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My week by Chris Skidmore

   

An exclusive extract from the universities minister’s diary in the week of the Conservative conference

Monday

Released from Westminster to attend the party conference in Manchester. In the back of a taxi on way to convention centre, my driver starts a conversation.

“You here for those Tories then?” he says.
“Yes, I am,” I say, looking out the window, wondering how far it is to the conference.
“Total bobbins that is,” he says.
“Sorry?” I say.
“What it is right, is that mob is totally mingin’,” he says.
“Pardon?” I say.
“That Boris Johnson, did he cut his hair with a knife and fork?”
“Err…” I say, looking out of the window at the relentless rain.
“So are you one of them?” he asks.
“One of what?” I say.
“A Tory,” he says.
“Well…” I say.
“Give your ’ead a wobble, brother. What’s the Tory morning glory?” he says, I think.
“Sorry?” I say, totally confused.
“So, why you here, our kid?” he asks.
“Err…I’m minister for universities,” I say.
“Mad fer universities?” he asks, mishearing me.
“Yes,” I say, completely lost now.
“I’m buzzin’ for them myself. I’m doing an OU course on art history,” he says.
“Really, that’s very interesting,” I say.

Suddenly the taxi pulls up.

“There you go, our kid, that’ll be 20 quid,” he says.
“But I’ve only been in the cab for two minutes,” I protest.
“Brexit, innit,” he says.
I sigh and pay the fare.

Tuesday

Boris says that even though I’m not in the cabinet, I can text him any time, day or night. So I decide to check whether he is going to make an announcement on the UK space programme in his conference speech.

“Hi, Chris here,” I text.
He comes back straight away: “Christine?”
“No, Chris,” I text back.
“Christine, you fox,” he writes.
“No, Boris, I need to ask you about your rocket plans…” I type.
He comes back before I’ve finished the line. “Woof! Woof!” he writes. I didn’t know that Dylan the Downing St dog was at the conference.
“Are you going to tell everyone about it in your speech on Wednesday?” I type.
“God no, Carrie will be in the hall,” he writes.
“Is she going to be involved?” I ask, wondering about the new membership of the Space Council.
“Best not, how about your flat?” he asks.
“Yes, I can take you through the entire programme,” I write, a little surprised.
“Woof!” he types.
It’s great for UK science and research that Boris is so engaged.

Wednesday

Back in the Department for Business, Energy and Industrial Strategy, there is a vague whiff of sulfur in the building. I’m told Dominic Cummings is waiting for me in my office.

“Ah, it’s Dr Science,” he says, when I enter the room.
“I never actually finished my PhD and I’m a medieval historian,” I tell him.
“Yeah but you are the UK science guy, our Nikola Tesla Finder General,” he says, scaring me a little.
“How can I help you, Dom?” I ask.
“Science is great, yeah? It’s our number two priority after Brexit. So I need the intel on what we are funding,” he says.
“Well, the Global Challenges Research Fund enables development projects in low-income countries,” I begin.
“Boring, literally nobody cares,” he says.
“Not ‘literally’ nobody, Dom. We’ve funded hundreds of projects across five continents, improving the lives of thousands of people,” I say.
“Are they UK voters?” he asks.
“Technically no,” I say.
“So why are we doing it?” he asks.
“Science, I guess,” I reply.
“What do the people of Sunderland get out of it?” he says.
“Still science, Dom. Maybe the people of Sunderland want to help low-income countries,” I suggest.
He rolls his eyes. “Have you got anything more exciting?”
“We are just about to make an announcement on the Diamond Light Source,” I say.
“What’s that, a laser beam?” he asks.
“It’s the UK’s national synchrotron science facility in Oxfordshire,” I tell him.
“I knew that,” he says. “I read about it in New Scientist, it’s some kind of a death ray.”
“I don’t think so, Dom. I can ask one of my team to explain it to you,” I say.
“I don’t need it explained. No one in this government knows science better than I do,” he says, looking upset.
“What about the chief scientific adviser?” I ask, immediately regretting it.
“Paddy Vallance? He’s just a jumped-up GP, a back-rubber like the rest of them. I know about science. I’ve read Isaac Asimov. I’ve seen Solaris. I get 2000 AD every week,” he rants, in full Benedict Cumberbatch mode now.
“Would you like a cup of tea, Dom?” I venture.
“To hell with tea! I want the Expanding Excellence in England fund spent on a UK moon base and a 20-year mission to Mars,” he screams, “and do you have any soya milk?”
“I’ll just check in the fridge, and when I’m out I’ll also check whether the moon is currently classed as a UK asset,” I say.

Thursday

There is outrage in the press this morning about the number of staff in universities earning more than £100,000 per year. I ask my guys in the Department for Education for a briefing.

“How did this data get out?” I ask.
“The Office for Students asks for it as a statutory return,” says a civil servant.
“Why?” I say, dumbfounded. “Anyone who knows anything about universities knows that they are packed with people on NHS consultant contracts. Those numbers may look big, but they are perfectly normal for the health service.”
“It was Jo Johnson’s idea,” they say.
“Great, like bronze medals for teaching,” I say.
“Actually, it was the Taxpayers’ Alliance who put in freedom of information requests,” says another civil servant.
“Why would they do that if it’s all published on university websites? Don’t they know anything about how higher education works?” I say.

Friday

It’s been a long week, what with the prime minister’s new Brexit plan. Back in Bristol, I get a call from Gavin Williamson. He sounds worried.

“It’s all so confusing,” he says.
“It’s a lot to try and take in,” I agree.
“I genuinely believe that it’s an honest attempt to fix this mess,” he says.
“I don’t think they’ll agree to it, though,” I tell him.
“There does seem to be a lot of disagreement about all these borders and people keep talking about seeking consent and cliff edges,” he says.
“It’s been tabled so late in the day that I think people will be suspicious of the intent behind it,” I tell him.
“It’s never been tried anywhere else in the world and no one is sure the data will work,” he says.
“If only the last government hadn’t set so many red lines,” I say.
“The Labour Party has already said they’re against it,” he replies.
“It’s not clear that the numbers are there in parliament to support it,” I concur.
“So, what do you think we should do about it?” he asks.
“You should just publish Shirley Pearce’s review of the Teaching Excellence Framework and then do another sector-wide consultation,” I tell him.
“OK, thanks,” he says.

Terms of use: this is a free email for fun on a Friday. It should circulate widely, like plans for two borders on the island of Ireland. Want a briefing on the Diamond Light Source death ray? Want to say hello? Email ivorytower@researchresearch.com