A View From The Foothills: The Diaries of Chris Mullin

Preface

As the New Labour era draws to a close there will be no shortage of memoirs from those who have occupied the Olympian heights. This is a view from the foothills.

I have occupied three vantage points: as chairman of one of the main select committees, as a junior minister in three departments and (when not in government) as a member of the parliamentary committee. This obscure body, which rarely leaked, was the means by which the backbenches and the government kept in touch; serving as a safety valve when times were hard. When Parliament was in session it met each Wednesday, usually in the Prime Minister’s room at the House of Commons and occasionally in the Cabinet Room at 10 Downing Street. Membership consisted of the Prime Minister, Deputy Prime Minister, Leader of the House, Chief Whip, two other members of the Cabinet (appointed by the Prime Minister) and six backbenchers elected at the beginning of each parliamentary session, of whom I was one. Membership of the parliamentary committee gave one a privilege denied to all but the most senior members of the government – regular access to the Prime Minister and a mandate to pursue with him whatever was exercising the minds of our colleagues, ourselves or our constituents.

I began keeping a diary in May 1994, on the day that John Smith died. I cannot now recall what prompted me. Probably a vague feeling that I was well placed to chart the rise – and perhaps the fall – of New Labour. The notes on which this diary are based are more or less contemporaneous, recorded in one of the red notebooks that I always carry in an inside pocket. Usually, I typed them up at home at the end of each week. I kept two manuscript copies. An uncorrected version stored in London and a master copy at home in Sunderland. For the first ten years or so no one but my wife, Ngoc, was aware of its existence. Later, I confided in my agent, the late Pat Kavanagh, and my friend of more than 30 years Ruth Winstone, who was in due course persuaded to edit them. Occasionally, I was on the receiving end of odd looks from colleagues who saw me furtively scribbling. My standard answer to frequent queries about whether or not I found time to write these days was, ‘I keep the occasional note.’

This volume covers the period from July 1999 to May 2005. It includes both my visits to government and the period in between when I chaired the Home Affairs Select Committee for the second time. It begins and ends with a call from the Prime Minister – the first saying hello, the last saying goodbye – and amounts to nearly 200,000 words ruthlessly distilled from an original manuscript three times that length. Inevitably a great deal of worthwhile material has fallen on the cutting room floor. I hope one day to place a fuller version in the public domain for those with a more detailed interest. I also hope one day to publish an earlier volume, from 1994 to 1999, provisionally entitled A Walk-On Part, and perhaps a later one.

Inevitably a work of this sort entails the breaching of confidences.

In my defence I can only say that, where they are political rather than personal, I have taken the view that any duty of confidentiality has been nullified by the elapse of time. To those who feel let down, I can only apologise. I apologise, too, to those who feel they have been unfairly treated by some of the snap judgements recorded here. I am well aware that first impressions are frequently wrong and it may be that some of the views expressed here are more a reflection of my own shortcomings rather than those of anyone else.

I cannot claim to have led a life as colourful as Alan Clark (how many of us can claim to have seduced three women from the same family?) or to be as well-connected as Chips Channon, Jock Colville or Alastair Campbell. Nor were the events to which I bore witness as momentous as the Abdication or the Second World War. My only claim is to have provided a snapshot of political life in the last part of the twentieth century and the beginning of the twenty-first as the grim certainties of the Cold War have given way to the mayhem of the failed state. And as we struggle to come to terms with the inexorable rise of the global market and a growing realisation that we cannot go on using up the resources of the planet as if there were no tomorrow.

I have tried, too, to provide a flavour of life as a representative of a northern working-class city in the aftermath of the Thatcher decade which gave rise to the growth of a huge underclass of alienated people trapped in a benefit culture – ironically one of Mrs Thatcher’s most enduring legacies.

Many colourful visitors flit across these pages. The great Mandela, the Dalai Lama of Tibet (whom I have known for more than 30 years), a clutch of African presidents, HM the Queen, George W. Bush. And some – successive heads of M15, for example – who rarely see the light of day. Not everyone is a politician or an apparatchik. True, there is a Sir Humphrey, or rather a Sir Humphry and he is no mandarin, but my friend Sir Humphry Wakefield, who rescued the magnificent castle at Chillingham from dereliction. Chillingham, in the north of Northumberland, is the most magical place in England. I had dreamed of spending my declining years there, presiding over the restoration of the walled garden, but alas it was not to be.

I have wasted no time on feuds or vendettas, never having been angry with anyone for more than about half an hour. I have always known there is a life outside politics and tried to reflect it in the good times my family and I have enjoyed in the wonderful countryside of Northumberland and the Borders. One of the great advantages of living in the north-east is that it is rarely necessary to go on holiday more than about two hours’ drive from home.

Above all, I have never lost sight of my enormous good fortune, a sentiment reinforced with every visit to Africa. The Aids orphans encountered at a sugar plantation near Beira in Mozambique; the tiny blind beggar glimpsed in the centre of Addis from the comfort of the British Ambassador’s land cruiser as we sped between engagements; Kathleen, a refugee girl about the same age as the older of my daughters, who lived with her family in the darkness of the derelict starch factory in Lira, northern Uganda – for all I know she is there still: these are the images that will live with me long after the encounters with the big men have faded.

What kind of politician am I? Had I been asked when I first went into Parliament, I might glibly have replied that I saw it as my mission ‘to comfort the afflicted and to afflict the comfortable’. But over the years I have learned that there is more to politics than that. If you are to stand a chance of changing very much for the better, you have to be capable of forming a government and to do that you have to take with you a swathe of the comfortable. It follows, therefore, that in an age of majority affluence, any serious politician has to spend a fair amount of time attending to the needs of the comfortable. Today, if I were asked to define my politics, I would reply that I am ‘a socialist with a small s, a liberal with a small 1, a green with a small g

and a Democrat with a capital D‘. I hope that is apparent from these pages.

As Enoch Powell once said, all political lives end in failure. Mine is no exception. In May 2005, after 18 years in Parliament, I suddenly found myself ejected from all the little vantage points that made political life worthwhile. I can only hope that I did something useful along the way.

Anyway, here it is: my life and times as seen from the foothills. Whether it is of any lasting interest is for others to judge.

Chris Mullin

Spring 2009

Acknowledgements

My time in Parliament is drawing to a close. I would like to thank the many good friends I have made along the way – colleagues of all parties, officials great and small in the three government departments in which I have served, officers of the House (particularly those who serviced the Home Affairs Committee during my two periods as chairman), not forgetting Noeleen Delaney and her staff in the House of Commons Tea Room – the setting for many of the exchanges recorded here.

My thanks to the people of the Sunderland South constituency who have allowed me to represent them in Parliament these past 22 years. Sunderland, which took quite a battering during the Thatcher decade, has, I am pleased to record, undergone something of a renaissance in recent years. While I would not want to make any too large claims, I firmly believe that the fact that this revival was accompanied by a sustained period of Labour government is not entirely a coincidence. There are others in Sunderland to whom I owe particular thanks, notably Kevin Marquis, my agent in each of the five general elections between 1987 and 2005, and those who staffed my constituency office: Sharon Spurling, the late Jacky Breach, Pat Aston, Graham March, Michael Mordey and Karen Timlin.

My thanks, too, to Andrew Franklin and his colleagues at Profile for the faith they have placed in me, and to my literary agent Pat Kavanagh, who sadly did not live to see the finished work, for sticking with me through the long years of drought. Also, and above all, to my friend Ruth Winstone for her sensitive and skilful editing.

Last but not least, I pay tribute to my wife, Ngoc, who over these many years has laboured unsung to bring up our two children and minister to the needs of an all-too-often absent husband without always receiving the appreciation she deserves.

Cast

(In approximate order of appearance)

Listed according to responsibilities for the period of the diary, July 1999–May 2005

Number 10

Tony Blair MP, aka The Man, Prime Minister 1997–2007

Parliamentary Private Secretaries to the Prime Minister

Bruce Grocott MP

David Hanson MP

Officials and Advisers

Alastair Campbell

Kate Garvey

Brian Hackland

Robert Hill

Anji Hunter

Sally Morgan

Jonathan Powell

Department of Environment, Transport and the Regions, July 1999–2001

John Prescott MP, aka JP, Secretary of State and Deputy Prime Minister

Joe Irvin, Special Adviser

Ministers of State

Hilary Armstrong MP

Gus Macdonald (Lords)

Michael Meacher MP

Nick Raynsford MP

Parliamentary Under-Secretaries

Beverley Hughes MP

Keith Hill MP

Chris Mullin MP

Larry Whitty (Lords)

Officials

Richard Mottram, Permanent Secretary

Jessica Matthew and Chris Brain, Private Secretaries to CM; Shayne Coulson, Assistant Private Secretary

Department of International Development, February–May 2001 Clare Short MP, Secretary of State

Chris Mullin MP, Parliamentary Under-Secretary

Officials

Sir John Vereker, Permanent Secretary

Christine Atkinson, Private Secretary to CM

Sanjib Baisya, Assistant Private Secretary

David Mephan, Special Adviser to the Secretary of State

Parliamentary Committee, July 2001–June 2003

Backbench Members of Parliament

Ann Clwyd, Jean Corston (chairman), Helen Jackson, Tony Lloyd, Andrew Mackinlay, Chris Mullin, Bridget Prentice, Gordon Prentice, Doug Hoyle (representing the Lords)

Home Affairs Select Committee, 2001–3

David Cameron, Janet Dean, Humfrey Malins, Chris Mullin (chairman), Bridget Prentice, Gwyn Prosser, Bob Russell, Marsha Singh, Tom Watson, Angela Watkinson, David Winnick

Foreign and Commonwealth Office, 2003–5

Jack Straw MP, Secretary of State

Ministers

Denis MacShane MP (Europe)

Chris Mullin MP (Africa)

Mike O’Brien MP/Douglas Alexander MP (Trade)

Bill Rammell MP (United Nations/Latin America)

Liz Symons (Middle East) (Lords)

Officials Sir Michael Jay, Permanent Secretary

Tom Fletcher, Bharat Joshi, Private Secretaries to CM; Kay Stokoe, Caron Rohsler, Assistant Private Secretaries

John Williams, Chief Press Officer

Sunderland Office

Pat Aston and Graham March

Significant others

Hilary Armstrong MP, Chief Whip

Tony Banks MP

David Blunkett MP, Home Secretary 2001–04

Tony Benn MP (retired 2001)

Hilary Benn MP, Secretary of State for International Development 2003–07

John Gilbert, a former defence minister, now in the Lords

Geoff Hoon MP, Secretary of State for Defence 1999–2005

Alan Haworth, Secretary of the Parliamentary Labour Party, now in the Lords (not to be confused with MP of the same name)

Gil Loescher, UK-based American academic seriously injured in the bombing of the UN HQ in Baghdad, August 2003

Clive Soley, Chairman of the Parliamentary Labour Party, 1997– 2001, now in the Lords

Family

Nguyen Thi Ngoc, wife of CM

Nguyen Thi Hanh, sister-in-law of CM

Sarah (b. 1989) and Emma (b. 1995) Mullin, children of CM

Liz and Patricia Mullin, sisters

David Mullin, brother

Leslie and Teresa Mullin, parents

CHAPTER ONE

1999

Wednesday, 28 July 1999

St Bede’s Terrace, Sunderland

A message from Kate Garvey at Number 10. I am to expect a call from The Man within the next 15 minutes. In the event it was more than an hour before the phone rang. ‘I want you to go to Environment,’ he said. My heart sank. Of all the possibilities, I never anticipated being on John Prescott’s team.* I asked what my responsibilities would be and he replied that he didn’t yet know, but would be talking to JP tomorrow. I asked what the options were and he replied vaguely that it might involve ‘something in the housing area’. Perhaps sensing my lack of enthusiasm he said this was only a starting job. ‘If you make a success of it, you can work your way up.’ He didn’t ask whether or not I wanted it and rang off saying, ‘We may want you to come through the door of Downing Street tomorrow.’

I rang Alan Meale in the hope of finding out what the job might entail. His wife, Diana, answered the phone and said, ‘He’s been bumped.’

‘Who’s got his job?’

‘You have.’

Even so, she was friendly and gave me Alan’s mobile number, saying he was in a pub in Millbank. I decided to wait until tomorrow before ringing. I then called Michael Meacher who was as upbeat and cheerful as ever. He said that JP, contrary to what I had supposed, was a good man to work for and that there was a good spirit in the Department.

To bed, feeling miserable at the thought of the avalanche of tedium to come.

Thursday, 29 July

Awoke early wondering if I could pluck up the courage to say No. At 8.30 I rang Kate Garvey and asked to speak to The Man. She replied that he was in a meeting, but advised me to get on the earliest train ‘since he will want to see you’.

She was burbling about how wonderful it was that I was to be a minister. I said very slowly, ‘My – instinct – is – to – decline.’

It took a second or two for the penny to drop and then she sort of skidded to a halt. ‘In that case he will want to talk to you in the next few minutes.’

Sixty seconds later the phone rang, an operator asked me to stand by … I waited … The operator said stand down. ‘He will ring later this morning.’ That’s that, I thought.

A tremendous sense of relief. Ngoc came down. ‘I’m no longer a minister,’ I said cheerfully. Ngoc looked a bit dismayed. Secretly I suspect she likes the idea, although she has no concept of what it entails. I went upstairs to have a bath feeling relaxed. Life had returned to normal. I would continue to occupy the little niche I had carved for myself in Parliament. The holidays were safe. Weekends with the family would be uninterrupted.

The Man rang at 9.30. ‘Why?’ he asked.

‘Because I will disappear without trace. Besides, I don’t get on well enough with John to make a success of it.’

‘I promise I won’t lose sight of you. You are the one person on the backbenches who most obviously should be a minister.’ He went on to explain that being a minister was very different from being a backbench MP. ‘You can’t be a minister of state at once, but I have you in mind for something in home affairs, the Foreign Office or international development.’ It might only be a matter of months, he added.

I thought he wouldn’t much care, but he obviously did. ‘We get on well, don’t we?’

I assured him that we did.

‘You have drive, energy. It would be a waste to stay on the backbenches being a wise man.’

‘Are you saying that the job is still open?’

‘I am.’

‘Well since you put it like that…’

Suddenly I was a minister again.

To Number 10 to be anointed, walking as nonchalantly as possible past a battery of cameras.

The Man was on the terrace deep in discussion with JP so I sat outside the Cabinet Room chatting to Bruce Grocott, who quoted advice which Cabinet Secretary Richard Wilson had given recently in a symposium for junior ministers: First, be sure to demonstrate to the civil servants that you have a good relationship with the Secretary of State [difficult in my case], then they will be less inclined to go over your head. Second, remember, you are not going to be there for long so don’t try to put the world to rights – have just two or three modest aims.

To which Bruce added a third which might come in handy in my case, ‘If you have the ear of the Prime Minister, play it up.’

Bruce remarked that the present system of annual reshuffles was crazy. ‘There is massive inbuilt insecurity. Ministers, who may not be there in a year, are on top of a civil service which is permanent and who have nothing more to worry about than who gets what gong. The chances of moving anything more than 0.1 per cent are slim.’

We were joined by Gisela Stuart and Beverley Hughes, who are also joining the government. They, needless to say, were overjoyed.

While we were sitting there JP came out. He was about to walk past when, by way of an afterthought, it occurred to him that he ought to go through the motions of welcoming us, not least since two of us – Bev and I – are in his department.

I was then ushered in. The Man was in the small sitting room adjacent to the Cabinet Room. My audience lasted about ten minutes.

He said how glad he was to have me on board, adding that Dennis Skinner would have been a good minister, if only he’d been willing to take responsibility. I said I was apprehensive. ‘People have been known to disappear without trace into Environment.’

‘At the moment,’ he said cheerfully, ‘they are coming out rather fast.’ (Four of the eight ministers have been sacked or reshuffled.) I said that I would miss the parliamentary committee. He asked who was likely to replace me and said it was important to get someone suitable. This is probably the last time our paths will cross until I’m sacked or reshuffled – most junior ministers do not have access to the Prime Minister. He shook my hand warmly. ‘Don’t forget me,’ I said. He promised not to, but we shall see.

I stood around in the hall outside the Cabinet Room chatting to Bruce and Alastair Campbell, who said that yesterday, despite the fact that the hacks had been watching all exits, The Man had managed to slip out of Downing Street and over to his room at the House in order to spare The Dismissed the ordeal of having to walk past the cameras.

Alastair said how unpleasant it was. A ‘nightmare’ was the word The Man used when he rang last night. Alastair told the story, which I heard before, of how after the election the Downing Street switchboard had confused Brian Donohoe with Bernard Donoughue and as a result Brian had been a minister for about four seconds. By now there were three other new ministers assembled: Gisela, Bev and David Hanson. We formed up into a line and went out and stood before the cameras and then walked out of Downing Street, chased by a young woman from the Press Association, who kept asking how happy we were. I couldn’t bring myself to respond.

Bev and I shared a taxi up Victoria to Eland House. All the while her mobile phone kept ringing with people offering congratulations. For her this was a big moment. For me it is something of a humiliation. I have done what I always said I would never do, traded the little niche I had built for myself on the backbenches for the Department of Folding Deckchairs.

Our private secretaries were waiting for us at the Department. Mine is a pleasant young woman called Jessica, who exudes competence and good sense. She took me upstairs to my office on the sixth floor, previously occupied by Nick Raynsford, who has been promoted. The walls are hung with old prints of Woolwich and large photos of the Millennium Dome. I have a staff of four, all bright young people. David, the diary secretary, Shayne and Nicola, assistant private secretaries. They all refer to me as ‘Minister’.

I am also entitled to a car and a driver. Entirely pointless since, as I pointed out, the 159 and 3 buses will continue to run past my door, even though I am a minister. Jessica, who cycles in from Brixton, was sympathetic, but explained that the situation is a little more complicated than I might suppose. For a start, red boxes cannot be transported by public transport. Secondly, there will be times when a vote is called without warning and we will need to get to the House quickly. Thirdly, I might be glad of a lift home at 3 a.m. after an adjournment debate.

She also explained that the funding of the government car pool is geared to encourage maximum use of the car. The drivers are on a low basic wage and are heavily dependent on overtime. So, if I accept a driver, he will be hanging around all day doing nothing and hating me for not giving him enough to do. A trap I must avoid at all costs. (Later, I discussed this crazy situation with Keith Hill, who has the office next door. He is in charge of making sure the Department lives up to its green rhetoric. We agree that use of official cars is the obvious place to start. For the time being I intend to do without, although I shall make no public statements for fear of being accused by my colleagues of showing them up. And also because I may, eventually, be forced to retreat.)

Jessica explained that ministers must always be contactable. I will, therefore, need a mobile phone, a pager and a fax at home. I offered mild resistance, but I fear I shall have to give way on this before long. The first of what will no doubt be many little defeats at official hands.

While we were talking the door opened and in strolled JP. He made a little show of being pleased to see me. The word ‘delighted’ even escaped his lips, although his demeanour suggested otherwise.

‘Thank you for having me,’ I said as he walked towards the door.

‘Glad you decided to join us,’ he said dryly. The sarcasm remained in the air long after he had departed. Of course, he must know that I turned down the wretched job.

My induction over, I walked down Victoria Street to the House.

Outside Westminster Abbey I ran into Frank Field, who wished me well but said what a shambles the reshuffle had been. He claimed that seven members of the Cabinet had been to see The Man and said they would not be moved and that, faced with this display of solidarity, he had simply backed down. Frank also confirmed that the government car service was a job creation scheme. He said that, when he was a minister, he had even been collected by car from Birkenhead, just to give the driver something to do.

Home on the 20.00, feeling very depressed. The hardest part of the next few days will be keeping a straight face as the congratulations come in.

Friday, 30 July

Sunderland

Jessica faxed through a draft list of my proposed responsibilities – aviation, housing, science, planning … to crown all they include air traffic control. A few days ago I was sitting listening to Helen Liddell being pounded from all sides and thanking heavens that it was her rather than me. Now it is. It’s like a bad dream.

Saturday, 31 July

Everyone, except me, seems happy about my appointment. Lily at the paper shop says it will be good for Sunderland. A man called out from a car, as I went to get the papers this morning. I notice that most of the congratulations seem to come from people who know nothing about politics. Those who do – including one or two of the more perceptive commentators (Michael White, Paul Linford) – are more cautious. They know I had a better job in my last incarnation.*

Glorious weather. We lunched in the garden and then our neighbour, Peter, and I picked up the litter in the street.

Sunday, 1 August

Awoke at 3 a.m., still worrying that I have traded my self-respect and the respect of others for the lowliest rung on the political ladder – and one which has not the slightest influence over anything that matters. If I was to get out now, I could still retain my place on the select committee and on the parliamentary committee. I lay awake until six compiling a resignation letter.

Monday, 2 August

London is bathed in a Bangkok-style haze of exhaust fumes, temperature approaching 30 degrees centigrade. Our first meeting of ministers. JP in benign mode, wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt, slumped in an armchair, one leg over the side. He did most of the talking, much of it stream of consciousness but there were occasional moments of lucidity. We had a problem with transport and, he said, everyone was under an obligation to help out. ‘When Tony decided to make transport a priority, he didn’t bring resources with it.’ He added, ‘And the one thing that might have raised some cash – a congestion tax – Tony isn’t happy about.’

Michael Meacher remarked, ‘We are challenging deeply held attitudes, but we have to stick to our guns.’

JP said modestly that he himself had to change. ‘I just get angry.’

Keith Hill, an ex-whip, said the rebellion over air traffic control was building up steam. We had to head it off.

The unions were playing the ‘safety card’, but we were doing what everyone wanted us to do by separating safety from operations, said JP. Tony Benn, who made a hostile intervention the other day, had done something similar when he was in charge of North Sea oil.

‘Benn’s a hypocrite,’ he added, pointing for some reason at me.

A stream of visitors. Among them Richard Mottram, the Permanent Secretary. A genial, easy-going grammar school boy in his mid-fifties. He assured me that, contrary to rumour, JP is a good man to work for and, if anything, too soft. I told him I’d turned the job down at first and he seemed surprised.

I also raised the car pool. Needless to say he has his own driver and car in which he travels in most days from Blackheath. I put it to him that we couldn’t credibly hope to persuade the Great British Public to abandon the motor car if ministers and senior civil servants were being driven everywhere. He was decent enough to concede there is an issue, but I sensed he was in no hurry to resolve it.

We discussed my rag bag portfolio. ‘What would make you happy?’ he asked.

‘How about giving me countryside?’ In exchange, I offered to surrender anything. He suggested giving planning to Bev. I cheered up at once. Afterwards Jessica congratulated me on my first victory.

Back to Sunderland on the 20.00 from King’s Cross.

Wednesday, 4 August

We packed up the car and set off for London, stopping on the way for a picnic at Chatsworth, where the children played in the maze. Emma fell in the pond. We drove to London in torrential rain, arriving in Brixton at the flat just before midnight only to discover that the living room was in an inch of water (caused by a blocked drain) which had been lying for four days, giving off a foul odour.

Thursday, 5 August

Brixton Road

An hour pressing newspaper onto the living room carpet. At 9.30

Jessica rang to ask when I was coming in. There was a definite tone of disapproval in her voice. I explained about the flood, but her tone suggested it was no excuse.

Much of the day was taken up with official briefings by groups on my various responsibilities – aviation, water, science. On the first two I surprised myself by managing to ask some reasonably intelligent questions, but by the time we got to the third my eyes glazed over. The news that I am in charge of science at Environment would be the cause of much hilarity among any surviving witnesses from my schooldays to my failure to come to grips with even the simplest scientific concept. Someone up there is playing a cruel joke.

Graham Allen, the Department’s whip, came in to discuss how we are going to handle the proposed part-privatisation of air traffic control. He suggested an early meeting with Gwyneth Dunwoody and some of the other dissidents. He also suggested getting a Labour Party pager, which I am not so keen on. Perhaps, if it makes him happy, I could get one and leave it switched off in a drawer.

Graham offered one other piece of advice: ‘Don’t make jokes about air traffic control. Above all do nothing to imply to dissidents that you are sympathetic to their case.’ Helen Liddell, he said, had kept her head down and ploughed on regardless. That was exactly the right approach. Which only goes to show how much I have to learn about being a minister. I thought her performance was perfectly disastrous and that a smile or two would have gone a long way to lighten her load. I discussed this afterwards with Nick Raynsford and was relieved to find that he agreed with me.

Today I took my first decisions. All very simple. Jessica places a pile of files in my in-tray. Each one comes with a summary sheet prepared by the relevant experts setting out the issue, any relevant considerations and any ‘presentational’ problems that might arise (i.e. will I get a bad press?). This is followed by a recommendation. All I have to do is signify agreement or disagreement by making my mark on the top of the page.

The first file concerned a proposal that KLM/UK Air be permitted landing rights for its service to Poland. Next, an application by Thames Water to discharge a small quantity of treated sewage into the Thames near Henley. The attached brief explained why the alternatives were impractical and assured me that no solids would be discharged. A small number of representations had been received, including an objection from the town council, but none from the local Member of Parliament (Michael Heseltine). I hesitated. This is exactly the issue that has caused so much trouble in Sunderland (although our sewage was untreated). Upon inquiry I was told that the Thames would dry up if it wasn’t for the treated sewage discharged into it. What’s more, too rigorous screening (ultra-violet, for example) would kill the bacteria upon which fish thrive. After due consideration, I signed.

Next, I was asked to approve pay increases for the staff of the Housing Corporation. That was easy. I signed. Then I was asked to approve a Millennium fly-past across central London along the Thames by Concorde at a height of a thousand feet. I asked for assurances about safety on that one. And so it went on. Jessica loaded the files into one tray, usually with a little handwritten note attached, boiling the issue down to a single sentence. I read, reflected and usually signed, always remembering David Heathcoat-Amory’s remark: ‘Government is about hundreds of little decisions about which no one ever hears, unless something goes wrong.’ Concorde crashing into the Thames, for example?

Finally, there were letters. Hundreds. Almost all in response to colleagues writing with queries from constituents. Each came in an orange folder with the MP’s letter plus supporting documents. One foolish Tory had sent ten letters from constituents making the same point about water meters and received ten identical replies. I left the letters neatly piled on my desk for Jessica to take away in the morning. I trust she will be impressed by my diligence.

Friday, 6 August

More briefings. The first, from officials of the Countryside division. I asked about leylandii hedges (it is two years since I first took part in a delegation to Angela Eagle on the matter) only to be told that progress had been blocked by Downing Street. The boys and girls in the policy unit have apparently persuaded The Man that to legislate on so trivial a matter would spoil our image as deregulators. In my previous incarnation, I would have bent The Man’s ear on the subject at the parliamentary committee, but now (having been ‘promoted’) I am powerless. (Jessica says that JP gets very upset if he finds junior ministers going to Number 10 behind his back.) This ought to be one of life’s more easily resolvable problems. I intend to persist.

Then a briefing on waste disposal. Not very sexy, but of vital importance for the future of the planet. Household waste is apparently growing at 3 per cent a year which is clearly unsustainable.

A call to Gwyneth Dunwoody, who threatened ‘strenuous resistance’ to the government’s plans for the sale of a majority stake in air traffic control.

She wanted to know whether the Bill would be separate from the rest of the transport legislation. I replied that no decision had yet been made. ‘Well, I strongly advise you to keep it separate. Otherwise it could drag down the whole of the government’s transport programme.’ We arranged to meet in September.

Two men came in to see me about security. Jessica was not allowed to sit in on the meeting or even to know what it was about. Apparently, I am one of five ministers in the Department whose responsibilities (in my case water and aviation) entitle me to see STRAP 2 (Top Secret) information. I had to sign a piece of paper promising to reveal nothing now and for ever more. One of the men was small, sturdy and grave. He was dressed in a grey suit and dark tie and had the demeanour of an undertaker, clearly relishing the titbits that came his way. The other was younger and more laid-back.

The Undertaker said, ‘Some of the people we have to negotiate with are pretty uncivilised.’ He added, ‘Mind, we also deal with some very civilised people – and we spy on them, too.’ The only people we don’t spy on are the Americans, the New Zealanders, Australians and Canadians, who are all part of a little club that has agreed to share the products of their bugging, burgling and bribery. A pity about the Americans, since they seem to be the cause of most of our aviation problems.

When STRAP information needed to be drawn to my attention one of them would bring it to me, I would read it in his or her presence and they would then take it away. If I needed to discuss STRAP material over the telephone, I would be taken to a room with a secure telephone system. Every government department has one and so do most of our embassies. The Deputy Prime Minister was also in receipt of STRAP material on a wider range of issues which came from the Cabinet Office. The Undertaker remarked that JP was ‘not averse to knowing the other side’s cards’.

As I was leaving Jessica presented me with a mobile telephone

and pager. Only the office, she assures me, will have the numbers. I managed to persuade her that, since I shall be on holiday for the next two weeks, I don’t need them for the time being. As a result they remain lying in the in-tray.

Home to our ruined flat by 8.30 p.m.

Tuesday, 10 August

Gamekeeper’s Cottage, Northchapel, West Sussex

Up early for a walk around the lake. En route I disturbed two deer, who went bounding off across a field and then stood nervously eyeing me from a distance.

Wednesday, 11 August

As the hour of the eclipse approached the sky clouded over, but when the moment came the cloud miraculously parted. We placed our bowls of water in the garden and stood poring over them. Old Bear was brought out to watch. The girls were under strict instructions not to look at the sun. An eerie twilight descended, accompanied by a chill. As we peered into our bowls the shadow of the moon passed across the sun until it was almost eclipsed and then gradually, but not before the elapse of some minutes, normal service resumed. Emma, oblivious, played in the rhododendron bush. She will be well into her nineties before such an event occurs again.

Monday, 23 August

Back to the Department, where a mountain of tedium awaits. I have set myself three modest targets for the (hopefully) short time I shall spend at Eland House: (1) to manage without an official car; (2) to do something about leylandii hedges; and (3) to play my part in the reorganisation of air traffic control with as little fall-out as possible.

I am besieged with invitations to address conferences organised by obscure but no doubt worthy organisations. Mostly they are the crumbs that fall from the tables of my many superiors and my first instinct is to reject the lot. However, they usually come with notes from officials advising acceptance and, reluctantly, I concede. Before long my whole life will be eaten up by pointless activity. One such invite, originally addressed to Nick Raynsford, came with a note from his Private Secretary still attached. It read: ‘This is very low priority. I suggest we pass it to Chris Mullin.’

I wrote NO and waited to see what would happen. Sure enough, as I anticipated, someone was in my office within the hour, explaining why it was really of the highest importance …

Jessica has dug out a copy of the contract which this Department (and presumably every other) has with the government car service. It is truly incredible – designed to ensure maximum use of the car. Termination requires three months’ notice and, if the car has to be sold, a payment for ‘unrecovered depreciation’ which would in my case amount to about £4,400. We are charged a basic £864 a week, not counting overtime, for a car and driver, regardless of how much use we make of it. The Department has ten cars – nine for ministers and one for the Permanent Secretary. For much of the time the cars and their drivers are idle. If – as in my case – a minister chooses not to have a driver, but to make occasional use of the pool facility, the Department is required to pay a penal £704.75 a week. During my four weeks as a minister I have not had sight of – let alone travelled in – an official car and yet we have paid out nearly £3,000. The time has come to put an end to this nonsense.

My private office is the one bright spot in what I have so far seen of life at the bottom of the ministerial pile. They are bright, young, efficient and anxious to please. David, the diary secretary, is spending part of his holiday working with underprivileged children in London’s East End. Convention requires that they refer to me as ‘Minister’, but they are not over-deferential. Jessica exudes calm and competence. I must ensure that my general disenchantment does not rub off on them.

Tuesday, 24 August

The chief executive of the government car service came in to discuss the car. He was all charm and sweet reason. I invited him to justify the £700 a week we are being charged for a service of which we are making absolutely no use and he promised to come back to me with a lower price. He also agreed that there would be no difficulty about my using a pool car for the transport of boxes. He did remark in passing that the drivers were ‘heavily unionised’ and might not take kindly to a reduction in their numbers, but the matter was not pressed. He said that only one other minister – Charles Clarke at Education – had refused a car and since moving to the Home Office he has apparently been persuaded that a car was now necessary in the interests of security.

All in all, a successful outcome. Jessica was anxious to confirm the details in writing since, as she put it, ‘the government car service is renowned throughout Whitehall for being slippery’.

Saturday, 28 August

To Newcastle in search of a new suit. Ngoc assures me that I cannot hope to be taken seriously as a minister who owns only one. In the event there was a sale at Fenwick’s and we ended up buying three. My reincarnation as a clone is almost complete.

Wednesday, 1 September

A pleasant chat with Hilary Armstrong, who confirmed everything I already know about the JP regime. She says John is hopelessly insecure, ever afraid of being shown up by one of his underlings, constantly interfering in matters best left to junior ministers. His vast responsibilities mean that he is often tied up elsewhere. She says weeks go by without her seeing him to talk to. Personally, says Hilary, she gets on well with JP, but he has an image problem on account of his stream of consciousness approach to interviews and his partiality for colourful one-liners. ‘John, have the courage to be boring’ was Gus Macdonald’s advice.

Thursday, 2 September

To Number 10 where Alastair Campbell was briefing new ministers in an airless basement room. He said that, contrary to popular belief, the Downing Street press office was not run by control freaks. His only anxiety was to impose some sort of overall strategy. ‘We are not at all scared of ministers courting controversy or taking risks to get things up in lights.’ His basic message was that ministers should raise their eyes to the big picture. ‘We have a good story to tell and we must be confident enough to spell it out.’ Alastair added, ‘Political coverage in this country is a joke. Most of the national media treat politics as a soap opera.’ He advised us to concentrate on the local media, who were generally far more receptive (did he mean docile?) and often had a wider audience.

Several people complained about the quality of departmental press offices. Peter Kilfoyle said there were 109 press officers in the MoD and it was hard to work out what they were all doing.

Alastair replied that one of the big difficulties was that the Whitehall press machine generally only worked weekdays, nine to five, which wasn’t much use when the media operated round the clock. ‘Whitehall is dormant at the time when the media is most active.’ At Environment there were about 30 press officers, but when it had been suggested that they should provide weekend cover, some had resigned. ‘Find good people of whatever rank, and then bust the system to bring them up’ was Alastair’s advice. Sally Morgan said we must be nice to MPs in general and select committee members in particular. She rather spoiled her point by adding that select committees were often run by bitter and disappointed people. Everyone looked at me and laughed.

Walked up Victoria with Charles Clarke, who recounted his battle to be rid of his official car. Apparently Blunkett wasn’t keen, for fear that it would show up other people. Clare Short had raised the subject at the first Cabinet meeting and been jumped on by The Man for the same reason. Charles got away with it in the end by saying that he needed to walk for health reasons.

A talk with Gus Macdonald about aviation. He has an opinionated Private Secretary who, during a discussion of the air traffic control sale, remarked, ‘Someone should take Gordon aside and ask whether it’s worth all the shit we are going to get for a gain of £350 million.’ My sentiments precisely, but I was amazed to hear it coming from a civil servant. For a moment I thought he was a political adviser. Gus said that JP was the only person who could do that and he would have to move quickly since time was running out. He added, ‘The Treasury will only say that it’s not just a matter of the revenue. It’s about better management and attracting new investment that doesn’t count towards the PSBR.’ At this the discussion lapsed. I recounted it later to Larry Whitty, who said, ‘Dropping it would save everyone a lot of trouble. Gordon doesn’t need the money anyway. He’s got money coming out of his ears.’ I haven’t yet met anyone who is keen on this so-called public–private partnership.

Friday, 3 September

Sunderland

To the roof of the new Debenham’s store, where the mayor and I performed the topping-out ceremony. There are so many good things happening in Sunderland at the moment. A new shopping complex. A state of the art bus station. The metro on its way. A multiplex cinema in the pipeline. Mowbray Park being refurbished. The riverside reviving. I just pray that we have the economic base to sustain all this consumerism.

Monday, 6 September

Today I was allowed out on my own for the first time. To address the annual meeting of an organisation called Key Potential UK which has been set up to train housing managers. The Department had prepared a 20-minute speech full of impenetrable jargon. I managed to hone it down a little, but it was still excruciating. About five minutes in I realised – too late, of course – that I should have chucked it away and talked for five minutes off the cuff. That would have gone down far better and made me appear more than just a man in a suit. I was received politely, but without enthusiasm and hastily departed before anyone could ask questions. Humiliating.

I was walking down Whitehall this evening when an elderly estate car pulled alongside. I assumed it was someone wanting directions, but it turned out to be the former Tory Home Secretary, Ken Baker, offering congratulations on my supposed promotion. I replied, gloomily, that commiseration was more in order, but he would have none of it. ‘You must be enjoying government. There’s a tremendous buzz about it.’ Early days yet, but so far the buzz has entirely escaped me.

He sped off without offering a lift. I suppose he assumed I had a ministerial car waiting.

Tuesday, 7 September

A meeting with Gus Macdonald and Keith Hill to discuss transport.

Gus exudes competence and, unlike me, appears completely in command of his brief. Our difficulty, he said, is the long lead times. Money invested in transport now wouldn’t produce results until our second or third term. We were already getting flak for road pricing which wouldn’t come in for another five years. The difficulty with road pricing was that elsewhere it had been introduced to fund specific projects. No one has introduced it on existing roads as we are proposing.

As for the extra money we were supposed to be spending on rural bus services, ‘I keep asking where these services are and no one can tell me.’

‘Or whether anyone is using them,’ added Keith.

We must avoid being seen as anti-car, said Gus. Why shouldn’t poor people enjoy the same advantages as the car had brought to the middle classes? There was no inconsistency about favouring wider car ownership but less use.

‘What about the humble bicycle?’ I inquired. ‘We will never succeed in persuading people to ride bikes in cities until there are dedicated cycle lanes in which bikes are separated from vehicles by a kerb, as they are in Holland and Denmark.’

Gus was very dismissive.

The discussion ended inconclusively. It’s becoming clear that we are – rightly – terrified of taking on the car because we fear that, as with taxation, in the privacy of the ballot box the Great British Public will exact revenge on any party that tries to separate them from their beloved vehicles.

Thursday, 9 September

Sunderland

To the Hospital Trust for my annual general meeting with the chairman, David Graham, and chief executive, Andrew Gibson. Andrew is generally upbeat, but complains of being deluged by the Department of Health with circulars and guidance notes. ‘They contain up to four pages of Actions. It’s becoming a serious problem. You end up not doing anything properly.’ We are run by control freaks who, in the end, will finish up controlling nothing.

Friday, 10 September

Lunched with Jim Rafferty (the chief executive of Home Housing) at Picasso’s. He mentioned a local housing estate which had always enjoyed a good reputation, where the social fabric is now beginning to crumble. As if to prove his point, a woman came to my surgery in the evening who had just handed in her keys and fled, after living there 13 years. She had three sons and had spent a lot of money making her home comfortable, so she can’t have taken the decision lightly. The problem was a neighbour who was holding all-night parties and attracting ne’er-do-wells. Complaints to the housing manager had brought no action. She and her sons are now camped out in the living room of their brother’s small house in Hendon. She wants me to help her get rehoused. Yet another case of evacuating the victims rather than the villains. I shall get on to Jim on Monday and make a fuss.

A Soviet defector has identified an 87-year-old woman living in Bexley as a spy. The security service has known about it for years, but neglected to inform ministers. The Prime Minister only found out yesterday as the newspapers went to press. An ideal moment to press my campaign for parliamentary scrutiny of the intelligence services. Alas, however, I am sworn to silence – and impotence. I must concentrate on privatising air traffic control and keep my nose out of matters that no longer come within my remit.

Monday, 13 September

Paul Taylor, a local journalist, called in to see me with a recently retired regional crime squad detective. Their purpose was to convince me – which they succeeded in doing – that the police weren’t trying hard enough to catch a villain who has defrauded a number of gullible (and in some cases villainous) local citizens out of several million pounds. The ex-policeman asked about the Birmingham Six case. I replied that I knew it was an article of faith among the police that they were all really guilty. ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said. Adding, ‘You’ve no idea what impact you’ve had on the way the police work.’ In the seventies, he said, it was commonplace for policemen to write up their notebooks days after the event. No one ever checked. Since the Birmingham and Guildford cases, everything had changed.

Let’s hope so.

To London on the 6.43 a.m. Jessica is back from her holiday. Things are looking up: she called me ‘Chris’ instead of ‘Minister’ when we talked on the phone this afternoon.

Bill Deedes has a story in today’s Telegraph saying that Kosovo is littered with unexploded cluster bombs. A large number of people, many of them children, have been injured so far and many more casualties are expected. The problem could go on for years. Exactly as I predicted to The Man – and George Robertson and Robin Cook – at the start of the war. Were I still on the parliamentary committee, I could confront him with it, but of course such matters are now far outside my remit. I must be silent. What a useless specimen I have become.

Tuesday, 14 September

Lunch with the British Airports Authority top brass, which included Des Wilson, founder of the charity Shelter. It was preceded by a briefing which revealed that demand for air services is growing at an astonishing rate, especially in the south-east, which accounts for about 80 per cent of traffic (although no one wants an airport in their backyard, of course). By 2015, even assuming that terminal five is built at Heathrow, all the main airports will be choked to capacity with no prospect of further expansion. Until now it seems to have been a case of Predict and Provide. Exactly the mess we have got ourselves into with the motor car. Sooner or later politicians are going to have to pluck up the courage to call a halt. Needless to say the airport fraternity won’t be satisfied until they have concreted over every blade of grass. Des Wilson (once a great radical, now a corporate fat cat) seemed to think that the right to cheap holidays took precedence over all other considerations. He bleated about all the business we would lose. So be it. One day we shall have to go back to being peasants. There are times when I think it can’t come soon enough.

Among the papers which crossed my desk today a note from Jack Straw to the Prime Minister saying that the number of asylum seekers had reached ‘unprecedented levels’ (80,000 so far this year). He says there are hundreds more camped out at Calais waiting to cross and asks for emergency measures to tide him over until the Asylum Bill becomes law. He wants special detention centres run by prison staff, and a visa regime imposed on Croatia, the Czech Republic and (possibly) Poland. Also, transit visas for Colombians. The world outside Fortress Europe is disintegrating. If this goes on, we shall need a new Berlin wall to protect the fortunate from the depredations of the destitute. Will Europe be overwhelmed in the end? As Rome was by the barbarians.

JP has overruled my decision – one of the few I have so far been asked to make – to approve the line that officials were proposing to take in negotiation with Pakistan Airlines about slots at Manchester airport.

He just wrote ‘No’ on the memorandum without explanation and attempts to discover his reasons have so far proved unsuccessful. Which poses a problem because the official concerned is already in Pakistan trying to negotiate. Jessica says this is a fairly common occurrence. The odds are that by the time JP has been tracked down, he will have forgotten why he intervened in the first place. So, for the time being, officials are sticking to the line that I approved.

Wednesday, 15 September

Up at 6 a.m. and to Cheltenham to address 150 councillors on rural development. Then back to London for a meeting with Gwyneth Dunwoody about air traffic control. Keith Hill and a couple of officials were also present. Gwyneth was affable, but uncompromising. With magnificent aplomb she brushed aside our feeble attempts to justify the government’s plans. Were any of us to appear before her committee in our present state of unreadiness, she would reduce us to mincemeat. A useful wake-up call for all concerned. There is much work to be done, if we are to emerge from this alive.

Jessica has heard back from the government car service. Magnanimously they have agreed to reduce their standing charge from £700 to £400 a week. Still an outrage. I favour cancelling forthwith, but Jessica says we must wait to see whether Michael Meacher will take on the Nissan car reserved for me so that they have no excuse for selling it and charging us depreciation, which they are itching to do.

Thursday, 16 September

To Lancaster House, where among the gold leaf and the painted cherubs Jack Cunningham had organised an induction course for new ministers.

Lots of sensible advice. ‘Control the diary.’ ‘Don’t take boxes home.’ ‘Big problems don’t necessarily demand big solutions.’ ‘Keep your eye on the big picture.’ Some of the advice bore no relation to my situation. This, for example, from Richard Wilson: ‘Your relationship with the Secretary of State is the key. Your clout will depend on whether you have his confidence.’ That let’s me out, then. Apart from a team meeting three days after I was anointed, I’ve only seen my Secretary of State on TV. Still, I look on the bright side. Jessica says Alan Meale was in and out of JP’s office every five minutes – and a fat lot of good it did him.

Richard Wilson, who I first came across at the Home Office, is not at all the stereotypical mandarin. A tall, ungainly man with huge ears, a big nose and a mouth that doesn’t seem to co-ordinate with the words coming out of it. He positively enthused about New Labour and its works. ‘This government is focusing on delivery in a way that has never happened before.’ He seemed genuinely committed to diversifying the upper levels of the civil service. Perhaps he was just chanting the slogans of the hour (Jessica says that civil servants are very good at changing their spots), but I don’t think so.

Among the speakers in the afternoon, Michael Bichard (Permanent Secretary at the Department of Education and Employment). An extraordinary-looking man with tiny eyes, massive forearms, Mick Jagger lips and a scruff of beard on his chin. More like a Canadian lumberjack than a permanent secretary. He has just caused a stir by publicly criticising his colleagues. Apparently, he was brought in from the private sector and so the normal rules don’t apply. He talked of ‘putting pressure on officials to think outside their silos’. Civil servants, he said, were not sufficiently focused on outcomes.