I may be the last person on earth (or at least in politics) to read them, but I am midway through the new paperback edition of Chris Mullin’s diaries. They are a superbly-crafted record of Mullin’s time as a reluctant, frustrated Labour minister under Tony Blair. They tell the Pooterish tale of Mullin’s battles over his ministerial car (he didn’t want one but was told he had to), his resistance to taking red boxes over the weekend, and his mammoth struggles within Whitehall to outlaw Leylandii, the fast-growing hedge, a struggle which Mullin identified early on as the one thing he wanted to achieve in his time in office. There are 13 references to Leylandii in the index. Don’t spoil it for me – I haven’t got to the bit yet which says whether or not he was successful.
Above all, the diaries tell a story of overwhelming, all-consuming, crushing pointlessness. Endless invitations to make speeches devoid of content, winging it at oral questions in the House, ministerial visits to far-flung places, mountains of paperwork and correspondence and interminable meetings. One invitation to address a conference arrived on Mullin’s desk with a hand-written note by an official in Nick Raynsford’s private office: ‘this is very low priority. I suggest we pass it to Chris Mullin.’
The tragedy is that Mullin’s ‘view from the foothills’ is far from unique. It is echoed in the ministerial diaries that have gone before. Richard Crossman, a Labour minister in the 1960s, wrote: ‘”I say to myself that I mustn’t let myself be cut off in there, and yet the moment I enter my bag is taken out of my hand, I’m pushed in, shepherded, nursed and above all cut off, alone. Whitehall envelops me.’ He compared his experience as a minister with being locked in a padded cell, and coined the expression ‘Yes, Minister’ to describe the apparent acquiescence of the civil service. Whether it’s Benn, Castle, or Alan Clark the frustration drips onto every page. Digby Jones served as a minister in the Labour government. He described it as ‘one of the most dehumanising and depersonalising experiences’ anyone could have. ‘The whole system is designed to take the personality, the drive and the initiative out of a junior minister’ he said.
We must be able to fashion a system which allows junior ministers to have something to show for their broken health, wrecked marriages and children who don’t recognise them. Serving the public as a Labour minister is a huge privilege. We must also make it worthwhile and effective.
One idea is to increase the level of support available to ministers below the level of cabinet. The ministers of state especially are the workhorses of the government, yet they have no support other than their private offices. All ministers should have their own special advisers, as well as a dedicated team of civil service policy officers, speechwriters and press officers. Cabinet ministers should have access to a wider pool of political advice, appointed by the secretary of state, and drawn from the world of politics. At the Treasury, the council of economic advisers is a group of experts employed on the same terms as special advisers. They are – in all but name – a cabinet of advisers on the model of the French or Belgian governments. If it is good enough for the Treasury, why not other government departments? It was widely assumed at the time (not least by those of us who were shadow cabinet researchers) that Neil Kinnock would have introduced a cabinet system had Labour won the 1992 general election. We could go further, and give the cabinet a management function, making them responsible for delivering aspects of the government’s programme.
A second reform might be a more stable system of ministerial appointments, with fewer reshuffles. Throughout Labour’s period of office, reshuffles have hung over the heads of ministers like the sword of Damocles. Sometimes they have been comic: Brian Donohoe MP being made a minister for a few seconds until No 10 realised they should have phoned Bernard Donoughue instead. Or Harriet Harman being told that No 10 ‘down the street’ was on the phone, and not taking the call. Or Glenda Jackson being tannoyed in the supermarket to take an urgent call from the PM. Other times they have been tragic, with ex-ministers unable to get over their grief and bitterness at being sacked or demoted. Of course no system can legislate for an Alan Milburn, Estelle Morris or James Purnell deciding to leave the government, or a Byers or Blunkett having to. But governance needs stability, and ministers need time to learn their jobs. The constant changes to the line-up mean that each minister is over-reliant on the civil service for advice because for the bulk of their time in office they are ‘new’. Just as they are getting the hang of it, they are reshuffled. External groups such as campaigns and charities have to forge relationships every few months with a new minister. Perhaps an agreement could be established that every ministerial appointment is for a minimum of 12 months or even 18 months, barring disasters.
We elect a Labour government to change the world, starting with our street. Yet we waste the talents and energy of our junior ministers with futile, morale-sapping pointlessness. In our fourth term, we must do better. Chris Mullin established his own First Iron Law of Politics: avoid pointless activity. Applying it across Whitehall would be a useful start.