by Chris Mullin
Wednesday, 26 April
As if we aren’t in enough trouble, it appears that John Prescott has been screwing his diary secretary. This morning’s Mirror splashes five pages of pictures of the happy couple and by lunchtime everyone was on the case. Then, to crown all, Patricia Hewitt was shouted down at the annual conference of the Royal College of Nursing, supposedly the responsible wing of the medical profession. Meanwhile a hunt is underway for the missing foreign criminals. It’s only a question of time until one is found to have killed or raped someone, then Charles Clarke’s position will be untenable. He was in the Tea Room this afternoon, looking very subdued.
Today is being dubbed ‘Labour’s Black Wednesday’.
Thursday, 27 April
A chat with Dennis Skinner. He reckons that our recent difficulties are as nothing compared with the late seventies.
Not everyone is as sanguine. Nick Raynsford took me aside in the Noe Lobby this afternoon. ‘This can’t go on,’ he said. ‘We’ve no support anywhere. Even The Times has abandoned us. There will soon be nothing left. If we do as badly as expected, someone will move against him.’
I pointed out that taking over now would not necessarily be in Gordon’s interests. The hacks would have three years to destroy him, instead of one.
To which Nick replied, ‘At least with Gordon and Sarah there will be no trouble with expensive hair-dos or holidays with Berlusconi.’
Sunday, 30 April
Awoke to the inevitable news that Prescott’s lover has sold (‘for a sixfigure sum’) her version of events to the Mail on Sunday, which has splashed the sordid details across no fewer than nine pages. JP meanwhile clings tenaciously to office, as does Charles Clarke, though I can’t see how either can survive. Four days to go until the local elections, when meltdown looms. How are we supposed to ask people to vote for us in this climate? Ngoc remarked yesterday, ‘If I wasn’t your wife, I wouldn’t vote Labour next week.’
Monday, 1 May
It’s clear that Charles is a gonner, probably by the end of the day, certainly by Thursday. Who will replace him? There are no obvious candidates. The Man is increasingly friendless as all around him succumb. He could go for a shiny New Labour lightweight, such as Hazel Blears, but she will cut no ice with the public.
Tuesday, 2 May
Coffee with an old friend who has spent a year working for Lord Levy, fundraiser extraordinaire. ‘I became aware of a Labour Party I didn’t know existed,’ he says. ‘A cluster of mega-rich, unideological, Blair-worshippers who are lunched and dined in grand hotels, granted favoured access and whose opinions are listened to with rapt attention. They have much more influence than the other Labour Party.’
And what about our little ‘loans for peerages’ difficulty? He had overheard one or two conversations and Levy always went out of his way to make clear that there was no promise of an honour, adding slyly, ‘but I will just make two points: (1) a donation does not rule out an honour and (2) contributions to good causes can lead to honours. If you wish, I can send you details of one or two good causes that might qualify.’
Came across Doug Henderson in the library. ‘The question is no longer, “When will Gordon take over?”’ he said. ‘It is, “Can even Gordon save us?”’
Wednesday, 3 May
Awakened at 5.30am by one of those night flights that I failed to ban when I was laughingly known as the aviation minister. Read a chapter of Khrushchev’s memoirs on his relationship with Mao and then walked to Westminster in glorious sunshine, arriving just as Big Ben struck eight.
Simon Jenkins in the Guardian is talking of ‘systemic failure’ (‘and the system is Blair’s’). He’s not wrong. All this hyperactivity, the ill-thought-out, underfunded initiatives, the compulsive target-setting is getting us into trouble on every front and most of it originates from Number 10. The trouble is Gordon is a control freak, too. If anything, worse than The Man. He’s not the solution, but part of the problem. We need a clean break with the past, but we are not likely to get it. Perhaps we are hard-wired for self-destruction?
I went in for PMQs and stayed for Charles Clarke’s statement on the failure to deport foreign rapists etc., and emerged mildly cheered. David Davis performed poorly, shades of Kinnock and Westland. For a moment I found myself thinking that perhaps we don’t need a reshuffle after all. Maybe we should just tough it out rather than surrender to the baying mob.
Prescott is much in evidence, looking and sounding surprisingly bullish. He was lunching with Geoff Hoon and his loyal assistant, Joan, at a nearby table in the cafeteria and sounding much like his normal self. How dare he?
Thursday, 4 May
Sunderland
Local election day. The only visible political activity is the BNP man driving around the town in a van festooned with Union Jacks and loudspeakers endlessly blaring ‘Land of Hope and Glory’. A columnist in tonight’s Echo complains about the invisibility of the candidates in his ward. Only one of the parties – and it wasn’t us – has put a leaflet through his door. ‘If the candidates can’t be bothered,’ he asks, ‘why should we?’ Quite.
Friday, 5 May
A small earthquake, but not the predicted meltdown. In Sunderland we lost only a single seat, but even here unmistakable signs of a Tory recovery. They, not the Lib Dems, are the principal beneficiaries of the pounding we have taken in the last few weeks. Also, the BNP did well among the lumpen, capturing 11 seats in Barking, almost enough for a little fascist statelet.
Frank Dobson was on the radio this morning, very sore at the loss of Camden, saying that the party was a hollow husk and calling for The Ultimate Sacrifice. He was followed by Gordon Brown, whose mantra for the day was that we had to do more listening (whatever else Gordon is good at, listening sure ain’t one of his strong suits). By lunchtime came news of a big shake-up: Charles Clarke is out, replaced by the ubiquitous John Reid, but the surprise is that Margaret Beckett has replaced Jack Straw (who becomes Leader of the House, a considerable demotion); his canoodling with Gordon has obviously not gone unnoticed.
Saturday, 6 May
Drastic though it was, the reshuffle has not doused the flames. The hacks are affecting knowledge of a letter said to be circulating among Labour backbenchers demanding The Man’s early departure. BBC journalists, who are as bad as the tabloids when it comes to fantasy politics, are ringing round asking if we’ve signed and, if we haven’t, would we? They called twice yesterday, but I refused to play. So far as I can see, no such letter exists. Perhaps it has been dreamed up at a World This Weekend editorial conference.* By Monday, however, it may well have become self-fulfilling.
Monday, 8 May
6 p.m., Committee Room 14
To a jam-packed meeting of the parliamentary party for what the media are billing as yet another showdown between The Man and his critics. A large party of hacks lurking at the door, kept at bay by two policemen. Entire Cabinet on parade, minus Margaret Beckett, the new Foreign Secretary, who’s in New York discussing what to do about Iran; grim faces at the top table; Jack, Gordon studiously inscrutable; Charles Clarke, now reduced to the ranks, studiously jovial.
Enter The Man, tired, tense, glazed, but surprisingly tanned, as though he has spent the weekend in the garden, after Friday’s butchery. As usual on these occasions, not a note in sight. He talks of difficult times; of deciding whether we get through or go under. ‘To set a public timetable,’ he says, ‘would be as foolish as it is possible to imagine.’ Then the key phrases: ‘Ample and proper time’, ‘a stable and orderly transition’. A reference to ‘what is called in the press my “legacy”’. Pause for effect, and then: ‘My legacy is a fourth victory.’ Applause. A glowing reference to Jack, ‘the most respected parliamentarian in the place . . .’ Oddly, little or no applause, either because no one believes The Man is sincere or because Jack’s fan club (of which, despite recent disappointments, I remain a member) is smaller than I had imagined. Contrary to rumour, we are assured that Jack’s removal had
nothing to do with differences over either Iran or Europe. So what was it, then?
A final assurance: ‘I hope you understand, I do have the interest of the Labour Party at heart.’ Should we believe him? On balance, yes. Applause is generous, but far from unanimous. A significant minority, by no means all Usual Suspects, sit with arms conspicuously folded; others tapping noiselessly. The messages from the floor are distinctly mixed. Only David Blunkett and Gerald Kaufman are unequivocally loyal (Gerald quoting a wonderful line from Stephen Sondheim, who had once been asked by an actor, ‘Who do I have to sleep with to get out of this show?’ To which the great impresario replied, ‘The same person as you slept with to get into it.’) There was a lot of talk of the need for clarity and timetables, but no one has a clear plan. The blunt truth is that everyone knows we are in a deep pit, but no one knows how to get out. Apart from The Friends of Gordon (even now a fairly small club), there is a growing realisation that he may not, after all, be the answer to our prayers. Thus far such treasonous sentiments are only whispered, but you don’t have to scratch the surface very hard to find them.
Later, the Tea Room
Supper with Alan Milburn and a veteran of the civil wars in Scotland who has observed Gordon at close quarters and is under no illusions (‘paranoid’ and ‘manic’ was his considered opinion of Our Leader in Waiting).
Alan seems mildly cheered by the party meeting and thinks that the worst may be over for the time being. ‘They’ve peered into the precipice and they don’t like what they see.’ He thinks that Gordon is unstoppable, but that he will cost us seats. Alan is also surprisingly critical of The Man, recounting that when last year he was invited to rejoin the government for the duration of the election campaign, he (Alan) was so distrustful that, much to The Man’s irritation, he put his conditions in writing. How interesting that even The Man’s friends don’t entirely trust him. Alan says, ‘Tony is not as loyal to his friends as Gordon is to his. A serial sacker. He just doesn’t care about junior ministers. It’s bad government and bad politics.’
Tuesday, 9 May
Sally Banks came in and we strolled through the royal parks, stopping for lunch at the restaurant by the lake in Hyde Park and for tea in the orangery at Kensington Palace Gardens. Sally says she had sounded out Tony Benn on the possibility that Hilary is leadership material. He had dismissed the idea, on the grounds that Hilary is not ruthless enough.
Wednesday, 10 May
The Man took quite a battering at Questions. I decided to be boring and asked about an arms trade treaty; and for once, primed by Keith Hill, he gave me a serious answer.
Afterwards, a word with Jack Straw, who is putting a brave face on his sudden removal from the Foreign Office. In some ways, he says, it was a welcome release after nine years in the front line. He has no idea why he was removed, but thinks that, if the Americans had complained about him, Condi would have told him. His use of the word ‘nuts’ in relation to a possible invasion of Iran had been deliberate. ‘The one thing I learned from Iraq was that once the process starts rolling it’s very difficult to stop.’
He asked my view on The Big Question. ‘Gordon must be given at least a year,’ I said.
‘He’ll need more than that,’ said Jack.
Thursday, 11 May
It’s becoming clear that Monday’s meeting has resolved nothing. Gordon is said to be pressing for The Man to name a date, in front of witnesses, and for the first time in years we are trailing the Tories in the polls. Yet the same polls say that, if Gordon was in charge, we would be even further behind. As for Prescott, who clings tenaciously to his Cabinet salary and grace and favour houses, his position is utterly untenable – he is a figure of fun. With every day that passes the edifice is crumbling. No one I speak to thinks this can go on much longer; but no one on the other hand can see a way out. I never dreamed it would end like this. I used to think The Man would go while he was still at the height of his powers, taking us all by surprise. Instead we are being treated to a long, slow wobble to death. The other day, leafing through Alan Clark’s account of the fall of Thatcher, I came across the following: ‘I don’t think she realises what a jam she’s in. It’s the Bunker syndrome. Everyone around you is clicking their heels. The saluting sentries have highly polished boots and beautifully creased uniforms. But out there at the front it’s all disintegrating. The soldiers are starving in tatters and makeshift bandages. Whole units are mutinous and in flight.’
The more one learns about the reshuffle, the barmier it seems. The building is full of the disappointed, the bewildered and the downright angry. Geoff Hoon apparently emerged thinking he was still in the Cabinet, went off for a celebratory lunch before learning that he would be allowed to attend by invitation only. Cathy Ashton in the Lords was told she would have to speak for two entire departments because there was no money left to pay for another minister – and she has refused. People who have spent a year getting their feet under the table, mastering huge new briefs, suddenly find themselves whisked off to new departments where they must start all over again. David Miliband from Local Government to Environment; John Reid to his seventh Cabinet post in seven years; Liam Byrne, who was last week sorting out the reorganisation of the health service – a subject with which he was well qualified to deal – suddenly finds himself dealing with the Report stage of the Police Bill; Ian Pearson, a fish out of water at the Foreign Office, is now (as he cheerfully admits) a fish out of water at Environment, where he has replaced Elliot Morley, who had total mastery of the brief and, suddenly and inexplicably, finds himself out on his ear. And God knows how many aviation ministers there have been – no wonder the industry always get its way. How is it possible to establish any kind of working relationship or achieve anything useful if no one stays anywhere for more than a year? And why should officials take seriously ministers who they know are (a) wholly ignorant of their subject and (b) aren’t likely to be there a year hence? It’s barmy, barmy, barmy.
Members’ Tea Room
‘I may have some good news on pensions,’ whispered John Hutton as I ordered my baked beans. ‘What would the party most like us to do?’
‘Restore the link.’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘From 2012 – a pledge in the next manifesto.’
‘Is it affordable?’
‘Eminently.’
‘Is The Man up for it?’
‘He’s very keen.’
‘And Gordon?’
‘Not so happy.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he didn’t think of it first and he’s afraid Tony will get the credit. Unusually, for once, TB is where the party is and Gordon is opposed.’
Friday, 12 May
Sunderland
Just three customers at this evening’s surgery. Two Iraqi brothers, long ago naturalised, who want visas for their sister and her four children. Her husband was gunned down in front of her and they are living in terror in Baghdad, where a thousand people were randomly murdered last month. They are decent, respectable, hard-working people. I have been dealing with them for years – first to get their mother into this country and then helping to rescue a brother who spent two years on the run in Jordan after refusing to serve in Saddam’s army. I explained as gently as I could that there is not the slightest chance of his sister and her family being admitted, but they won’t take no for an answer. ‘They won’t cost the British taxpayer a penny . . . It would just be for a couple years . . .’ and so on.
The other one was a well-spoken, middle class, middle-aged woman whose life had gone pear-shaped. She had known better times: a husband, two children, a job and her own home, but now everything was in ruins. Husband gone, house sold, she has lost her job and is several thousands in debt. For eight months she has been battling with the hard hearts in the Benefits Agency, who have declined to help on the grounds she cannot satisfactorily account for the proceeds from her share of the sale of the family house. She claims to have given
them reams of documents, which they keep losing and then demanding more. Now she is on the point of being evicted because she can’t pay her rent. The poor woman was deranged, babbling, unable to focus on the simplest question and yet, self-evidently, she has known better times. She spread her vast paperwork across the table, shuffling through it aimlessly. ‘I know you can’t help me,’ she kept saying, ‘nobody can.’ And I kept thinking, ‘There but for the grace of God . . .’
Monday, 15 May
The Man has launched yet another fatuous initiative. This one, called ‘Let’s Talk’, involved him being filmed listening earnestly to a supposedly random selection of citizens, many of whom seemed to be research assistants, press-ganged at the last moment to provide camera fodder.
Tuesday, 16 May
Dorney Wood, Buckinghamshire
The country residence of the Deputy Prime Minister, no less. Much in the news of late, as he clings to it so tenaciously – and no wonder. A late-Victorian mansion of relatively modest dimensions (five receptions, eight bedrooms, as opposed to the 20-odd reported in the media), set in several acres of exquisite gardens, the rear facade clothed in a luminous blue wisteria. I am here courtesy of the parliamentary gardening club. Janet Fookes, Lady Masham (wheelchair-bound), Adrian Palmer (laird of Manderston) and David Clark from the Lords; from our end of the building Messrs John Spellar, Brian Donohoe and myself.