It has always been hard to win this kind of argument with Humphrey. But he’s into winning arguments – whereas I’m into getting things done!
So I cut the discussion short. I made my decision. Which is to stop all surveillance. It’s a matter of principle.
He countered by informing me that this is a Home Office matter, and in many cases not within our purview.
This didn’t bother me. I can certainly make it much more difficult in future. If I’m responsible for the apparatus, I intend to make myself responsible for some proper democratic safeguards for us all (before the apparatus can be used).
‘Are you perhaps going to suggest,’ he enquired sarcastically, ‘that people will not be able to be put under secret surveillance until they’ve signed a form saying that they agree to it?’
I rose above it. ‘No,’ I said gently but firmly, ‘I propose that we shall have a Select Committee of both Houses chaired by a Law Lord to decide on every application. And no surveillance will be allowed to go on for more than two weeks without reapplying.’
Then I told him to set the wheels in motion.
He argued no further, but took his leave of me in a very frosty manner.
I was full of ideas today. After Humphrey had stalked out I told Bernard to send a minute to each member of the Cabinet.
I also thought of planting a question from one of our backbenchers to the Home Secretary. Something like: Will the Home Secretary assure the House that none of his Cabinet colleagues has ever been placed under government surveillance? That will shake him. And it will bring the matter out into the open. We’ll see if it’s just a Home Office matter! I think not!
Finally, I asked Bernard to make an appointment for me to meet Walter Fowler of the Express for a quick drink in Annie’s Bar at the House, later this week.
‘What for?’ Bernard wanted to know.
‘First law of political indiscretion,’ I replied. ‘You always have a drink before you leak.’
[Walter Fowler was the Lobby Correspondent of the Express. This meant that he would probably have been their political editor or head of the paper’s political staff. The Lobby was a uniquely British system, the best way yet devised in any democracy for taming and muzzling the press.
This is because it is hard to censor the press when it wants to be free, but easy if it gives up its freedom voluntarily.
There were in the 1980s 150 Lobby Correspondents, who had the special privilege of being able to mingle with MPs and Ministers in the Lobby behind both chambers of Parliament. As journalists, however, they were – quite properly – not allowed to sit down on the leather-covered benches. Neither were they allowed to report anything they saw – e.g. MPs hitting one another – nor anything they overheard.
You may ask: who stipulated what they were not allowed to do? Who made all these restrictions? Answer: The lobby correspondents themselves!
In return for the freedom of access to Ministers and MPs, they exercised the most surprising and elaborate self-censorship.
The Lobby received daily briefings from the Prime Minister’s Press Secretary at Number Ten Downing Street, and weekly briefings from the Leader of the House and the Leader of the Opposition. All these briefings were unattributable.
The Lobby correspondents argued that, in return for their self-censorship, they would learn infinitely more about the government, its motives, and its plans. The politicians loved the Lobby system because they could leak any old rubbish, which the Lobby would generally swallow whole. As they had heard it in confidence, they believed it must be true.
We believe, with the advantage of hindsight, that the Lobby was merely one example of the way in which the British establishment dealt with potential danger or criticism – it would embrace the danger, and thus suffocate it.
The Lobby certainly discouraged political journalists from going out and searching for a story, as they only had to sit on their bottoms in Annie’s Bar (the bar exclusively reserved for the press, with the highest alcoholic consumption of any of the thirteen bars within the Palace of Westminster – which was saying something!) and a ‘leak’ would come their way.
Finally, a word on leaks. Because there was no free access to information in Whitehall, everybody leaked. Everybody knew there was no other way to make the wheels go round.
Equally, everybody pretended that leaking was ‘not on’, ‘not cricket’, ‘below board’ or underhand in the same way. This is because discretion is the most highly valued talent in Whitehall. Even above ‘soundness’. Or perhaps discretion is the ultimate indication that you are ‘sound’!
Whenever a ‘leak’ occurred there would be cries of moral indignation, and a leak inquiry would be set up by the Prime Minister. Such enquiries seldom reported at the end, for fear of the embarrassing result – most leaks came from ‘Number Ten’ (a euphemism), most budget leaks from ‘Number Eleven’ (another euphemism) – Ed.]
March 30th
I met Walter Fowler in Annie’s Bar, as arranged, and leaked my plans for curtailing surveillance.
Walter seemed a little sceptical. He said it was a worthy cause but I’d never see it through. This made me all the more determined. I told him that I intended to see it through, and to carry the Home Office on this matter in due course. I asked him if it would make a story – I knew it would, but journalists like to feel that their opinions are valuable.
Walter confirmed it would make a story: ‘MINISTER FIGHTS FOR PHONE-TAP SAFEGUARDS – yes, there’s something there.’ He wheezed deeply and drank two-thirds of a pint of special.
