Decline & Fall

by Chris Mullin

  (4) How ruthless the Americans were as regards the terms they extracted from us in return for aid (at one point Colville compares the American demand for bases with Russia’s blackmailing of Finland).

  (5) How often our Secret Services were wrong about German morale and other vital matters (cf Iraq et al).

  Friday, 6 January

  Sunderland

  Uproar on all fronts at this evening’s meeting of my local party’s management committee. Complaints about the local government settlement (Sunderland had one of the lowest); the proposed introduction of competition in postal services (well ahead of our European competitors, whose markets remain firmly closed); the underfunding of our election commitment to provide free bus fares for pensioners; and the upcoming reform of incapacity benefit. The greatest anger, however, was reserved for New Labour’s plans for trust schools, which everyone interprets as the re-introduction of selection. All very depressing. Is it that Labour Party members are an out of touch sect who have continually to be press-ganged into the twenty-first century by their far-sighted young leaders or could it possibly be that on some, at least, of these issues New Labour has lost the plot?

  Sunday, 8 January

  Sarah and I were watching a drama about Churchill when Ngoc came in and said that Tony Banks was dead. I can’t believe it. I just can’t take it in. Apparently he suffered a massive brain haemorrhage in Florida yesterday.

  Monday, 9 January

  Sunderland

  Awake in the early hours thinking about Banksie. At 4.30am I gave up trying to sleep, went downstairs and spent a couple of hours leafing through the last two volumes of the Benn diaries, looking up the references to him. Later, from the train, I rang the Guardian, offering to do an obituary. They had already run one by Julia Langdon in their later editions, but agreed to take 300 words.

  House of Commons

  Everyone has a fond memory of Tony Banks. Jean Corston recounted her last exchange with him, a few days before Christmas. She asked how he was finding life in the Lords? ‘Wonderful,’ he replied. ‘I’ve gone from being a boring old fart to a young Turk in a single leap.’ My favourite was an occasion about ten years ago when Norman Tebbit was called to speak. In the silence that preceded his opening words Banksie, in that cheeky-chappy voice of his, was heard to say, ‘What’s he doing out? It’s not dark yet.’

  No one seems to have a contact number for Sally, who is still marooned in Florida. I dropped her a note which I hope she will find as soon as she gets home.

  A note from the whips’ office to say that I have been nominated for the Standards and Privileges Committee.

  Tuesday, 10 January

  Prompted by my experience with the Angolan family, I had a 90-minute debate on the iniquity of removing children to dysfunctional countries. I had hoped that Tony McNulty, the immigration minister, would respond, but of course he sent one of the under-secretaries. I tried to keep within the realms of the possible, rather than being tempted down the path of ‘stop removing all children’, which is where many of the immigration lobbyists wanted me to go, but I’m not hopeful that anything will come of it.

  The Boundary Commission is due to pronounce on Sunderland tomorrow. The word is that they are sticking to their original conclusion, which means that Sunderland South – or Central, as it will become – will be marginal next time round.

  Wednesday, 11 January

  The Lycee, Kennington

  Awakened at 4am by terrible, murderous screeching. Put my head outside the door to find two foxes who had apparently been fighting, though neither seemed the worse for wear. A few minutes later a third fox put his head round the corner, but made off when he saw me. All this, only 50 yards from the national headquarters of the Countryside Alliance.

  A call from Tam Dalyell. He wants me to take an interest in the Libyan convicted of the Lockerbie bombing, who, Tam believes, is innocent. In passing he mentioned that he had just been talking to an undertaker who said that his grandfather had been in the same line of business and used to receive letters from a man who signed himself, ‘Yours eventually’.

  Thursday, 12 January

  Lunch with Robert Fellowes and Juliet Lyon, who want me to join the board of the Prison Reform Trust. It was Ruth Runciman’s idea. I don’t think I am tolerant enough after 30 years of inner city living, but I may give it a go. To my amazement Lord Fellowes, a former Private Secretary to the Queen who lives in a leafy area of Norfolk, said that he had been burgled half a dozen times, ‘which I suppose is about average for someone of 63’. Actually, I think it is way above average, especially for citizens of his pedigree. Most people have never been burgled at all.

  Home on the 20.00. The train was an hour and a half late, owing to a body on the line at Biggleswade. There was another yesterday near Grantham. ‘It often happens at this time of the year,’ said one of the stewards. ‘It’s when the credit card bills for Christmas arrive.’

  Friday, 13 January

  Sally Banks rang this evening. She sounded calm but said, ‘I know I have a difficult road ahead.’ We agreed that I will call on her when I get back from Liberia next week.

  Sunday, 15 January

  To Liberia to represent HMG at the inauguration of Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, Africa’s first woman president. Jason from the Foreign Office collected me at 5am and we set off by taxi for Heathrow. The weekend newspapers are busy organising a row over John Prescott not having paid council tax on his grace and favour apartment at Admiralty House. Comparisons are being drawn with an elderly widow who was arrested for refusing to pay. Entirely spurious, of course, since no one had informed Prescott that he was liable and, as soon as he was informed, he paid up. But the poison is seeping – the taxi driver was on about it on the way to the airport until I pointed out the facts. One other snippet: Bill Clinton has suggested that The Man would make an excellent General Secretary of the UN (there is a vacancy at the end of this year). I am sure he would, but I can’t see the idea going down with the General Assembly. The interesting point is that Clinton wouldn’t have floated the idea without The Man’s approval, which suggests a search for an early-exit strategy is underway.

  We flew all day. Excellent views of the snow-capped Atlas mountains and the Sahara. Arrived in Monrovia early evening to be met by Our Man, David Lelliott, with whom I am staying.

  Monday, 16 January

  Monrovia

  Not quite the style to which I am accustomed (last time I stayed with the American Ambassador). No view of the ocean, no fawning servants. Instead, from David’s living room, a view over a wall topped with razor wire into the American compound and a row of sinister black Land Cruisers with shaded windows which later this morning will form part of the convoy bringing Laura Bush and Condi Rice into town. The security is awesome. About a hundred secret service men have been flown in and more or less taken over the organisation of the inauguration from the Liberians (who until Saturday did not even have a seating plan). Yesterday a C5 Galaxy arrived full of gleaming armoured Land Cruisers and an ambulance (also armoured). Condi and the First Lady will only be on Liberian soil for five hours, two of which will be spent driving to and from the airport.

  Breakfast with Chris Gabelle on the terrace of his lovely house at the Hard Rock compound. Then through the streets of this ruined city to the gold-domed Capitol, where we took our seats (white plastic garden chairs) in good time for the ceremony. I am in the third row, behind the Chinese foreign minister and EU Commissioner Louis Michel. Old friends abound: Nana Akufo Addo (foreign minister of Ghana), Said Jinnet (the African Union’s peace and security commissioner), Mohammed Chambas (ECOWAS General Secretary), Mrs Nkosi (Nigerian finance minister). The most difficult question: ‘What are you doing now?’

  Heads of state occupy the front row. Eleven are expected, including Presidents Mbeke and Obasanjo. In the best African tradition they dribble in at intervals throughout the morning, many arriving after the ceremony has commenced, the last (the President of Niger) when it
is nearly over. ‘This is Africa,’ sighs Jinnet. Condi Rice, Laura Bush and the First Daughter, Barbara, arrive on time and to loud cheers. The Bush girl wearing a body-hugging, turquoise dress and wobbling self-consciously on the highest of high heels. Condi, by contrast, très élegante, demure almost, in a beige skirt, light orange jacket and a simple straw hat; never has so much raw power been concealed behind so innocent a facade.

  The ceremony commences. A singer, a large woman in white, leads a rousing rendition of the national anthem, ‘All hail Liberia . . .’ A bishop recites a prayer, after which proceedings were briefly interrupted by the arrival of the presidents of Senegal and Sierra Leone. Each head of state is welcomed by name, rising in his place to acknowledge the applause of the crowd, which, in some cases, is distinctly muted. Then it is the turn of the other delegations, including ‘The Personal Representative of the Government of the United Kingdom’. The master of ceremonies reads a list of previous Liberian presidents, some of whom came to a very sticky end, the last but one of whom has been indicted for war crimes.

  The Speaker, a comical figure in top hat and tails (allegedly a villain of some magnitude), convenes the recently elected lower house. Nervous laughter while he checks the quorum, ‘to see whether we can do business’. No one would have been surprised had he found that they couldn’t. A resolution is moved and duly agreed, transferring power from the transitional government to President-Elect Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, magnificently attired in a long cream gown topped by a matching headdress. ‘Are we prepared to dissolve ourselves?’ the Speaker inquires of the Representatives. He has to ask twice before eliciting a loud ‘Yes.’ The Representatives are a rum bunch. They include several mega-villains and half a dozen are said to be barely literate. One of the women is said to hire out girls.

  The Chief Justice, a little man in a black gown with scarlet trimmings and a monsignor’s hat with a red bobble, steps forward to swear in the new president. A big cheer from the crowd when she swears to discharge her responsibilities, ‘So help me God.’

  The arrival of the President of Mali is announced.

  Then it is the turn of the vice-president, an elderly bewildered-looking gentleman. More disruption while the President of Niger arrives (is there a competition to see who can arrive last?), ambling onto the podium, entirely unashamed, pausing to shake hands with each of his fellow heads of state.

  Finally, The Speech. And what a speech. Delivered with confidence and beautiful clarity. Hitting all the right buttons, promising ‘a fundamental break with the past . . . Forgiving, but not forgetting . . . An end to physical destruction and moral degradation . . .’ Liberia, she says, is not a poor country, but a rich country that has been grievously mismanaged. She talks of creating a meritocracy. Of lean, efficient state agencies. Of honesty, hard work and visible progress – all concepts that until now have been anathema. When she promises ‘to take on forcibly and effectively the debilitating cancer of corruption’, a great cheer goes up. When she declares that all office holders will be required to declare their assets and that she will be the first to comply, the cheering is prolonged. And when she turns to the Speaker, challenging him to declare his assets too, the cheers turn to whooping and cries of ‘Yeah’. He, at least, has the grace to smile, which is more than can be said for the Representatives, whose demeanour is distinctly surly. She concludes by pledging that ‘no inch of Liberian soil will be used to conspire against neighbouring countries. The days of the imperial presidency are over. The best days are coming.’

  Does she mean it? Undoubtedly. Will it happen? Who knows? The odds against are formidable. This is a country in ruins. Without running water, mains electricity or any other functioning public service. Where good men and true are in distinctly short supply. If anyone can succeed, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf can. If she does, she will become a role model for Africa. A truly uplifting occasion. A privilege to have been present.

  Tuesday, 17 January

  Breakfast on the terrace of the US Embassy club, overlooking the ocean and the helicopter landing pad. Then to UNMIL headquarters for a meeting of the West Africa contact group. I sat next to the American Assistant Secretary of State, Jendayi Frazer, a stocky, no-nonsense black woman. Several of the Africans seemed anxious to repeat the mistakes of the past, calling for an early end to sanctions and a bigger army. After lunch we adjourned to the Executive Mansion for a meeting with the President. To each of our questions she gave straight, clear answers. Listening to her it is easy to forget the gargantuan task she faces. This is a woman of 67 years who could, if she chose, be leading a comfortable retirement in Europe or America. Here she sits, alone in this monstrous pile of concrete. Is she to be pitied or admired?

  In the afternoon, we spent two hours in the company of the local Oxfam rep walking around West Point, a teeming slum not ten minutes’ drive from the city centre. The squalor is indescribable. Flies, filth, defecating children. Yet, in the midst of it all, little people in immaculate green tunics and yellow socks on their way home from school. Truly, the human spirit is uncrushable.

  Wednesday, 18 January

  Breakfast at the Hard Rock compound followed by an hour with the US Ambassador, Dan Booth, then back to the mansion for a private audience with the President. She was running late but gave us nearly an hour.

  Then lunch in a beachside restaurant with Geoff Rudd, the EU representative, followed by a meeting with Alan Doss, who is in charge of the UN operation and effectively the most powerful man in the country. Finally to the airport, where we held our final meeting in the VIP lounge with Harry Greaves, one of the new president’s advisers. Just before eight we took off for Brussels. So good to be back in action, even if only for a few days.

  Friday, 20 January

  The tabloids are gunning for Ruth Kelly. ‘150 PAEDOS IN YOUR SCHOOLS’, rages this morning’s Sun. No wonder we are becoming a nation of paranoids and hypochondriacs.

  Much of the day completing my Liberia report. At lunch John Austin quoted Archbishop Tutu: ‘When the first white men came to Africa we had the land and they had the Bible. They said, “Close your eyes and pray.” When we opened them, we had the Bible and the white man had the land.’

  A bottle-nosed dolphin has become stuck in the Thames. The first ever recorded in the river. The poor creature has got as far as the Albert Bridge. A large crowd has turned out to watch and desperate efforts are being made to turn it around before it becomes stranded.

  Saturday, 21 January

  To Wanstead for Tony Banks’s funeral. Standing room only. Several members of the Cabinet – JP, Margaret Beckett, Tessa Jowell and at least a dozen other MPs, plus Bruce Grocott, Alastair Campbell, David Mellor and Tony Benn, a clutch of lobby correspondents and several of Tony’s friends from the world of football. A simple ceremony with lots of laughs. Banksie arrived in an environmentally sound wicker coffin crowned with white lilies. There were four speeches, of which David Mellor’s was the best, we all sang ‘Jerusalem’, there was a moment of reflection and then Banskie disappeared to the sound of Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto.

  Afterwards, at the reception in Newham Town Hall, I asked Alastair when he hoped to publish his diaries. He said he had been intending to wait until Tony retired, but now realised that he wouldn’t be able to publish while Gordon was in office either, because there is a great deal of chapter and verse about the differences between him and Tony. He added that, throughout his time at Number 10, he had been required to defend a lie – namely, that all was well between Gordon and Tony when it wasn’t; keeping the diary had been a release. Obviously it’s going to be sensational.

  Tuesday, 24 January

  To my first meeting of the Standards and Privileges Committee, ably chaired by that most civilised of Tories, George Young. Then for a cup of tea with Hilary Benn, to report on Liberia. On the way out of the Tea Room I ran into Tristan Garel-Jones, who said, with only the slightest twinkle in his eye, ‘We’re grateful to you lot for all you’ve done during the last ten years.
You’ve given us a good conservative prime minister, but now the ruling classes are back so you can fuck off.’

  John Hutton made his long-awaited announcement on his plans to reduce the numbers on Incapacity Benefit. It was generally well received on our side, reflecting a feeling that our vast benefit culture is long overdue for a challenge – a view shared by many of my working class constituents, who deeply resent the scams they see going on around them. Later, during a division, John whispered that he knew of an amateur football team, currently topping a local league, in which eight of the eleven players recently fielded were on Incapacity Benefit.

  Wednesday, 25 January

  Much satisfied chortling in the Tea Room over George Galloway’s prolonged and spectacular self-destruction, which reached its climax last night when he was evicted from the Big Brother house. The consensus is that George is finished politically. However, he does seem to have won his libel case against the Daily Telegraph. Personally, I think that’s the best of both worlds. The Telegraph’s case was not that what they had reported was the truth, but that they could say what they liked because it was in the public interest. We all have an interest in seeing that line of argument defeated.

  Martin and Mori Woollacott came to dinner. Martin takes the view that there is no need to panic over the possibility that the Iranians are building nuclear weapons because they know full well that to use them would invite their instant annihilation. I hope he’s right. The weakness of Martin’s argument is, of course, that Iran’s present management believe in paradise for the righteous, which may not make them entirely rational.