Decline & Fall

by Chris Mullin

  Thursday, 2 November

  A number of papers, including several of the nastier tabloids, have picked up my remarks yesterday about ‘vanity publishing’, which won’t have endeared me to colleagues. I was amiably ticked off by both Jacqui Smith and Bob Ainsworth. ‘Just try standing for the parliamentary committee and see how you get on,’ joked Bob. I’m not bothered. It’s a five-minute wonder and will blow over.

  Monday, 6 November

  Jack Straw outlined his plans for Lords reform to the parliamentary party this evening, reminding us of the devastating fact that in 1945 only 16 of the 1,000 or so peers took the Labour whip. An entertaining discussion followed during the course of which it rapidly became clear that his plans for a part-elected, part-appointed upper house stand little or no chance of success. ‘A dog’s dinner,’ someone said. Everyone has their own solution, most wholly impractical. If we are not careful we shall be bogged down for months. Why not simply focus on what everyone agrees about – disposing of the remaining hereditaries, introducing a little retirement scheme, cleaning up the appointments process – and forget the rest?

  Tuesday, 7 November

  To Committee Room 10 to hear Gordon Brown explain his plan for an international financial facility to fund a worldwide programme of immunisation. Basically, it involves enlightened First World governments borrowing huge sums on the bond market and undertaking to repay gradually from future aid commitments. Once the world is immunised there are plans to extend it to ensure a place in school for every child in the world. If it works it will be wonderful, but as with all New Labour plans to save the world it sounds too good to be true. Half a dozen governments plus Bill Gates and the Pope have signed up so far, but much will depend on the degree of co-operation in the developing world. Gordon spoke passionately and without notes for 20 minutes, demonstrating an impressive grasp of detail in matters well outside his brief. I couldn’t entirely work out his motivation. Idealism or part of his campaign for the leadership? He kept thanking us for all we are doing when, in truth, we are almost irrelevant to the success or failure of the enterprise. Gordon may be obsessive, driven and somewhat lacking in the sense of humour department, but deep down he is a good and capable man.

  Wednesday, 8 November

  The House is prorogued. I spent most of the day in my little office in the eaves, tapping out a speech on junk journalism that I have to give at a conference at Sunderland University next week. In the evening I dined at Clapham with John and Sheila Williams. On hearing that Donald Rumsfeld had resigned, following a Democrat landslide in the Congressional elections, Sheila cracked open a bottle of champagne.

  Thursday, 9 November

  At last the tide is turning. The Republicans have lost control of both the Senate and the House of Representatives, which means that Bush isn’t any longer going to have things all his own way, but it is still far from clear how we are going to extract ourselves from the Iraq quagmire.

  Saturday, 11 November

  A Bangladeshi family have been burned out in Hendon. They escaped, but their father-in-law, who lived nearby, believing his family were trapped inside, collapsed and died. By the time I got there the street was deserted and the house boarded up.

  Monday, 13 November

  Mum is dead. Dear stubborn, stoic Mum. Always good-humoured, forever thanking us for the little we did for her, anxious that she should not be putting anyone to trouble (little did she know the logistics involved in a 600-mile round trip to Heybridge). Just occasionally, when the pain from her twisted knee became unbearable, the mask slipped, but otherwise she was delightful company. Who could have predicted that she would end her days marooned among the gaga, hunchbacked, able to walk only with a frame, constantly in need of the toilet? Not so long ago, in her early eighties, she was delivering meals on wheels to people younger than her, and working behind the counter in the Oxfam shop, laundering the altar cloths at the local church, weeding the garden. She had a comfortable home, four prosperous children each with homes of their own and yet she ended up alone, cared for by strangers. To the end of my life, I will never shake off the feeling that we – I – let her down, even though she was so hard to help.

  Tuesday, 14 November

  Today I successfully managed to top up my mobile phone account via a cash machine. Another first in my battle with the twenty-first century.

  Wednesday, 15 November

  To Chelmsford on a glorious autumn day. Liz met me at the station and we proceeded to the undertaker’s (the same one who did for Dad), where we went through the grisly details, coffin, flowers etc. Outrageously, the borough council wants to charge us double for interring Mum in the Writtle Road cemetery on the grounds that ‘she lived outside the borough’. In fact she lived in Chelmsford for 64 years, only ending up in Heybridge on the recommendation of social workers.

  To Brewster House, where we collected the death certificate. Mum’s little room untouched. Pyjamas neatly folded on the bed, her evening biscuit on the bedside table, flowers still in bloom on the windowsill.

  Then into Maldon to register the death and finally back to Chelmsford to check out a hotel for the funeral wake. I was back at the House by six.

  Wednesday, 22 November

  Sally Banks and I went on our quarterly outing – to Kensington to see the eccentric house of the Victorian artist Sir Frederick Leighton. Then through Holland Park to Notting Hill where, on impulse, we rang Tony Benn’s doorbell; his daughter Melissa was there, too, and we had tea with them both and then took a taxi back to the Commons. Tony seems in excellent shape, still racing from one engagement to another but for how much longer? Mum was still vigorous at his age – and look how she ended up. One of Tony’s little aphorisms I must note: ‘Be nice to the people you meet on the way up because you may meet them again on the way down.’

  Monday, 27 November

  According to Angela Eagle, who is on the National Executive Committee, the bankers are telling the party that there can be no discretionary spending, everything must go to pay off debts. There are even doubts whether we can afford a leadership election.

  What a legacy. We are going to end up more dependent on the unions than ever.

  Tuesday, 28 November

  Passed much of the day reading David Profumo’s account of his father’s downfall (I am a judge in the Channel Four political book award). A wonderful line from Harold Macmillan on being informed that Profumo had resigned: ‘Well, at least it was a woman this time.’ And Noël Coward’s note of commiseration to Valerie Profumo: ‘Do remember that nothing ever matters quite as much as one thinks it does.’

  Wednesday, 29 November

  A damning indictment of The Man by Martin Jacques in today’s Guardian: ‘It is to New Labour’s eternal dishonour that a figure who has become so discredited has been allowed to continue in office for the sake of his vanity and legacy. In any proper system of accountability he would long ago have been ejected and impeached. But Labour, alas, seems to have lost its sense of dignity, rectitude and conviction since the death of John Smith.’ Ouch.

  Friday, 1 December

  Church of Our Lady Immaculate, Chelmsford

  Mum in her coffin before the altar, topped by a huge wreath of white lilies. A good turn-out. Most Foleys, all the Mullins, friends and neighbours, delegations from the WRVS, the Oxfam shop and Brewster House. About 80 in all.

  The priest was good. No claptrap, no phoney sympathising. He just got on with the service and left the tributes to us. David, voice breaking, read half a dozen verses from the Book of Revelation. Amiria read a poem, ‘Warning’, by Jenny Joseph. I delivered the appreciation, getting off to a good, clear start, provoking one or two laughs, but by the end (at the mention of ‘these last three sad years’), I too was struggling. Mild embarrassment when none of the Mullins presented themselves for communion. Fortunately there were a lot of devout Foleys . . . I could see the priest looking to see whose lips were moving during the mass, but he didn’t say anything, a true pro
fessional.

  Then to Writtle Road cemetery, where we buried Mum at the back, in a patch of bare ground between the Britvic factory and the old A12. A brief prayer, a splash of holy water and it was over.

  Monday, 4 December

  The Man announced, to no one’s surprise, that we intend to update Trident, at a cost of between £15 and £20 billion (excluding maintenance). The case for doing so is threadbare (even he admitted it was an ‘on balance’ decision) and has more to do with ‘punching our weight’ than military necessity. Some rumbling at this evening’s meeting of the parliamentary party, but mainly from Usual Suspects. Margaret Beckett, once a CND supporter, went out of her way to say that she had now changed her mind. The government can afford to be relaxed about a rebellion because it knows it has the support of the Tories.

  Tuesday, 5 December

  To Committee Room 6 to hear the EU’s Afghan envoy, Francis Vendrell. He did his best to sound upbeat, but it is clear we are in deep trouble. High praise for the Brits under General Richards, but very critical of NATO in general and the Americans in particular: ‘I am amazed at the way NATO operates. Despite having a unified command, each country needs to consult its own capital.’ On the American commander who is about to take over command of ISAF: ‘He was there in 2003 and he did not leave a very good impression.’ On the situation in the north – allegedly one of our successes – ‘I would be wary of saying there has been a success. The Germans have been too passive. The warlords remain entrenched. It was great mistake not to use force against them.’ On crop eradication: ‘We are under enormous pressure from the Americans who want to destroy by whatever means. Ironic, since 90 per cent of the heroin ends up in Europe.’

  Lunch at Carlton Terrace with the President of Mozambique. James Arbuthnot, the Tory chair of the Defence Committee, remarked that since yesterday’s announcement about Trident had more to do with politics and diplomacy than military necessity, perhaps the cost should come out of the Foreign Office rather than the Defence budget. Now there’s a thought.

  Ann Clwyd, the incumbent, has been narrowly defeated by Tony Lloyd for the chairmanship of the parliamentary party. Another little sign that the centre of gravity is shifting towards the incoming management.

  Wednesday, 6 December

  A message from Michael Meacher. Would I call him urgently? I didn’t reply immediately since I knew what it was about, but he swiftly tracked me down. Michael is proposing to announce his leadership bid soon after Christmas and wants to use my name. Oh dear, this is so obviously a kamikaze exercise which will only increase my current isolation. I can’t argue with his analysis – that Gordon needs to be pressed to set out his stall and this is the only opportunity. But must we really throw ourselves on the barbed wire for a cause that is inevitably doomed? How many names can he count on? About 30, he reckoned, but almost immediately revised that estimate downward to ‘between 20 and 30’. Reluctantly, I agreed, whereupon he instantly produced a beige folder containing a statement of intent which he invited me to endorse, which I duly did. There were only six other signatures.

  This evening with Ruth Winstone to Westminster Cathedral for the parliamentary choir’s performance of Mendelsson’s Elijah. As we walked up Victoria in rush-hour traffic a fox appeared from one of the roads beside the cathedral and, looking neither to right or left, ran straight across the busy road, disappearing in the direction of St James’s Park.

  Thursday, 7 December

  Lunch in the Adjournment with Bruce Grocott. Inevitably we discussed The Man. Bruce said, ‘I can give you a list of his strengths as long as your arm, but he is not the best judge of people.’

  Tuesday, 12 December

  Frantic behind the scenes scurrying prompted by rumours that Number 10 has done a deal with Hayden Phillips re the funding of political parties. Sir Hayden is reportedly demanding a £50,000 donation cap that would apply to unions as well as individuals. He has also come up with a madcap scheme for ‘individualising’ the political levy, giving each of the several million levy payers a chance to opt out annually. Fatal, were we ever daft enough to sign up to it. Quite apart from anything else, it would cost more to administer than we would gain. By evening the situation had calmed. Keith Hill says The Man was mortified at the suggestion that he would sign up to anything so ruinous and will make his position clear in the next few days. Keith added, however, ‘this is a negotiation and we may have to compromise. There is a prize for us: stopping the Ashcroft money.’

  Thursday, 14 December

  Ann Clwyd, off to Iraq tomorrow, says that The Man believes her defeat as chair of the Parliamentary Labour Party was entirely due to her association with him and had apologised profoundly. To which she had gallantly – and accurately – responded that she was happy to be associated with him because she agreed with him on most things, particularly Iraq.

  Friday, 15 December

  Tonight’s news reports that The Man has become ‘the first serving prime minister in history’ to be interviewed as part of a police inquiry. The hacks can’t believe their luck. You could practically see saliva dribbling from the mouth of Nick Robinson, the BBC’s clever but deeply cynical political correspondent.

  Sunday, 17 December

  Sunderland

  To a carol service at Holy Trinity. Afterwards I was introduced to an elderly woman. She took one look at me and exclaimed, ‘Ee, you’d think they could have found someone local for a safe seat like this.’

  ‘I’ve lived here for 25 years,’ I replied.

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘I know what you meant,’ I said.

  Monday, 18 December

  The Times reports a survey of 1,500 under-tens, asking them to list their favourite ‘thing’. The first three places were taken by ‘celebrity’, ‘good looks’ and ‘being rich’. God came tenth.

  Wednesday, 20 December

  A hard frost which lingered for much of the day. Heathrow fogbound. The Guardian is leading with a poll putting the Tories on 40 per cent and us on 33. It’s been like that for several weeks. The trend is unmistakable.

  Friday, 22 December

  Called on the Bangladeshi whose home was firebombed last month. Like most Sunderland Bangladeshis a peasant from Sylhet; he has lived here about 20 years. Pleasant, undemanding, remarkably sanguine considering that he has lost everything. He declined the offer of council accommodation on the grounds that he feels safer living among his fellow countrymen in the handful of streets that comprise Sunderland’s Bengali quarter. His burned-out house is unlikely to be rebuilt until July at the earliest. In the meantime he and his family are camping with friends and neighbours. We sat in the cold, bare front room of the house in which he and his wife are currently lodged. Everything has gone: clothes, family photographs, passports, birth certificates – vital evidence of his children’s British citizenship. Even the family’s cooking pots are borrowed. The house was insured, but not the contents. He asked if financial help is available to help restock his house when the time comes to move back and I promised to make inquiries. In the meantime he is all but destitute.

  Christmas Day

  For the first time in years, Santa did not call at St Bede’s Terrace, Emma no longer being a believer. The girls, however, still insisted that their presents be left outside their rooms in Christmas sacks. We drove to Malcolm and Helen’s house in the wilderness above Haltwhistle. A hoar frost clinging to the trees and fences. Malcolm and I walked down the old railway track into Haltwhistle, arriving in the fading light, and Helen collected us.

  Friday, 29 December

  Awoke to the news that Saddam Hussein has been hanged.

  CHAPTER THREE

  2007

  Monday, 8 January

  Ruth Kelly is in trouble for sending one of her children to a private school (‘HYPOCRITE,’ scream the early editions of the Standard). This afternoon she issued a statement explaining that the child had serious special needs and that it was only for a couple of years,
after which he would be returned to the state system, where her other kids are being educated. Hopefully, that should keep the vultures at bay. All the same, another fuss that we could do without.

  At this evening’s meeting of the parliamentary party the New Labour elite were hugging and kissing her as though she had suffered a bereavement.

  Monday, 15 January

  Another foolish feeding frenzy has developed around the failure by the Home Office to register the details of British citizens who have committed crimes abroad. No matter that the task is impossible, that the information received is in many cases incomplete, that ministers were not informed, that no system of any sort even existed until the last year of the Tories – the hacks want blood. We’ve got at least another two years of this before the electorate puts us out of our misery. John Reid must rue the day he labelled his department ‘not fit for purpose’. He’s dug himself a pit out of which it will be impossible to climb.