by Chris Mullin
Thursday, 17 May
Everyone is talking about JP’s altercation in north Wales yesterday. Far from having done us harm, it seems to have brought the campaign to life. I take it all back. JP is an asset, after all.
Monday, 21 May
Sunderland
This evening Kevin and I knocked on doors in Durham Road in the hope of getting up a few posters. In bygone years we have done well here. This time the reception was surly. Mainly complaining retired folk in their late fifties or early sixties. None was especially old or poor.
One woman who had retired at 55, thought it was a scandal that she and her husband were having to pay tax on their joint income. ‘We’ve worked hard all our lives,’ she kept saying. All? She will probably live another 30 years. How does she imagine the state is going to look after her, if no one over 55 is paying tax. When challenged she simply changed the subject: ‘And, of course, the health service is in a dreadful state.’
‘Is it? I’ve had a couple of operations recently and it didn’t seem too bad.’
Again, seamlessly, the goalposts moved. ‘And there’s crime. It’s getting worse.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s getting less.’
‘I don’t know if I’ll bother voting,’ she said.
‘Oh well,’ I replied cheerfully, ‘let’s hope not everyone feels as you do, otherwise we’ll have another Tory government.’
‘Oh no,’ she said hastily, ‘we don’t want that.’
As I left, I noticed two nearly new cars parked on the drive. So much for not being able to afford taxes.
Wednesday, 23 May I’ve seen my first Tory poster. Neville, four doors up, has one in his window, eclipsed by MULLIN/LABOUR posters which have gratifyingly and unprompted appeared in the windows of four of my neighbours.
Saturday, 26 May
To the town centre to harass shoppers. We arrived to find the Tories already there. Today they are posing as the ‘Save the Pound’ party. At first we mistook them for UKIP, until I spied their candidate, Jim Boyd. All very civilised. He came over and chatted for five minutes, even telling one voter what a good MP I was. They were inviting people to sign a ‘Save the Pound’ petition and seemed to be doing brisk business, mainly (it must be said) among the elderly. Of course, it relies on ignorance, of which there is no shortage. ‘Save the Pound – Lose Nissan’ would be a more honest slogan.
Wednesday, 30 May
Watched William Hague answering questions on television. Everyone keeps saying how awful he is, but I find him impressive. He is calm, cheerful, rational and exudes self-confidence. It is just that the tide of history is against him. Also, he has based his campaign on an appeal to the meanest instincts of the British people at a time when they – or most of them – want something better. Thank goodness.
Thursday, 31 May
To Doxford International, to visit One2One, a mobile telephone call centre, employing 1,200 people. Doxford is a big success. Altogether 7,500 people are employed there, mainly in jobs that didn’t exist ten years ago, some in industries that didn’t exist – mobile phones for example. Their fathers and grandfathers worked in shipyards and coal mines and they have graduated to computer screens. For all the sneers that call centres attract from metropolitan journalists, I doubt whether a single one of those employed there would trade his computer for the coalface.
I was shown around by a tall, Hispanic-looking man who appeared to come from another planet. His opening words were, ‘What do you hope to get out of the next half-hour?’ He spoke a language with which I am unfamiliar, using words like ‘skill-sets’ and ‘functionality’; his workers were divided into ‘communities’. Overhead a banner proclaimed that this or that community had won this month’s award for ‘A monopoly of Excellence’. Easy to see from where New Labour gets its claptrap.
Tuesday, 5 June Eeerily quiet. Entire estates without a single poster. I wouldn’t be surprised if our turnout falls to below 50 per cent.
Thursday, 7 June
Election day
Awoke to bright sunshine. Tony Benn rang before breakfast to wish me good luck, full of enthusiasm as ever, even though I must be a disappointment to him.
Our usual election day tour in an open-topped bus. A few elderly constituents gave us the thumbs-up, young children waved, but mainly we encountered cold-eyed indifference. The result was every bit as shocking as I feared. Our turnout down to 48 per cent. At first I was depressed, but as the night wore on it became clear that it was nothing personal. Indeed there were many falls bigger than mine, including The Man at Sedgefield. The good news is that our majority will be virtually unscathed, so the Tories are in much deeper trouble than we are. In truth, however, the entire political system is in trouble.
Friday, 8 June
The talking heads are asking how we politicians are going to reconnect with the people. Well, for a start, we could stop boring them silly. Elections these days consist of a tiny elite of political leaders racing around the country in battle buses pursued by an equally tiny elite of commentators, while the rest of us (candidates, party members and general public alike) are mere spectators, occasionally roped in as extras. Meanwhile politics as a participatory activity is dying. Membership is in freefall. Increasingly, the main parties are financially dependent on a handful of multimillionaires who are in many cases virtually interchangeable (indeed they do interchange with depressing frequency). How will it end? My guess is that the rot will continue until we are blasted out of our indolence by either (a) a world war, (b) an environmental catastrophe (but only one that affects us directly – someone else’s catastrophe won’t make any difference), or (c) another sustained period of Tory government. Of these the third is the most likely and most bearable, but even that is too awful to contemplate. It will be for another generation of politicians to sort out. My time is almost done.
Saturday, 9 June
Most of the new Cabinet posts have been announced. Jack Straw is the new Foreign Secretary. David Blunkett, as expected, gets the Home Office. Robin Cook becomes Leader of the House. Lots of women: Hilary Armstrong is the new Chief Whip, Margaret Beckett heads the new food, rural and environment ministry (Defra). Estelle Morris takes Education, a good choice. I’ve always liked Estelle, unflashy, down to earth. Hopefully she will reduce the flow of new initiatives to manageable proportions. No mention so far of Clare, but I am sure she will be reappointed.
On impulse, I rang Hilary Armstrong to indicate that I wish to move up or out. Two years as the lowest form of life in government was as much as I could bear and I wouldn’t take offence were I to be returned to the backbenches. ‘Tony values what you have done,’ she replied (how many times have I heard that?). She asked what would interest me and I said minister of state at either the Home or Foreign Office. The Man is taking a day off so I am unlikely to hear from him until Monday.
Rain all day. I spent the afternoon delivering flowers to people who had helped in the election campaign.
Monday, 11 June
The Call came just after 12.30. After an exchange of pleasantries it was clear that there was nothing else on offer. ‘I gather you’d like to go back to the backbenches.’
I replied that two years in the lower foothills of government was long enough.
He sighed. ‘Ministerial life doesn’t suit some people.’
I said that what didn’t suit me was the utter lack of influence that came with low office. ‘Every year since 1990 I could point to
something that has changed for the better as a result of my intervention. All that stopped when I became a minister.’
He laughed. ‘That’s a great tribute to ministerial life.’
We agreed that we would exchange letters to avoid my having to spend the next three weeks explaining that I had not been sacked. He rang off saying that I should come and see him tomorrow to discuss what I would like to do next. ‘We can go down the card’ was how he put it.
The letter didn’t take long to draft. I have been comp
osing it in the bath every morning for weeks. It reads:
Dear Tony, As I indicated when we spoke, after two years in the foothills of government I have concluded that I can be of more use to the party, the country and the human race in general, if I were to return to the world of select committees. I do not, therefore, wish to be reappointed. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to see the inside of government. Please be assured of my continued support.
Yours ever,
Chris
I faxed it to Sally Morgan and went home for lunch.
Naively, I assumed that I could rely on Number 10’s assurance that they would publish my letter and The Man’s reply. As the afternoon wore on, however, there was no response. I began to realize that I had better do my own spinning. I rang half a dozen lobby journalists and indicated that I was going of my own volition. Eventually, I faxed copies of my letter to Michael White at the Guardian, and the Press Association. It seemed to do the trick. The BBC added ‘at his own request’ to their little list of The Fallen. Later, I heard that Sally Morgan was now a minister in the Cabinet Office and is going to the Lords. No wonder she didn’t ring back.
Rang Clare in the evening, thinking she would be a little miffed at my not tipping her off that I wasn’t coming back, but she was affable and agreed that being her deputy wasn’t a big enough job for a grown-up.
Ngoc has been very kind, considering that her husband has just slashed the annual household income by £27,000. Tony Benn rang to say that I’d done exactly the right thing (although since Hilary has stepped into my shoes, Tony has a foot in both camps).
As for me, I have an empty feeling. I know I have crossed a little bridge over which I can never go back.
Tuesday, 12 June
There has been a huge cull. More than 20 ministers out, including a lot of middle-aged, middle-rank workhorses, competent but unglamorous – John Battle, Mike O’Brien, Joyce Quin (who went at her own request) – who have been replaced by thirty-somethings. Chris Smith and Ann Taylor are the biggest casualties. There has been a big clearout in the whips’ office. The only senior whip to survive is the only one who should have gone, Lance Corporal Tommy McAvoy. To everyone’s astonishment Nigel Griffiths has been re-inserted into more or less the same job at the DTI from which he was sacked two years ago. The only possible explanation is that he was rescued by Gordon.
Gisela Stuart and Kate Hoey have also gone. The irony is that I would have survived. I could have whiled away a pleasant two or three years visiting places that didn’t need to be visited and meeting people who didn’t need to be met.
My departure merits a couple of mentions in today’s press. ‘A bouquet is due to Chris Mullin,’ writes Don Macintyre, ‘who uniquely struck a blow for backbench careers by leaving his junior ministerial post with the aim of returning to select committee chairmanship.’ A leader in today’s Guardian says, ‘Chris Mullin will probably be a better servant of the public interest as a select committee member than as a lowly factotum in the Department of Environment.’ The author hadn’t even noticed that I’d been at International Development for the last five months.
Thursday, 14 June
Everyone is going about congratulating or commiserating, according to who is up and who is down. The newly promoted boys and girls look upon me with incomprehension. How could anyone possibly prefer life on the backbenches to a world of official cars, red boxes and papers marked ‘Restricted’ – to say nothing of an extra £27,000 a year.
A talk with Mike O’Brien, whose services have been dispensed with after four years of dog’s-bodying at the Home Office. He says Jack made heroic efforts to save him, but to no avail. No doubt Mike’s role in the fall of Mandelson didn’t help. Mike said that, until the late afternoon of 8 June, Jack had believed he was going to Environment.
He had even been talking to officials there in preparation for moving in when the call came to say that he was going to the Foreign Office.
Mike says Home Office officials take little notice of select committee reports. ‘Robin Corbett’s were barely read. Jack read yours because he took you seriously.’ If I am to go back to the Home Affairs committee, I had better establish contact with Blunkett as soon as possible.
To King’s Cross for the 20.00. The garden was swarming with snails, eagerly devouring the petunias we planted last weekend. I spent half an hour hunting them down and murdering them with a log of wood. From now on it’s zero tolerance as far as snails are concerned.
Friday, 15 June
Sunderland
The Echo is excited about my return to the backbenches. Tuesday’s paper ran a leader headed, ‘Chris Mullin sets himself free’. Tonight, across the top of the front page, my weekly column is advertised under the strapline ‘Chris Mullin is back’. I wish I could share their enthusiasm.
Monday, 18 June
To 12 Downing Street for a heart to heart with the new Chief Whip, Hilary Armstrong. From her window I can see baby Leo’s toys, a red and yellow buggy, a red plastic box with large eyes, parked just below the terrace where The Man conducts most of his business in summer. Tea is served. Hilary, making occasional notes in a red foolscap notebook, claims to be interested in beefing up select committees and asks for suggestions. ‘Create an alternative career structure,’ I say. ‘Pay the chairmen, encourage pre-legislative scrutiny and put on people other than fully paid-up New Labourites.’ In an ideal world we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Select committees should be a matter for the House, not for the whips, but the reality is that our world is not ideal. I also suggested that it was time we had a Labour chair of the Security and Intelligence Committee. Finally, I indicated that I would like to return to chair the Home Affairs Committee. She has already sounded out Blunkett on this and he seems agreeable.
To Clare’s office at DFID for a farewell party. I had been dreading setting foot there. In the event it went off beautifully. Clare and George Foulkes made graceful, generous, cheerful speeches, as did my successor, Hilary Benn, who is a natural, and Valerie Amos, now a Foreign Office minister. I presented Christine (who is off to UNESCO in Paris) and Sanjib with signed copies of the new edition of A Very British Coup. On the way out, I put my head around the door of my old office. The only changes are a new chair and an upgraded computer. I picked up my few possessions and walked away down Victoria. I am sorry to be leaving. DFID is a happy, well-motivated department, full of good people who enjoy their work. Clare’s job is the best in government and she does it brilliantly. It’s just that she has no need of a deputy.
Tuesday, 19 June
Suddenly I am in demand. Requests for interviews are coming in thick and fast. I am free to have opinions again. In the first flush of enthusiasm for my new-found freedom, I have accepted every media invitation.
To the Home Office to see David Blunkett. His Private Secretary hummed and hawed about how busy he was when I rang, but a slot was soon found after I let slip that I was seeing the Prime Minister on Thursday.
The Home Secretary’s office has changed a little since I last visited. A glass partition has been inserted, hiving off the conference area in the furthest quarter of the room. As a result it is less Soviet in scale. David insists on coming in through the main reception rather than being driven into the underground car park and whisked upstairs in the Home Secretary’s private lift. Despite being blind, or perhaps because he is, David has immediately sensed the surly, unwelcoming air that pervades the main entrance lobby and has plans for change. It will be an early test of his authority. I would not be too optimistic about the outcome. There is something about the building that induces surliness and indifference.
We started with drugs. David knew all about the Nick Davies articles in the Guardian calling for legalisation, and to my surprise did not dismiss them out of hand. He is not keen on Nick Davies, who did him over when he was education secretary, ‘but as a rational human being, I have to admit that he has a point’. Despite his reputation for illiberalism, David is keen to get
cannabis downgraded and is even prepared to contemplate legalising and regulating the sale of heroin, ‘although I don’t accept that it’s benign’.
The Home Office will have two big bills in the Queen’s Speech tomorrow – on police and crime – although the details seem surprisingly sketchy (the special advisers didn’t seem to have a clue about the contents when I chatted them up on the way in). The Police Bill will contain some of the measures on discipline and complaints recommended three years ago in the first select committee report of my chairmanship.
We chatted for about 40 minutes. ‘This place is obsessed with legislation,’ he said. He seemed to take it for granted that I would resume the chairmanship of the Home Affairs Select Committee.
In the Tea Room, John Hutton whispered that he had recently asked how many targets the Department of Health had set itself. Twenty? Fifty? ‘Er, no, Minister.’ How many? ‘About 800.’ John added, ‘I don’t think we want that publicised just yet.’
Thursday, 21 June
To Number 10 for an audience with The Man. A half an hour wait, listening to the ticking of the grandfather clock in the lobby outside the Cabinet Room. A party of schoolboys in red blazers were being shown round. Cherie sauntered through, humming. ‘You’re free,’ she said, adding cheerfully, ‘and poorer.’
I was shown through the Cabinet Room to the rattan armchairs on the garden terrace. The Man appeared after a couple of minutes. ‘You must be disappointed in me,’ I began.
‘Not really, I knew you were the sort who might want to go a bit further than being in government will allow.’
‘I wouldn’t want you to think I was unhappy with being a minister. I am perfectly capable of taking responsibility. It’s just that there wasn’t any at my level of government. In four months at DFID, I never saw a piece of paper marked “For Decision”. Not one.’ He looked surprised. Of course, he has no experience of life at the bottom. In ten years he has probably never known a moment’s tedium, save perhaps those awful negotiations with the Irish. ‘Of course,’ I continued, ‘I could have whiled away a pleasant few years but I couldn’t bear the thought. So I sent you a message via the Chief Whip that I wanted either to move on or out.’ He again looked surprised. A penny was dropping. For me, too.
