was Peter’s Parliamentary Private Secretary until last week, but like others she found him remote.
‘It was a one-way relationship. He wasn’t interested in me. He had no real contact with the other Northern Ireland ministers, just with civil servants, but he is very intelligent. Skilled at getting the various parties to talk to each other.’ Helen last spoke to him by phone on Tuesday after a Newsnight interview in which he had referred to one of the Hindujas as a friend. She told him that was unwise. She added, ‘The suggestion that Peter’s done nothing wrong is missing the big picture.
It was his lifestyle. All the parties he went to.’ Derek Draper, once a friend of Peter’s, put his finger on the problem. He has been quoted as saying, ‘Peter goes gaga in the presence of rich people.’ Not only Peter’s problem. New Labour’s, too.
To my new home, the Department for International Development, otherwise known as DFID. A down-at-heel office block on Victoria Street, opposite Westminster Cathedral. I had no idea where it was until this morning. I have taken immediately to my new Private Secretary, Christine. A warm, friendly woman, exactly on my wavelength.
As to whether there is a real job to be done, I am unclear. Clare is very hands-on and not many crumbs seem to fall from her table. The diary appears to consist mainly of running round in circles pretending to be busy. There are trips lined up to Georgia, Kyrgyzstan, Chile, the Caribbean, Albania. Mostly they start from Heathrow on Saturday mornings. That’s out, for a start. My predecessor, George Foulkes, liked travelling, but I’m not so keen. I shall only go when I can see the point.
Clare seems glad to see me. I’ve always got on well with her. This is a much more intimate place than Eland House. Clare’s office is just over the corridor. I’ll see much more of her than I ever did of JP. This afternoon she had to make a statement on the Indian earthquake and I was pictured on all the news bulletins sitting beside her, which was useful, since the world can see that I’m now on her team.
Later, I tapped out a handover note for my successor, Bob Ainsworth. Item one: persuading JP to make terminal five conditional on a ban on night flights at Heathrow. The only thing I regret about leaving is not being able to see that through. The other thing I’m anxious for Bob to follow through is giving councils discretion to withhold direct payment of housing benefit to landlords who take no interest either in the condition of their property or in the behaviour of their tenants. After an uphill struggle Nick and I were just beginning to get somewhere on this. A pity if the momentum was lost.
What have I achieved during my 18 months at Environment?
The only useful decision that was entirely mine was to ban speedboats on Windermere and that probably would have happened anyway. For the rest, I moved the High Hedges Bill on leylandii forward by a centimetre or two. The Countryside Act – and the right to roam in particular – were good things to have been associated with, but I can’t pretend to have made the slightest difference to it (save perhaps for a concession to George Young about access over common land). As for my title as King of the Adjournment Debates, that I happily relinquish.
A call from the Foreign Office, asking if I would see Robin Cook in his room at the House at 10 p.m. I found him sitting with his sidekick Ken Purchase in his vast, gloomy cavern off the corridor behind the Speaker’s chair. The only light came from a desk lamp on the far side of the room and from the TV monitor. He came straight to the point. ‘Clare can be a bit temperamental. We might need a second opinion on one or two things.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, there have been many things.’
‘Name one.’
‘Montserrat.’* He did not elaborate, but Ken said there had been some terrible tantrums, culminating on more than one occasion in threats of resignation. I remained studiously non-committal. I am not going to be used to undermine Clare.
Ta
lk then turned to the Peter Crisis. ‘We’ve got to close it down,’ said Robin. ‘Otherwise it will become about our competence to govern.’ The danger is that the inquiry Tony has set up will drag on.
He mentioned Peter’s article in yesterday’s Sunday Times. ‘It was all me, me, me. Not a word about the party.’ He asked if I thought Keith Vaz was vulnerable. Robin clearly thinks he is. I think so, too. Not necessarily on the Hindujas, but there is a range of other possibilities. Keith’s trouble is that he’s a sleek wheeler-dealer. He has the attention span of a gnat and a tendency to fantasise.
Robin’s parting words were ‘DFID and the Foreign Office are not enemies. Keep in touch.’
Tuesday, 30 January
People keep congratulating me on my alleged promotion, but of course it’s nothing of the sort. Merely a sideways move in the foothills. ‘A little vote of confidence,’ whispered Margaret Beckett in the division lobby last night, but I have my doubts. I fear I’ve been shunted into a cul de sac from which I may never emerge. My true friends are glad to see me escape from air traffic control and all those adjournment debates. Others are simply envious of the enormous potential for travel that this job entails. That’s not how I see it. My travelling days are over. I’m a family man now. I want to go home at weekends. In any case my idea of travelling is to disappear for weeks at a time, using local public transport. This kind of travelling seems to involve air-conditioned four-wheel drives and many hours of Club Class flying. I propose to keep it to a minimum. Georgia has been excised. I am also proposing to pull out of trips to Chile, Honolulu, St Lucia and Spain which are mainly to attend conferences in luxury hotels. I have agreed to Albania and Kyrgyzstan on condition that they are reorganised to start on Monday morning, and not Saturday (as at present). Sanjib (in the private office) tried to make me compromise on Sunday instead, but I told him firmly that my weekends are ring-fenced. After a little research he discovered, evidently to his surprise, that there are direct flights from Newcastle to the destinations in Europe where we would have to change anyway so there is no need for me to come down to Heathrow after all.
