Decline & Fall

by Chris Mullin

  Tuesday, 4 July

  ‘The forces of darkness are not happy about our exchange on the summer recess last week,’ whispered Jack Straw as we passed through the Noe Lobby this afternoon. ‘I may need your help.’ A reference to my suggestion that a 76-day summer recess was a disgrace and to Jack’s sympathetic reply. I have no doubt we will lose a vote on the issue, but I am determined to force one.

  Monday, 10 July

  Mum’s 86th birthday. Liz and I took her to lunch at the General’s Arms in Little Baddow. Afterwards, Mum in her wheelchair, we strolled along the promenade at Maldon. She appears to be in good spirits, but occasionally lets slip a clue as to her real state of mind. As I pushed her downhill, ‘Why don’t you let go? That would solve the problem.’ A passing remark, said with apparent good humour, but deep down I suspect she’s serious. She wants to die. So, in her situation, would I.

  Wednesday, 12 July

  A drink on the terrace with Clive Soley, who seems to be liaising informally between The Man and Gordon re the succession. He is seeing The Man tomorrow and Gordon next week. They are both in listening mode, he says (as well they might be given the mess we are in). The immediate issue, on which Clive seeks my opinion, is what to do about JP? ‘Confiscate his mobile and send him on a very long holiday,’ I suggested. ‘On no account leave him in charge when The Man takes his holiday.’ Clive’s preferred solution is that JP should be replaced as Deputy PM by Margaret Beckett, but remain as deputy leader of the party. I say, fine, if Margaret can stay as Foreign Secretary, but if it means moving her we should go for Jack.

  Next question: how do we get through the conference in September without the wheels coming off? Clive’s solution is for The Man to announce that this will be his last conference and that he will stand down in September next year. Whatever happens, he says, it is not in Gordon’s interests to take over now since any bounce he might get from not being The Man would have well and truly worn off by the time of the election. Fingers crossed that Gordon has grasped this simple point.

  Today’s bad news is that The Man’s fundraiser extraordinaire, Lord Levy, has been arrested. How much worse can it get?

  Thursday, 13 July

  To the Robing Room of the House of Lords, where incongruously, beneath full-length portraits of a youthful Victoria and Albert, we celebrated the life of Tony Banks. A packed meeting, masterfully compered by Don Brind. Even Dennis Skinner, who rarely ventures down this end of the building, showed up. Afterwards, on the Lords’ terrace, we toasted Banksie in champagne and almost immediately came the sound of knocking from the direction of the Cholmondley Room. Good old Banksie, he’s up there somewhere.

  Sunday, 16 July

  The Israelis have invaded Lebanon, triggering a vast new bout of ruin and misery and bringing down upon their heads a fusillade of Hizbollah rockets. The Americans seem content to let them get on with it while the rest of the world watches in impotent silence. Iran is making warlike noises. A huge new conflagration beckons.

  Monday, 17 July

  A heatwave, temperature in the middle 30s.

  At this evening’s party meeting, a rousing speech from the relentlessly cheerful Hazel Blears calling for a summer of frenetic activity to counter the newly re-invigorated Tories, but of what possible use is a blitz of glossy New Labour press releases in the face of the daily drip, drip of media poison and ‘gotcha’ journalism? Better if we took the summer off and let them get on with it. As someone later remarked, Hazel seems to be living in a parallel universe.

  Keith Hill, who I came across in the cloakroom, says there is no question of JP being left ‘in charge’ this summer. ‘A number of ministers have been persuaded to change their holiday plans,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘If someone needs to be put up to speak for the government, I think you will find that JP is a long way down the list.’

  Tuesday, 18 July

  Angela Eagle, hotfoot from a meeting of the National Executive Committee, says the party is facing financial meltdown. The treasurer budgeted for an income this year of £4 million, but has in fact raised only £700,000 and, in the present climate with the police knocking on the door of our donors, no one is going to be willing to help. Overall the party has a deficit of £14.5 million. The Tories have a slightly larger one but, as we all know, their supporters have deep pockets and the scent of power is likely to keep money flowing into their coffers. ‘What a legacy,’ says Angela. ‘Membership halved, four million votes disappeared and an almost bankrupt party. No chief executive would be allowed to get away with that.’ In fairness Angela did, when pressed, concede that the collapse of politics was a problem across much of the developed world and not unique to this country, so our current difficulties cannot simply be blamed on The Man. She added, ‘The public has almost made up its mind about us, as they did with John Major’s government after the autumn of ‘92. Another six months and it will be too late.’

  The Man reported back from the G8 summit in St Petersburg. Most of his statement was taken up with the situation in the Middle East; disgracefully he uttered not a single critical word of the Israelis despite the mayhem they have caused.

  Thursday, 20 July

  To the Home Office for a much postponed meeting with Lin Homer, the head of the Immigration and Nationality Department. It seems that my pleas to show mercy towards asylum seekers with children may be bearing fruit after all. John Reid, she said, had chosen his words with care. Ministers are planning an amnesty – though they won’t be calling it that – for families with children who have been trapped in the system for years. The extent will depend on the political reaction and the quid pro quo will be a harder line for those, families included, whose cases are processed quickly. An announcement will be made next week.

  Horrifying scenes from Beiruit, where Israel is bombing the suburbs to rubble. Half a million people are said to have been displaced. Carloads of refugees are being targeted by Israeli jets. These are war crimes, but thus far our ministers have shamefully confined themselves to mealie-mouthed expressions of regret.

  Friday, 21 July

  Several requests for interviews or articles following my intervention on Margaret Beckett in yesterday’s debate on the crisis in Lebanon. I hesitated. Knowing that no good can come of expressing opinions about such matters. In the end I recorded a short clip for The World at One, describing Israel’s assault on Lebanon as a war crime. Within minutes the emails and other interview requests started coming in. Do I really want to get sucked into the Middle East? For the rest of the day I lay low.

  Saturday, 22 July

  ‘Mum, do you think that Sarah will ever have a boyfriend?’ Emma inquired as Ngoc was taking her to school the other morning.

  ‘Of course, but there’s no hurry. She can wait until she goes to university.’

  ‘University? That’s much too late.’

  ‘No it’s not. She needs to concentrate on her studies.’

  ‘I will have a boyfriend before I do my GCSEs.’

  ‘What sort of boyfriend are you looking for?’

  Obviously this was a matter to which the small person has already given considerable thought because she replied straight away, ‘Kind, brainy and good fun, but not too posh.’

  Friday, 28 July

  The Residence, Kinshasa

  Everyone on tenterhooks. Supporters of John Pierre Bemba went on the rampage yesterday, raping, looting and killing three policemen. Plus they burned down the HQ of the quango that is supposed to be ensuring fair access for all sides to the state-run media. Then to crown all, the French decided to mount a little show of strength, flying two of their military jets low over the city at exactly the moment when a fire started in John Paul Bemba’s compound, igniting some of the considerable stock of ammunition he has stored there, killing several children and inevitably spreading rumours that the French had bombed Bemba. That was yesterday. Today has so far been fairly quiet – the only report of violence being an exchange of gunfire between Kabila’s and
Bemba’s bodyguards when their convoys inadvertently crossed, another policeman killed.

  The Deputy Head of Mission gives a briefing on personal security. The Congo is a very dangerous place, he says. We are enjoined to keep our vehicle door locked at all times. ‘And if you are involved in an accident, even with a pedestrian, do not get out of the car; drive on and report it later.’ Eric Joyce and I agree that we find that hard to accept, but then as the DHM pointed out, it is not unknown for white men unwise enough to disregard such advice to be lynched.

  Tuesday, 1 August

  A warehouse in Kinshasa. The scene which greets us is one of utter chaos. Ballot boxes stuffed with votes dumped unceremoniously in the open air, mixed with boxes of unused ballot papers, some burst apart; hapless officials searching through the mess to recover the plastic envelopes containing meticulously compiled returns which diligent polling clerks laboured all night to complete; trucks loaded down with ballot boxes and paperwork arrive every hour, adding to the mess. If those who queued so patiently to cast their vote could see this they would weep; on second thoughts, this being the Congo, they would probably burn the place down.

  Inside, clerks seated idly on orange plastic garden chairs, gossiping, staring dead-eyed into space; occasionally an envelope is opened, examined, set to one side. No one seems to know what to do. At the bank of gleaming computers along the rear wall the putative operators are also idle. Not a single result has yet been entered.

  Wednesday, 2 August

  The compilation centre now resembles a landfill site. Many tons of votes have accumulated and been stored under a lean-to at the side of the building. Most of the plastic envelopes containing the returns have been retrieved and opened and lie in discarded drifts, along with surplus ballot papers and other detritus. The computer operators are still idle, although there is slightly more activity at the tables in the hall. So far, we are told, just seven presidential results have been entered. No one has yet given any thought about the assembly results, which may well be unverifiable. Whoever devised this system should be shot.

  This evening at the Residence, dinner for the papal nuncio and assorted local churchmen to discuss what is to be done about the growing problem of children denounced as witches and driven from their families. Solange Ghonda, the sister of a former foreign minister, lucidly outlined the problem. Twenty years ago, she said, it wasn’t an issue. It began with the influx of Protestant evangelists and their local imitators. All over the Congo, and across West Africa, fake pastors had set themselves up, searching out and denouncing evil. Typically, when misfortunate struck, a family would attribute it to an evil spirit and pay one of these bogus pastors to search out and destroy it. More often than not, they would find it lurking in a child who would then be beaten, tortured, even murdered; often they were driven from the family and ended up on the streets. Children as young as six or seven were forced to carry on their slender shoulders the belief that they were the source of the evil spirit that had brought misfortune upon their family. It is estimated that the number of children so denounced may be as high as a quarter of a million; every street in Kinshasa contains one of these bogus churches. One of the priests said they had attempted an audit and given up after finding 900 in one district alone. There are signs that the sickness may be spreading among west Africans in Europe; remember Victoria Climbie and the West African child whose remains were found in the Thames?

  Tuesday, 8 August

  Gamekeeper’s Cottage, Northchapel, West Sussex

  Glorious sunshine. A woodpecker tapping away in the oak tree. I rose early and sat in the garden reading William Hague’s excellent biography of Pitt the Younger. Granny awoke late, red-faced from yesterday’s sunshine and confused. ‘Where am I?’

  I explained.

  ‘Oh, I thought I was in Broomfield Hospital.’

  This afternoon we had a pleasant stroll in the park at Petworth, Granny in a wheelchair, which the children and I took turns in pushing.

  ‘Chris, you must be tired.’

  ‘Not in the least, Mum.’

  ‘Don’t strain your back.’

  The same mantra repeated over and over, 30, 40, 50 times. In between she’s perfectly sane, but her short-term memory is fading – and she knows it.

  Wednesday, 9 August

  Gamekeeper’s Cottage

  Awoke to grey drizzle which by lunch had, mercifully, given way to sunshine. We spent the afternoon in the garden at Parham. In between her usual exhortations that whoever is pushing the wheelchair should not strain his or her back, Granny has a new mantra: ‘All the butterflies seem to be white this year.’ True, they are, but once I had heard this observation repeated 50 times it did not seem so interesting.

  Thursday, 10 August

  Gamekeeper’s Cottage

  Awoke to news of some great new terrorist bomb plot, apparently involving liquid explosive concealed in soft drink bottles. Arrests, airport chaos, but as yet no smoking gun. The real thing or another cock-up? The broadcasters, having previously had their fingers burned, are referring pointedly to an ‘alleged’ bomb plot. In the absence of The Man, John Reid seems to be making most of the running. JP is being kept firmly under wraps, just as Keith Hill predicted. The hacks, however, have quickly cottoned on and are starting to run ‘Where is JP?’ stories.

  Friday, 11 August

  Gamekeeper’s Cottage

  ‘Bomb plot chaos’ has eclipsed the carnage in Lebanon as the main story. Still no hard evidence. At least none that we know about. It appears that none of the alleged terrorists had even got around to buying an airline ticket, let alone filling his Coke bottle with liquid explosive. Still, you can’t be too careful these days. This evening the nation was treated to a brief glimpse of JP, striding self-consciously down the corridor that leads from the Cabinet room to the Number 10 lobby, where he was allowed to read a brief, uninformative statement, but not to take questions. The object of exercise seemed to be to prove that JP was still alive, but it seemed to demonstrate the opposite. Could he have a double?

  We passed a pleasant day at West Dean, picnicking in the sunshine, Granny still going on about butterflies.

  Monday, 21 August

  The lead in today’s Telegraph gloatingly asserts that the Labour Party is on the verge of bankruptcy and struggling to pay next month’s wage bill; distressingly plausible.

  Tuesday, 22 August

  A poll in the Guardian gives the Tories a nine-point lead; we are at our lowest ebb for 14 years. I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised, given our recent battering.

  Wednesday, 23 August

  Today’s bad news is a Guardian poll (a second instalment of yesterday’s) that only 37 per cent of the electorate believe that ten years of economic stability and continuous growth have anything to do with Gordon Brown’s stewardship of the economy; 52 per cent believe there is little or no connection. It gets worse. The majority believe, despite clear evidence to the contrary, that they are worse off under Labour and that more people live in poverty now than under the Tories. Why do we bother?

  Thursday, 24 August

  Sarah’s GCSE results: seven A* and four As. Which only goes to prove what I have always known – that she is bright as well as beautiful.

  Friday, 25 August

  The papers are full of the usual August stories alleging the dumbing down of GCSEs. As if to prove the point, Sarah (the recent recipient of an A* for Geography) inquired this evening, ‘Dad, where is Latin America?’

  Wednesday, 30 August

  The Man was interviewed on television last night, desperately trying to project an air of business as usual, looking washed out – despite having only just returned from three weeks in Barbados. Obviously determined not to be driven from office, but he knows he’s in deep trouble.

  Thursday, 31 August

  A call from Keith Hill at Number 10, sounding as cheerful as always, despite the rumble of approaching artillery.

  ‘What’s The Man going to say at conference r
e The Big Question?’ I inquired.

  ‘What do you think he should say?’

  ‘I think he just has to tough it out,’ I said lamely, but even as the words were out of my mouth, I knew it wouldn’t wash. My trouble is that I don’t believe Gordon is the answer to our problems. If he was I’d say, ‘Get on with it.’

  Friday, 1 September

  A message on the answerphone from a Katherine at The World This Weekend: ‘We’re doing a little survey . . . just a couple of questions.’ I know what the game is and I’m not playing. An alarming number of people are though. This evening’s television news featured clips from Clive Betts, George Mudie and Julie Morgan, all calling for a sign from heaven.

  Tuesday, 5 September

  The madness is intensifying. This morning’s Mirror splashed a ludicrous memo, purporting to have been written by one of the inner circle, outlining a plan for The Man’s re-entry into the earth’s atmosphere. Sample: ‘He needs to go with the crowds still wanting more. He should be the star who won’t even play the last encore.’ (What planet are these people on?) By early evening the bulletins were dominated by reports of a letter said to have been signed by 17 of the hitherto ultra-loyal (including an as yet unnamed junior minister) demanding a timetable. Chris Bryant and Siôn Simon are said to be the instigators. Meanwhile messages are being frantically smuggled out of the bunker in the hope of appeasing the mob. David Miliband was on the radio this morning talking confidently of ‘the conventional wisdom’ that The Man would be gone within 12 months. And the early edition of tomorrow’s Sun announces (presumably with official blessing) that all will be revealed on 31 May next year.