A/n Credits -
1. Kevin Maguire Wednesday April 14, 2004 The Guardian
2.Daily Mirror Jun 30 2004 EXCLUSIVE: Minister's advice on firing benefit staff By Clinton Manning
3. Public Commercial Services union website news item July 2004 about actual planned cuts to the DTI.
His life was all so different a year ago, Neil Houghton moaned as he glugged back a stiff shot of whisky in some anonymous bar. The words how have the mighty fallen swam round in his alcohol befuddled mind. He desperately wanted the neat spirit to push everything out of focus except that his disobedient memory forced him to replay the past in cruel sharp focus. This was a bad movie he couldn't escape or switch off.
He remembered how as Minister for Trade, he had closely studied the first two sets of papers presented by his Permanent Secretary on how to slim down bureaucracy. The papers, in turn, were prepared by the head of Human Resources and, to his way of thinking, had hit the nail on the head about the underlings who worked for him.
"Restricted - management",
"A majority of staff are not considered to be career civil servants.
Some 70 were women, many with caring responsibilities, and although the work was relatively low-paid they were attracted by the decent, local, family-friendly employment the department offered and had no incentive to leave or progress. Persuading them to accept reforms, including performance-linked wage increases, he added, was made harder by the resistance of middle-ranking staff. Our biggest concern was how to motivate the substantial cadre of long-serving middle managers within the organisation who acted as a block to cultural change."
It had been plain to him that what had gone wrong was that a historic mistake had been made. The penpushers who did the menial clerical work should never have been lumped together with the central core of high flying ideas men who comprised the real historic civil service. It was some sort of woolly-minded old-fashioned paternalism, which had confused matters. You might as well call the valet who serviced his ministerial limousine a civil servant when he was patently not the case. As a result of this it had led the present crisis of overmanning to creep up and was threatening to drown the country with bureaucrats. It was time that hard decisions needed to be made to curb this uncontrolled growth and the second paper presented him with the means to cut them down to size.
He had lounged nonchalantly back in his chair looking at the conclusions in the second paper, which followed on nicely from the first. It had suggested a method of damage limitation by issuing managers with very robust solutions on how to sell the policy to the troops on the ground. Immediately, it engaged his interest. It offered a parallel strategy to this other perennial problem, as a Minister in the House of Commons was how to present the actions of the Department in the best possible light. Appearance was everything these days and the soundbite, the arresting headline, the appearance of sincerity on the TV screen was the surefire way of keeping New Labour up in the ratings. Thank heavens the remnants of the 'died in the wool' clothcap wearing Old Labour MPs are being put out to grass and would cease to be the irritating nuisances that drone on and on interminably. Practically, he had no need to worry as New Labour was holding the reins very tightly onto the political machine.
"Best practice in communicating difficult messages" Modern research has concluded that "the way a message is delivered is as important as the message itself, the memo urges bosses to sweeten the brutal pill by smiling, making eye contact, speaking slowly and not mumbling words. It is admitted that for 98 per cent of people change at work is "unsettling". The message is that only 30 per cent of people's reaction are to the words of what they are told. The rest is down to "what you look like when you're saying it (body language) and how you say it (tone of voice)". For this reason, managers are urged to "speak clearly and slightly slower than usual", not to "mumble or gabble excitedly" and not to look bored when delivering the bleak message. Eye contact, occasional nods of acknowledgement and smiling are encouraged. So are phrases designed to soothe tempers such as "That's a very important point" or "I can see why you feel like this". The memo also warns against lying and "negative body language" such as finger pointing.
He had signed off the necessary papers before coming to the technical paper giving the numbers of civil servants to be cut. After all, the mainstream press like the Daily Mail and the Telegraph would lap it up and only protests would come from Trotskyite rags. The administrative decisions had been made and the paperwork would proceed to its destination. Later in the day, he had cast his eye over the press release that was to go to his employees. It wasn't too alarmist and conveyed the right image of hard necessity tempered with sincerity coupled with some hope for the future. "As you know, from my earlier messages, we had identified scope to reduce the number of people working for the DTI in London by 36 (19 relocations and 17 job cuts). We have held to that position in our discussions with Treasury, but it is clear that we are going to be asked for more job cuts, as indeed are all Departments.That will probably mean that we have to review the scale and timing of the relocations we had proposed.
This is going to mean further change, and some tough choices, right across the Department and in all our agencies. I believe that we are well placed to meet the challenge. We have a clear vision for the direction of the DTI providing high quality services to our customers and stakeholders- a Department that has the flexibility to respond to changing requirements. That continues to be our shared vision, and I and my senior colleagues will continue to consult you openly and transparently as we take the decisions needed in the light of the settlement."
That had told them all they needed to know for the moment, he had smiled smugly to himself. The dissemination of information in a controlled, structured fashion was a science that only the skilled and initiated had the right to make claim to. Similarly, sixty years previously, there had taken place an important conference at a remote country house by the side of a lake. It was near Wansee, just outside Berlin, that a Dr Eichmann, a civil service planner set out his strategic vision for a better future. From the soles of his expensive hand made black polished shoes to his briefcase containing the neatly set out paper, he formulated the systematic 'evacuation' of the problem part of the population of Greater Germany. It planned everything right down to railway timetables and the geometric concentration of populations. It was a masterpiece of planning in its own way. All it had taken was the detached scientific outlook and the ability to plan.
A few months later, it was all bedlam. It all blew up out of nowhere, he remembered. At that time, he had been deeply immersed for months in the promotion of overseas arms deals with wealthy Arab states. It helped his career no end that the sheiks were ready to dig deep into their deep pockets or whatever they use to carry wads of notes, to buy the latest hardware and it helped the export drive nicely. The fact that they might use them to take pot shots at each other troubled his conscience not at all. Boys will be boys and toys will be toys, he reasoned to himself. It was all in a day's work for which he was rightly rewarded very handsomely.
He remembered the day when his ministerial limousine came to collect him on time as usual for another day's work. It was Bonfire Night or so the television reminded him although the event was of no significance to him.
"What in hell's happened to the limo. It looks as if it has been driven five times round the M25 in heavy rain," He exclaimed.
Instead of the immaculate shiny vehicle, there was a disgusting thin layer of splash marks on the sides of the car and on the windscreen. It all looked second rate and shabby to him when he had been accustomed to years of nothing but the best. His fastidious nature dressed in his sharpest Saville Row suit revolted against the possibility of being soiled by contact with the car.
"There's a strike on, sir. It's all over the early morning news. Thought that you would have known all about it, begging your pardon."
"Strikes? What's the world coming to?" His voice screeched in a high pitched tone of rage and frustration.
That was only the beginning of the worst day in his life to date As the spacious limousine drove sedately along the familiar landmarks around Trafalgar Square, turning into…………., he looked out for the familiar impregnable Georgian stone fortress of the Department of Trade and Industry. Unbelievably he spotted a line of policemen wrapped around the front entrance.
"What on earth are all those policemen doing there? Surely there isn't a terrorist threat? I've not heard anything about it."
"It's the civil service strike that I told you about. The union chief was on GMTV saying that his lot weren't going to stand for all the cuts. Someone must have stirred him up good and proper and by the looks of it, he's not the only one."
"Trotskyist trouble makers," Neil spat into the air in impotent anger.
"You're lucky that the private company I work for don't recognise unions. If they did, I'd be called to come out and join them. I wouldn't have any choice. Come to think of it, I could do with some time off to help organise the local church hall bonfire night. Do you like bonfire night?"
The middle-aged man was used to driving all the top nobs around London. Funny but if anything went wrong, they really got the hump. They acted like children, most of them leastwise and the best thing to do was to sort of distract them like you do with children. Sometimes his little ploys worked and then again, sometimes they didn't.
"I loathe and detest bonfire night. It's an excuse for louts to create mayhem with them.
Put me down, driver. I'll call for you when I need you."
"He still doesn't know my name," The driver muttered resentfully after Neil Haughton had slammed the door vengefully behind him. "Now then, temper temper."
Instantly, Neil Haughton was projected into a nightmare scene reminiscent of images of the 1979 "Winter of Discontent." As his limousine faded into the distance, those who weren't policemen were scruffily dressed in jeans and coats and a woman whom he took to be the leader wearing a yellow fluorescent jerkin moved towards him. Her face framed by medium length blonde hair, parted in the middle, lit up at the sight of him and she pushed a leaflet at him.
"I'm asking you not to cross the picket line." She said in a distinctly northern accent.
"Do you know who I am? I am going about my lawful business. I am Neil Haughton, the Trade and Industry Minister. Kindly step out of my way."
"I know exactly who you are," She answered. "I want you to explain to my members why you think we will be able to carry on with the scale of cuts that your government has imposed on us when we know we can't."
"Your union was consulted about the matter."
"Oh yeah, first we heard about it was on the six o'clock news, and we saw all the front bench cheering the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Tell me, with a general election in six months time, you explain to my members." And at this point, the woman's edge took on a harder edge and her arm swept sideways in a dramatic gesture. It drew together and gathered in all the picket line outside and those that they represented. "Why should we vote Labour? You give us three good reasons why we should."
Neil Houghton turned white at the sharp jab to the one thing importance in his existence. The loss of his position as MP and minister was the one thing, which frightened him and the consequent loss of his sense of overblown self-importance. In automatic mode, his memory retrieved without interruption from his mind the words he desperately needed and his mouth spewed them out in profusion.
"My government have reduced unemployment to the lowest level since the nineteen sixties, More schools and hospitals are being built than ever before. Hospital waiting times are being reduced. Inflation is being kept down. We are putting more money and effort into being tough on crime so that your members can walk the streets safely…."
"Read the leaflet, Mr Haughton. This tells you the truth about the cuts and not your party political broadcast."
"I hear what you say. I shall read it at my leisure. Meanwhile, you cannot stop me from entering or you will be in breach of the law." Neil Haughton's temper and pitch in his voice rose as he finished and pushed past the crowd of pickets who had gathered round on both sides.
"Will your government repeal the Tory anti trade union laws?" She fired as a parting shot. at the pompous, arrogant man as he disappeared into the bowels of the building.
Even though there was hardly a breath of wind and the weather was warmer than he had thought possible, the cold had cut through her clothes. She had worked non-stop in preparing for this day and had burnt the candle at both ends. Her eyes felt raw and her head ached when she had lain her head to rest on the pillow and the alarm had woken her at six in the morning. Her eyes were overloaded with fast moving images before her eyes, of being hemmed in by the police, of those comrades with her whom she had got to know on a more intimate level in these few hours than in years of working. She had been floating down from a high after feverishly planning what she had wanted to say to the "Evening Standard" and the local radio and getting them out in two concise minutes what the strike was about. The arrival of the most hated minister than even she could recall was a godsend and her tiredness vanished in a second. It was good to encounter one of the hated cabal of arrogant and incompetent New Labour ministers, engage him in verbal battle and beat him soundly. After all, he was no more than a stuffed shirt who mouthed out platitudes. He was nothing special except in his ability to crawl up the greasy ladder of success.
They would all soon be making their way to Central Hall opposite Westminster Abbey, a grand theatre where the General secretary whom she admired and a number of principled leaders from other unions would set them ablaze with oratory, warm their spirits as much as being out of their cold and give them hope for a long hard battle for the future. For the moment, they could afford a bit of enjoyment at that bastard Haughton's expense with a bit of chanting.
"Let's give Neil Haughton the message he didn't want to stay around to hear," She yelled into the megaphone she was holding. "Come on, everyone, after me. What do we want?" "No cuts." "When do we want it." "Now." What do we want?" "No cuts." Again and again, she repeated this verbal riff with hypnotic power and the others on the picket line built up the two note refrain as they picked up on the rhythm with a refrain with that gutroot satisfaction in a double thump rhythm like an African chant or a twelve bar blues.
Neil Houghton furiously crushed the leaflet between his fingers as if he were crushing any enemy who got in his path. He threw it away into the nearest wastebin and stomped off upstairs. It was a savage irony that he had lately moved to a spanking new first floor office overlooking the grand sweep of the street outside. It enabled the positively indecent demonstration of the mob let loose, the pressure cooker blowing off the lid of civilised rule. He as one of the leaders of the country had made it his life's business, after he had made his pile of money in advertising, to use his position for the greater good. As such, the lid of the pressure cooker must be kept firmly shut so that good order would prevail and everyone would be in their rightful position in society. He wished the rabble outside would go away so that he could be left in peace. That was all he was asking as his head was in his hands.
"It's terrible, Minister," The middle-aged woman who was his faithful secretary entered the room and her voice interrupted his thoughts. "I don't know what's the world coming to these days. Never mind, the rest of us are all one hundred per cent behind you." He didn't answer. He was uncomfortably aware that this malign contagion of union militancy had infected large numbers inside the office and had swept them away. He couldn't understand it. He had been assured by the head of his department that everyone was rock solid behind him. He had gone round the offices every so often and talked to his underlings, Grade 7 managers and the like, who assured him that everything was running smoothly. To all intents and purposes, the response was favourable to the usual blurb that was put out every Christmas, which had recognised all their hard work and had given vague reassurances as to their future. Life was so unfair, he remembered complaining for the first time in his life. It wouldn't be the first time.
Then there was that dratted General Election. If he had his way, the number of years between elections would be doubled from five years to ten so that he could work more on a long term basis rather than being compelled to save up all the good news in his Department to the six months before the General Election. The idea of postal elections also seemed like a sound one also and get away from hanging round the polling booths and smiling at perfect strangers whom he only needed as voting fodder. Still, given a third term, the legislation would go through to go entirely over to the American model after they had tested the water in a few council elections.
It meant that he had to take his eye off the Department and spend more time taking his turn on going on the political discussion programmes with the likes of David Frost. The man was getting long in the tooth but he still needed watching. In this way, the media fuelled electoral machine slid in its uncertain way into gear and gathered momentum.
It was a curious feature of political life that the onset of general elections suspended the jealousies, bickering and internal rivalries that simultaneously threatened to rend asunder each political party yet somehow constrained it as well. These conflicts lurked like a layer of sludge at the bottom of a polluted river, unseen from the surface but known to those who navigated its depths. In this way, the man whose job Neil Haughton cast covetous eyes upon was now suddenly a sound fellow whom he slapped on the back in the House of Commons bar and almost convinced himself that he nearly liked. The running of each Department went into freewheel as all ministers were closeted together in one breathless cabinet meeting after another. Taken together, they cranked up the fever pitch of excitement which intense scrutiny of the seesaw progress of opinion polls, focus group replies with the percentage answers to one liner questions of burning political importance.
They were on a roll together with that adrenaline rush that fuelled all addicts of all persuasions, that frantic need for that particular fix, that determination to sell their own grandmother if only, if only…. Gone was the languid talk of the greater good. That spoke of the assured unchallenged control of the political machine. When the danger of this was slipping through their hands, that power fix screamed out within them not to be denied the satisfaction of that need. This was a far more potent drug than anything that was sold on the black market and was totally and utterly respectable. After all, tame biographers had glorified the deeds of those who went before them and rewrote history as they saw fit. As Voltaire once said, history is the lie that is commonly agreed upon and in the present cabinet, desperation and ruthlessness knew no bounds.
Less agreeable were his meetings with his local constituency party. True to form, there was a predictable four-year cycle when he patronised them with his company for the number of necessary months. He was duty bound too, to tread the high streets of his constituency and shake hands and smile for the umpteenth time and make vague stirring promises for what New Labour would do for the third term. After a very short time, the novelty wore thin but he had woken up to realise uneasily that the administration had stored up trouble. After all, look what had happened to the previous government, he reasoned to himself.
On the final day, he found himself wound up like a spring and being driven round, complete with the obligatory red rosette pinned to his lapel, shaking hands one last time and talking to the local press hacks whom ordinarily, he would never let near him. Finally, as evening fell, he was whisked away to the town hall where, in the hive, nameless faceless drone workers laboured counting ballot papers for the benefit of which queen bee would rule. He remembered sipping a revolting cup of weak tea with his deadly rivals, the young Conservative smart Alec and the nondescript Liberal Democrat who actually lived in the constituency. He had become anxious when by some conspiracy the UK Independent Party neglected to field a candidate and let all the opposition votes be concentrated on that young upstart. He fidgeted and kept his fears to himself until the word came to stand on the platform and await his destiny.
It must have been either his memory or his hearing, which finally packed up on him. He could only pick out certain key words in the flat tuneless drone, which announced the results.
"…………..are duly cast"
Donaldson Andrew, Conservative, 14,212 votes.
Houghton Neil, Labour, 14,397 votes
Springfield Tom, Liberal Democrat 6,500 votes.
I duly declare Neil Houghton elected as the MP for………….."
One hundred and eighty five votes, the fingers hammered into his brain as a catcall of jeers went up from the crowd. He could see amongst them the dangerous smile of that fair-haired Trotskyite woman who had accosted him outside his own office. She was his nemesis, like other dangerous subversives out to get him. In her turn, revenge was sweet but she knew that tomorrow was another day and a dangerous level of ignorance among far too many MPs. Some whom unions had sponsored and had helped put them into power had only turned their backs and joined in with the rest for their share in the pig trough, only out for their own interests. That left people like her and so many others to fight a war where there was no discernable end for the future of ordinary people.
Immediately, the reporter and his accomplices wielding a TV camera and sound gear descended on him.
"How do you feel about nearly being the third minister in history to be unseated by the electorate. First John Redwood and Michael Portillo and nearly you to join them. Could your personal unpopularity have anything to do with it?"
"Politics are about majorities," He retorted in as even a tone as he could manage bottling down his frustration at the impertinent finger pointing question. "If fifty one percent of the electorate vote for me, I'm still the elected member for this constituency and still the Minister for Trade and Industry."
"Will you still be a minister? The way the returns are coming in means that the Labour Majority has been drastically reduced and the Prime Minister is known to only value success."
"That is the prerogative of the Prime Minister," Neil Houghton uttered smoothly, not wanting the footage being filmed to be rerun on prime time television.
He made his way outside as quickly as he could decently manage. He was not intending to go to the Labour Club. Both he and the local constituency party activists knew very well that they would not see him for dust for the next four years.
"Oh bad luck, Neil," An amused old Etonian voice broke in on his fury. "You're still a government minister for me to cross swords with, one whose power and reputation will have become crippled and impotent."
John had taken a discreet backseat position throughout the proceedings and had nimbly chased after him and , seizing the ideal opportunity to waylay him, set about exacting his moment of sweet revenge. It had been a long time coming.
"Were you behind all this?" Neil raged at John. All his frustrations boiled to the surface. "Wish I had been," John retorted dryly. "You came close to being the latest to joining the dole queue. You can find the local Jobcentre if you turn left at the traffic lights, and take the second right turn. It's got a green and yellow sign outside. You can't miss it."
Neil Haughton glared speechlessly and stomped off to head for the nearest bar. John let him go as he had other places to go, in particular homeward bound to meditate on the future. It was already occurring to him that those who had arrogantly run the LCD might become more nervous as to their future. The drastic narrowing of the majority meant that the countervailing power of the electorate to give an arrogant, out of touch regime a bloody nose would make them think twice.
As Neil Haughton drank on his own in some nameless bar, he reflected that he had had a narrow squeak. He came that close to being cast adrift on the job market at his time of life. Unemployed ex advertising executives even with ministerial connections faced tough competition with all the up and coming tycoons. What hurt him most was the feeling of not being wanted. There was so many ways, he told himself, in which he could serve his country. As he tried to put the whole wretched experience behind him, a memory flashed upon him. If George had been with him as his consort, this whole sorry mess would not have happened. It was a long time since he had cast eyes upon her and the events of the last few months had driven everything out of his mind. It was time for a change of direction in his life. He looked at his calendar and realised that it was George's birthday this week. He had vaguely heard a rumour of some concert that she was involved with and decided that it would be a good opportunity to see it and perhaps clear up some unfortunate misunderstandings. She couldn't refuse him, could she?