Decline & Fall Read online

  DECLINE AND FALL

  ALSO BY CHRIS MULLIN

  Novels

  A Very British Coup

  The Last Man Out of Saigon

  The Year of the Fire Monkey

  Non-fiction

  A View from the Foothills: The Diaries of Chris Mullin

  Error of Judgement: The Truth about the Birmingham Bombings

  DECLINE AND FALL

  Diaries 2005–2010

  Chris Mullin

  edited by Ruth Winstone

  First published in Great Britain in 2010 by

  PROFILE BOOKS LTD

  3a Exmouth House

  Pine Street

  London EC1R 0JH

  www.profilebooks.com

  This eBook edition published in 2010

  Copyright © Chris Mullin, 2010

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Typeset by MacGuru Ltd

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  eISBN 978 1 84765 290 4

  With love to Ngoc, Sarah and Emma; in memory of Leslie and Teresa Mullin and with gratitude to the people of Sunderland

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  CHAPTER ONE: May–December 2005

  CHAPTER TWO: 2006

  CHAPTER THREE: 2007

  CHAPTER FOUR: 2008

  CHAPTER FIVE: 2009

  CHAPTER SIX: 2010

  Valedictory Speech: Goodbye to All That

  Appendix: The Blair/Brown Government

  Illustration Credits

  Index

  Acknowledgements

  There are many people to whom I owe thanks. My constituents in Sunderland South for having allowed me the honour of representing them these past twenty-three years. The Sunderland South Labour Party for having allowed me to be their candidate through five general elections. My friends and erstwhile colleagues in Parliament, especially those I have unfairly traduced, for their unfailing good humour and for continuing to confide in me even though – indeed perhaps because – I am a diarist.

  Above all, I owe thanks to Andrew Franklin and his team at Profile – Sarah Caro, Penny Daniel and Ruth Killick – for their energy, enthusiasm and professionalism. Finally, I must once again thank Ruth Winstone for cutting the manuscript down to size and for offering much useful advice.

  Introduction

  This is the second of what I hope will be a three-volume history of the rise and fall of New Labour. Like Alan Clark, I am publishing my diaries out of sequence. The first volume, A View from the Foothills, covered the period from July 1999, from the moment I was assumed into government, to 9 May 2005, when I was unceremoniously dismissed.

  This volume describes the five years that followed. These years also marked a decline in my own political fortunes and the growing realisation that my useful life in politics was over. By now I no longer occupied any of the little vantage points from which I had observed – and from time to time played a part in – the political process. The only committee of any significance on which I sat was Standards and Privileges and since the deliberations of that committee, interesting though they were, are necessarily confidential the reader will not find them documented here.

  Three main themes dominate the final years. First, the fall, for that is what it was, of the most successful leader in Labour history, paying the price for having linked us umbilically to the worst American president of my lifetime, with consequences that we all know about. Second, a largely but not entirely self-inflicted crisis of confidence in the entire political class, triggered by the Great Expenses Meltdown. Finally, the long, slow wobble to death of an exhausted government under a leader whose shortcomings were known, and indeed widely remarked upon, from the outset. The final act was played out against the background of a crisis of capitalism of such magnitude that for a while the entire global economy teetered on the edge of ruin. In between these great events, many small dramas and intrigues, public and personal, receive a passing mention in these pages.

  In fairness, let it be said that it is doubtful that any leader could have won a fourth term, given the intensity of the storms that raged and the fact that after 13 years any government was vulnerable to the argument that it is time for a change. Let it also be recorded that it was decisive action by Gordon Brown and his Chancellor, Alistair Darling, in the autumn of 2008, by taking a controlling interest in several major banks, that prevented not merely a national but a global financial meltdown – a fact widely acknowledged abroad, but for some reason almost a secret in this country. That was the biggest political challenge of the twenty-first century, bar none, and he got it right. It may be that historians will be kinder to Gordon Brown than contemporary commentators – and indeed diarists.

  Almost without exception, the most successful political diarists are people who have occupied the lower foothills. Perhaps because they have had time to look around and observe details that those who dwell in the stratosphere often fail to notice. And also because, not being significant players, we the humble inhabitants of the foothills do not have to waste time on self-justification. I like to think that I am in this category, though that is for others to judge.

  Some who read my first volume have chosen to interpret it as evidence that all ministerial life is pointless. I do not accept this. There is a huge variation in the junior ministerial jobs. Much depends on whether you have a Secretary of State who is willing to delegate. My two years at the Foreign Office, under the management of Jack Straw, were among the happiest of my political life.

  There is also a danger that readers of this volume may conclude that, because it charts the last days of an administration in decline, the New Labour era was an unmitigated failure. I do not accept this either. I have only to look at the lives of my least prosperous constituents to see that most have benefited significantly from 13 years of Labour government. It is all too easy to forget that, by the end of the Thatcher decade, male unemployment in Sunderland stood at well over 20 per cent; today it is less than half that. Contrary to what is sometimes alleged, we did redistribute some wealth, although perhaps we kept rather too quiet about it for fear of upsetting the meaner elements of the middle classes. We invested significantly in health, education and other public services, with results that are plain for anyone with eyes to see. In 1997 you could wait up to two years for a hip operation at City Hospital Sunderland; at the time of writing the waiting time is 18 weeks and falling. At Sandhill View, a secondary school in my constituency, in the early nineties fewer than 10 per cent of pupils were achieving the standard five GCSEs at grades A to C; today that figure is nearly 80 per cent. There are many other examples I could cite. No one can tell me that Labour governments don’t make a difference.

  This, then, is the sequel to A View from the Foothills. It starts exactly where the earlier volume left off – on the day after my dismissal from government.

  Chris Mullin

  July 2010

  CHAPTER ONE

  May–December 2005

  Tuesday, 10 May

  Sunderland

  Up before six, unable to sleep. Veering between disappointment and anger. A hammer blow to my fragile self-esteem. For two years I have been kidding myself that I’d b
een doing something useful . . . Just before nine, the Number 10 switchboard rang with message to ring Jack Straw, but I was in no hurry to return his call and anyway Emma was in the middle of one of her massive nose bleeds.

  To the office, where Pat and I sorted through boxes of redundant election literature for recycling. At about eleven Jack rang again. This time coming straight through. I didn’t attempt to hide my feelings. ‘Don’t be bitter,’ he said. No, indeed. Forward not back, as they say in New Labour. ‘We are still mates, aren’t we?’ I assured him that we were, but try as I may I cannot suppress the feeling that he had a hand in this, if only by not offering sufficient resistance. My successor is Dave Triesman (who a few years back was eased out of the General Secretaryship of the Labour Party and into the Lords) thereby becoming the sixth Africa minister in eight years. Pure madness. We say we take Africa seriously, but we don’t.

  ‘Eccentric to say the least,’ said Jack. ‘Not the reshuffle I would have done.’

  In the afternoon I caught the train to London. On the station at Sunderland a man from South Shields shook my hand warmly, saying he had just re-read Error of Judgement. He added, ‘I voted for Labour, but not for Blair. That man is detested.’ He repeated the word several times. ‘The sooner he goes, the better.’

  How quickly the waters close. This morning I rang the FCO to discuss the return of my personal effects. ‘Lord Triesman’s office,’ answered a cheery voice.

  ‘Can I speak to Bharat?’

  ‘He’s gone to collect the Minister, in the car.’

  Car, eh? That’s going to cost them an extra £60,000.

  Wednesday, 11 May

  To a jam-packed meeting of the Parliamentary Labour Party in Committee Room 14. A large press pack hovering in the corridor outside. The Man gave another of his bravura performances, which, with notable exceptions, was received with rapture. The trouble is we are in new territory now. Bravura performances are not enough any more. The euphoria was quickly punctured. Peter Kilfoyle was first up, talking of the need for sober reflection in the light of the fact that four million votes had gone missing since 1997. He won a few brave hear-hears. Then Geraldine Smith said that the leadership question needed to be resolved sooner rather than later. Michael Meacher called for ‘a more collegiate, less presidential style’. Bob Marshall-Andrews talked of ‘a rising tide of disaffection’ and ‘gross abuse of powers of patronage’. Then Glenda Jackson, looking miserable and angry as always (goodness knows what she won her Oscar for; certainly not charm), said, ‘I didn’t fight the Lib Dems and the Tories during the election. I had to fight you.’ This provoked cries of ‘disgraceful’ and was followed by an unhelpful contribution from Claire Curtis-Thomas, who told the dissidents ‘to go and find another party’ (the last thing we need). There was no shortage of people to speak up for The Man or at least to warn against a war of attrition (not quite the same thing). Frank Field, who has suddenly come over all loyal, warned against an immediate change of leadership, talking of the election result being a contract with the electorate. Frank Dobson harked back to the vanished four million. Many people, he said, were telling him they would not vote Labour again while Tony Blair remained leader. ‘We are standing on a very shallow beach. If we regard the recent election result as an endorsement of our policies on health and education etc., we are in danger of remaining on nine and a half million votes while the Tories don’t.’ Robin Cook, who was waving his arm furiously, failed to catch Ann Clwyd’s eye.

  The Man responded robustly. He stressed the need to remain on the centre ground, pointing out, fairly, that some – but not all – of his critics had been agin him for years. He conceded, however, that the end was in sight. ‘I know you need to have a stable and orderly transition. Please allow us to bring that about so that we win a fourth election.’ His best line: a glancing reference to Roy Hattersley, in whose Treasury team he had served in the eighties and who is now calling for his head; and then: ‘I was loyal throughout three defeats. All I ask is a bit of loyalty throughout three victories.’ Huge cheering. He departed to a standing ovation in which a small, but significant, minority, seated around Frank Dobson and Robin Cook, did not participate.

  Thursday, 12 May

  Hilary Benn was the first person I ran into this morning. The reshuffle, he said, was a shambles. No one even bothered to tell Gareth Thomas, his Under-Secretary, that he was still in the job. Hilary had to ring Number 10 to find out. Later I heard that someone ran their eye down the list of new ministers at the crassly re-christened Department of Industry, Productivity and Energy and noticed there were no women, so out of the blue it was decided to add Meg Munn (to do goodness knows what), but since the ministerial allocation was used up, there is no money to pay her. The same happened with Michael Wills at the Home Office a while ago. Whatever else he’s good at, personnel management isn’t The Man’s strong suit.

  Lunch in the cafeteria with my erstwhile Assistant Private Secretary, Caron Rohsler, who came in with some of my personal effects and a card inside which everyone in the office had inscribed friendly messages.

  Sunday, 15 May

  To Chillingham for lunch with Humphry and Katherine Wakefield. About 20 guests, including Sir Richard Storey, the Baker-Cresswells, a delicate young Percy, a cousin of the Duke (who looked and sounded as though he had stepped straight from the set of Brideshead Revisited), and Nancy Lambton, a relative of the notorious Tony. She was formerly Professor of Persian at the School of Oriental and African Studies, 93 years old and bright as a button. Afterwards I peeped into the walled garden, silent and derelict as always, and reflected briefly on what might have been.

  Back to Alnwick along the back road. The Till valley stunning in the evening sunshine.

  Monday, 16 May

  At the Members’ Entrance this morning I was talking to Mike O’Brien, now Solicitor General, when a small, bald man who I didn’t recognise from Adam tumbled out of a taxi and began chatting. Suddenly it dawned on me that he was not just a Member, but a newly appointed minister. I racked my brain, but try as I may I couldn’t put a name to him.

  ‘Who was that?’ I asked after he had gone.

  ‘Liam Byrne, he won the Hodge Hill by-election. He’s just been appointed to the Department of Health.’ One of the infinite supply of special advisers who have been shoe-horned into safe seats and who, before you can say ‘New Labour’, are wafted into government over the heads of we poor inadequates who have laboured for years in the salt mines. Is it just me or is there something not quite right about this?

  At the meeting of the parliamentary party this evening I asked Geoff Hoon for an assurance that Parliament would have an opportunity to discuss plans for a new generation of nuclear weapons before any irrevocable decisions were made. Needless to say I didn’t get one. Unless I am mistaken he looked a bit uncomfortable. I sense I have hit upon a rich furrow. I will plough further.

  Tuesday, 17 May

  The State Opening. A record 45 new bills. Ludicrous. A lot of vague talk about ‘respect’ and other concepts that can’t easily be legislated for. I stayed for the opening speeches in the debate and then set off to a conference on Africa at Wilton Park in Sussex.

  Wednesday, 18 May

  Wilton Park

  Up before six, I followed a path through the garden and (in glorious sunshine) out onto a footpath which led up through ancient woodland and onto the South Downs Way. A lone deer leapt out of a hedge and stood staring for a full minute before going into reverse gear. From the top, fine views across unspoiled countryside to the sea. I walked up to and around the Chanctonbury Ring and was back at the house in time for breakfast. There is much to be said for this conference lark.

  Thursday, 19 May

  Slept well for the first time in ten days and awoke feeling refreshed. To the House. I was wondering what I would do all day but in the event there wasn’t a minute to spare. I went in for Geoff Hoon’s first business statement as Leader of the House, at which he announced an outrageous 8
1-day summer recess. Why should we let the government award itself a three-month holiday from scrutiny? I protested vigorously, receiving the usual bland reply. Mine was the only intervention on our side, a point much remarked upon by the Tories. If MPs are not interested in Parliament, why should anyone else be? I went to the library and looked up the Modernisation Committee report which introduced September sittings. Sure enough, the deal was that sittings were to be aligned with school holidays ‘in return for’ (to quote Robin Cook) a two-week sitting in September. Well, it hasn’t take long for the powers-that-be to renege on their part of the bargain.

  Monday, 23 May

  Sunderland

  Awoke at 4.30am; unable to get back to sleep so I went downstairs and took a sleeping pill; something I have never done before, except on long-haul flights. After that I slept soundly until just after eight and awoke feeling groggy.

  I notice the former special advisers tend to stick together in the Tea Room; some have already developed the short attention spans one associates with the upwardly mobile. Before the year is out they’ll all be in government. There’s a sort of first- and standard-class developing. Not for those in the first-class carriage the disappointments of opposition; most have never, nor will they ever (in public at least), ask a question that betrays even a hint of scepticism about the official version of events. All bright and personable, I’m sure, but oughtn’t they be required to remain on the backbenches long enough to make a ripple or two before zooming away into the stratosphere?