by Chris Mullin
Tuesday, 22 April
A visit from the new Eritrean ambassador. Like all Eritreans, he was charming but unbending on the question of the disputed border.
In the Library Corridor later, I came across John Healey, the local government minister, who was at the Treasury when the fateful decision on the ten pence tax rate was made. ‘Why on earth did Gordon do it? Was he just after a cheap round of applause on Budget day?’
‘No,’ said John. ‘Gordon wanted to portray himself as a tax cutter, with an eye to an autumn election. That’s what it was about.’
Wednesday, 23 April
To the chamber to bear witness to the great U-turn. Chief Whip Geoff Hoon tipped me off about it last night. Sure enough, Gordon announced a plan to compensate those who were out of pocket due to the abolition of the 10 per cent tax band, starting with pensioners aged between 60 and 64 and young persons on the minimum wage. Sighs of relief all round on our side. Derision from just about everybody else. A triumph for Frank Field, who led the uprising – and for the collective power of us, the poor bloody infantry, when sufficiently provoked, and, by heaven, we have been sorely provoked these last few weeks.
Friday, 25 April
Much of the week has been spent responding to angry emails and letters from people who claim to have lost out as a result of the abolition of the 10 per cent tax band. Many conclude with a promise never to vote Labour again.
Sunday, 27 April
Awoke to the BBC review of the papers gleefully reporting the strike at the Grangemouth oil refinery and talking up the possibility of a new winter of discontent, cheerfully aided by spokesmen for the public service unions. Despite unprecedented prosperity, the pessimism is toxic.
Monday, 28 April
Came across Gordon striding down the Library Corridor on his way to address some Asian jamboree in one of the dining rooms. How isolated he looked. A protection officer with a wire coming out of his ear five paces behind. A female official scurrying to keep up. Someone else out in front. In the middle Gordon, alone.
The row over the abolition of the 10 per cent tax band resurfaced during the Committee Stage of the Finance Bill. The minister, Jane Kennedy, was suspiciously vague as to how we are going to compensate those who have lost out. It’s beginning to dawn on all concerned that there is no easy way out of this mess. The losers are difficult to identify and it is impossible to devise a formula that will repay them all. This is going to rumble on for months and in due course there will be another round of letters and emails from people complaining that they’ve missed out. What a shambles.
Tuesday, 29 April
Nick Raynsford reckons that we face a Boris landslide on Thursday. He was out on the doorsteps on Sunday and says hostility to Ken Livingstone among the over-forties is intense. Only the young spoke up for him and most of them won’t vote.
I was waylaid at the ten o’clock vote by Michael Meacher. ‘We must talk.’
‘About what?’
‘The future.’
‘I hope you’re not planning another leadership bid?’
Naturally, he denied all, but it soon became clear that this was exactly the subject on Michael’s agenda. He talked of assembling a group of 20 like-minded individuals and seemed surprised when I suggested it would be all over the Guardian the next day. Before long he was talking of going to see Gordon with a list of suggestions, as if that would make the blindest bit of difference. Good old Michael, I do so admire his energy and optimism, but I am not going to be part of any hare-brained conspiracy to overthrow our unloved leader. Not least because we are too far gone. It no longer matters who the captain is, we are fatally holed below the waterline.
Wednesday, 30 April
Rang Daphne Park to arrange lunch. We had a brief exchange re Africa. ‘Why,’ she asked, ‘do we persist in feeling guilty all the time? We were a good colonial power, unlike the French or Portuguese.’ She quoted a prominent Ghanaian she had once known who used to say that the British had given Africa two priceless gifts, the English language, enabling Africans to communicate across tribal boundaries, and the rule of law.
This afternoon to the chamber to hear Alan Simpson move an amendment to the Energy Bill giving the government a year to come up with a plan for feed-in tariffs. He spoke for more than half an hour without a note and with beautiful clarity, demonstrating real expertise and winning acclaim from all sides. One of the best speeches I have heard for a long time. A class act. Alas, he is not seeking reelection. We shall miss him when he goes. About 20 of us voted against the government, but it wasn’t enough.
Friday, 2 May
Another local election drubbing. In Sunderland we lost five seats to the Tories, including Ryhope, a former pit village which hasn’t returned a Tory in living memory. We now control nothing in the south of England outside of central London and for the first time there are tentative signs of a Tory revival in the north. Just before midnight, it was announced that Boris Johnson is to be the new Mayor of London, which must send a shiver down some Tory spines. They are going to have to keep a tight rein on him, at least until the election.
Saturday, 3 May
A long talk with Ngoc, who thinks I should retire at the election, partly on the grounds that politics is now a despised profession and partly because I am not doing anything useful and am unlikely to in future. I am not bothered about the first, since I am content to be judged by those who know me, but the prospect of another six years hanging around the Tea Room waiting for the Division bell fills me with gloom. Two questions: can I afford to retire, and how am I to while away the years that remain? Ngoc reckons that, once the flat is rented, we won’t be much worse off. As regards the beckoning void, there’s always writing and perhaps a bit of lecturing, also that elusive walled garden. We more or less decided I should go. If so, I will have to move quickly. Probably as soon as Friday.
Sunday, 4 May
A big bout of self-flagellation underway. Much talk from Gordon and his senior henchpersons about listening and learning, feeling people’s pain etc. One can overdo this humility lark, especially when it is so clearly phoney. The 10 per cent tax band folly apart, most of the things for which we are being blamed – fuel prices, food prices, the slump in the mortgage market – are due to factors way beyond the influence of mere national governments. The sad truth is that people have finally tired of us and no amount of pandering and breast-beating is likely to make any difference.
Tuesday, 6 May
To London, still agonising over whether to stay or go. What weighs most heavily is the inevitable accusation that I would be letting down the local party were I to depart, though, in truth, they will hold the seat whoever is the candidate. The local Tories, of course, are bound to allege that I am frit, whereas what I fear is not the prospect of defeat, but victory.
In the Tea Room, open talk of insurrection, mainly but not entirely from Usual Suspects. The difference is that they no longer trouble to lower their voices. If not Gordon, who? Graham Stringer favours Alan Johnson on the grounds that he is everything that Gordon isn’t – personable, a southerner and possessed of a sense of humour. And if not Alan?
‘Anyone.’
Wednesday, 7 May
To Hampstead for dinner with the Woollacotts. Among the guests, a young woman from the Cabinet Office who remarked that Gordon had run out of people capable of saying ‘no’ to him and that he had ‘surrounded himself with control freaks and skivvies’.
Thursday, 8 May
I was joined at lunch in the cafeteria by a former member of the Blair court. ‘Are people saying to you that Gordon should go?’ he inquired. ‘So many misjudgements,’ he went on, and proceeded to list them – ranging in seriousness from the 10 per cent tax debacle to yesterday’s reclassifying of cannabis, against official advice. Gordon’s latest folly is his apparent intention to press ahead with the proposed extension of pre-trial detention from 28 to 42 days ‘even though everyone is telling him he can’t win’. My friend reckons
that sooner or later there is bound to be an uprising, although I pointed out that history suggested otherwise. The dear, sentimental old Labour Party doesn’t get rid of failing leaders. We go down with the ship, witness Foot in ‘83 or Kinnock in ‘92. We discussed alternatives. Ideally someone of southern origin or, as he put it, ‘who can pronounce English place names correctly’ – Miliband, Straw, Johnson, Denham, Hutton, but our preferred choice was Hilary Benn. Interesting to hear such insurrectionist talk from someone who is fundamentally a loyalist. ‘I haven’t had this conversation with anyone else,’ he said.
Friday, 9 May
Sunderland
D-Day. Am I staying or going? If I am going, I have to tell the executive this evening. All week I have been counting down the hours, trying to put it out of mind. When I went out this morning I still hadn’t decided. If anything, the odds were on staying. I toured Grangetown School, attended an anti-racism event at the Stadium of Light with scarcely a thought of what was to come. I stopped off briefly at home to return the car keys to Ngoc.
‘Have you decided?’ she asked.
‘I don’t think I can . . . I would be letting down too many people.’
‘Have you ever, once, thought of your partner?’
‘Of course, but . . .’
And with that the balance tipped. I went to the office, called my three staff together, swore them to secrecy for two hours and told them I would be going at the election. They took it remarkably well, considering they had no inkling of what was coming. Graham and I did the surgery and then I went over to the Civic Centre for the executive meeting. They were gob-smacked, stunned. They had thought they were coming to discuss our election campaign, only to find themselves faced with having to find another candidate and start again from scratch.
I went home feeling sick.
Saturday, 10 May
A hollow feeling. Like bereavement. Similar to how I felt after I made that fatal call to Hilary Armstrong in 2001, asking to be moved on or out – and discovering it was out. This time there really is no way back. Every bridge is blown. Unless I can find something useful to do, the days ahead will be empty, a long slow decline into senility and oblivion. Oddly, what nags at me most is that Sarah, who turned 18 six months ago, will now never have a chance to vote for her old dad.
When I told Emma she asked, ‘What will you be then?’
‘Nothing. I will be retired.’
‘Retired?’
For as long as she can remember, indeed for her entire life, her dad has been the Member of Parliament for the place where we live, a big figure in her small world. Now he will be nothing and that’s not cool.
A beautiful day. For the first time this year we had lunch in the garden.
Monday, 12 May
A late train to London. The mood at the meeting of the parliamentary party was ugly. A couple of thinly veiled calls for expulsions, one from an angry Scotsman who accused Kate Hoey of playing footsie with Boris Johnson, who wants to appoint her as some sort of sports adviser. Mike Gapes referred to Frank Field, who gave an unhelpful interview on this morning’s Today programme, as ‘a creeping Judas’. By and large they picked easy targets. No one mentioned Cherie and JP, whose unhelpful memoirs are all over the Sunday press. Harriet Harman spoke sensibly of ‘the danger that in our disappointment people are looking for someone to blame and the media, as ever, are offering a sympathetic shoulder to cry on’.
Later, in the Division Lobby, I was assailed from all sides by people wanting to know why I was going. David Miliband playfully kicked me, remarking that it was only a couple of weeks since he attended my constituency dinner to help raise funds for my re-election. Steve Byers remarked that we couldn’t afford to lose thoughtful people. Alan Milburn inquired how I was going to afford to get the children through university. To every inquiry I reply that I am past my sell-by date. Some people assume I am going to be a famous writer again, but I have no such expectations. The truth is there is no plan. Only the beckoning void.
In China there has been a huge earthquake. Thousands dead and missing, which puts our pathetic little problems into perspective.
Tuesday, 13 May
To the chamber to hear Alistair Darling explain how he is going to dig us out of the hole we are in over the abolition of the ten pence tax band. To everyone’s pleasant surprise, he has opted for the simplest option, raising thresholds to the benefit of everyone except top-rate payers. The downside is that it will cost £2.7 billion, which will have to be borrowed. Also, it is too expensive to continue with indefinitely, so, come the pre-Budget statement in November, Alistair is going to have to come up with a new wheeze. The other notable feature of the statement was a handsome apology from Frank Field for his attack on Gordon on the Today programme.
Later, in the Library Corridor, I came across a loyalist colleague who was lamenting the ‘awfulness’ of Gordon. He added, ‘The truth is that public spending has been out of control for the last three or four years because there are so many sacred cows . . .’
This evening to the Prime Minister’s room for an exchange with Number 10’s deceptively youthful Head of Strategy, David Muir. His message: despite their lead in the polls the Tories were still vulnerable; if the focus groups are to be believed, Cameron is not in as strong a position as Blair in the mid-nineties; he is still thought of as a slick salesman rather than someone with whom most people empathise. Despite not liking us, most people still share our values. There is all to play for. Our problem is that 80 per cent of respondents think we are split and divided parties do not win elections; we had to stop talking about ourselves and start talking about the Tories. Easier said than done in the current Stygian gloom.
Wednesday, 14 May
With Chris Young, head teacher at Valley Road School, to see Ed Balls and children’s minister, Bev Hughes. My purpose was so that they could hear at the first hand the impending collapse of early-years care in the poorest parts of Sunderland. To my pleasant surprise Ed listened attentively. His conclusion, however, was that the problem lies with the way the local authority is distributing the funds rather than any national shortfall. He promised to send a senior official to Sunderland to see what can be done.
Friday, 16 May
No great sorrow seems to have been triggered by the announcement of my retirement. No weeping and wailing or rending of garments. No one throwing themselves at my feet begging me to reconsider. A few emails, a letter or two (one from a dear old friend saying I have spared him the embarrassment of having to vote Labour again). A friendly leader in the Echo, a paragraph in the Guardian (describing me as ‘the Editor of Tribune’, a post I relinquished 24 years ago), but that’s about all. Still a vague feeling of bereavement. Can’t quite believe I’ve done it. As Bruce Grocott said, ‘You are giving up more than a job, it’s a way of life.’
A letter from party headquarters asking me to confirm reports of my retirement ‘so that it can be reported to the National Executive Committee’. This I duly did. So that’s it. My fate well and truly sealed.
Monday, 19 May
A minister – a middle-ranking female – joined me in the Tea Room full of gloom after a weekend campaigning in the Crewe by-election. Many people, she said, give Gordon as the reason for not supporting us. Did I think there was any chance that he might be persuaded to stand down? No, I said. We will go down with the ship. That is the Labour way. She said she had been on two outings with Gordon and been astounded to hear him ask the same three questions, same words, same order, of everyone he met.
Tuesday, 20 May
Chaired a meeting for Jacob Zuma, the likely next president of South Africa: his second visit to the UK in a month, affable, but cautious and long-winded. Ominously, he was whisked off to lunch by a Tory peer who bore a passing resemblance to Alan B’stard and who, according to the peers’ register, has an unhealthily long list of business interests.
Wednesday, 21 May
A visit from the Dalai Lama. I chaired a meeting for him
in Committee Room 14 and then escorted him to a press conference on the other side of the building. The journey between engagements was a triumphal procession. People lined the corridors and came running from all over, he stopped to shake hands with everyone, schoolchildren, tourists, policemen. He answered questions cheerfully, endearing himself to everyone with his simplicity and good humour. The hacks, needless to say, were principally interested in why Gordon (with characteristic ineptitude) has decided to receive him at Lambeth Palace, rather than Number 10, but HH refused to play and they soon lost interest.
Douglas Hogg, who is much nicer in private than in public, asked how I thought we were going to do in tomorrow’s by-election at Crewe. ‘Badly,’ I replied. ‘It’s not fatal,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think you’ll win with Gordon.’ His demeanour was kindly, not seeking to score points. I asked what he advised. ‘Stick with him,’ he said, ‘because if you don’t, the civil war will be bloody. It took us ten years to get over removing Margaret.’
Thursday, 22 May
Today’s Times contains a beautiful colour picture of the Dalai Lama playfully resting his head on my shoulder during one of the lighter moments at yesterday’s press conference. I am not sure what the joke was, but it may have been when one of the questioners introduced herself as being from Positive TV and when HH inquired what that was I pointed to the others and said, ‘As opposed to negative TV.’