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Ivory Tower: Exclusive access to the journals of the science secretary
Monday
I’m ordering a coffee in Starbucks with my Spad.
“You got a name on that?” asks the barista, for some reason.
“It’s called a latte,” I tell them.
“No, who’s it for?” they continue.
“Me, obviously,” I say, getting tired of this.
“And what’s your name?” they ask.
“Don’t you recognise me?” I reply. They look at me blankly.
“It’s Michelle,” says my Spad, looking anxiously at the queue forming behind us.
“Don’t give them my data,” I say, remembering how much spam I’ve had since I bought those Elon Musk NFTs.
“Could you stand to one side?” says the barista.
“No, I won’t be doing that, I’m not George Freeman,” I say, getting annoyed now.
“Latte for Michelle,” shouts another one. I knew my data would get passed around.
I think about complaining but decide against it. “Thanks,” I say and walk off.
“Oi! You haven’t paid,” says the cheeky barista. I look at them blankly.
“You haven’t paid, madam,” they say again.
I turn to my Spad and shrug. “You’ve got to pay, Michelle,” they say.
“I’m the secretary of state for science, innovation and technology,” I reply.
“And that’s a medium latte,” says the barista. “It costs £3.50.”
“I’m not paying that,” I say.
“I know it’s expensive but that’s inflation,” says the barista, grinning.
“No, you don’t understand,” I tell them. “This coffee was ordered during my time as secretary of state, and I will be drinking it while performing my duties as secretary of state. At all times, I have been in the company of officials,” I say, pointing to my Spad, “and it is quite right, according to long-established precedent, that the department pays this bill.”
The barista looks at the Spad. The Spad looks at the now even longer queue behind us.
“Can’t you do Apple Pay and claim it back?” asks the Spad.
“They took my phone off me, remember,” I tell them, struggling to recall why it was they said I can’t use my mobile any more.
The Spad reaches into their pocket and pulls out a fiver. “Can I have a receipt, please?” they say to the barista.
“Is this one of those woke coffee shops?” I ask as my Spad pushes me towards the door.
Tuesday
The permanent secretary comes into the office with a pile of papers.
“Just a few things for you to sign, minister,” she says.
I take out my Bletchley Park Visitors’ Centre pen.
“This one is approval to clear out the underspend on the overseas aid research budget,” she says, handing me several pieces of paper. It rings a bell, so I sign it.
“This is approval for preliminary searches related to the department campus in Salford,” she says, handing me some more sheets. Again, I sign, wondering what it is about.
“This one is approval of the settlement in the Research England case,” she says, offering more paper.
“Are they going to Salford too?” I ask.
“No, minister, this is the libel settlement in the case of the Research England advisory group member,” she says, looking pained.
“I’m not signing that,” I say, remembering what this one is about.
“We’ve been through this with the lawyers,” she says. “We’ve come to an agreed legal position.”
“Sorry, not sorry,” I say.
“Quite, minister, but I’m afraid that’s not a recognised position in law,” she says.
“Fingers crossed,” I tell her.
“Again, that would not be legally recognised,” she says, offering me the papers once more.
“I don’t see why I should say I’m sorry,” I tell her.
“Reading your retraction, I’m not sure you do,” she says.
“Never apologise, never explain, isn’t that what Churchill said?” I ask.
“No, I don’t think it is. In fact, minister, in libel cases apologising is often very much integral to the process,” she says.
“I want it to be known that I called that academic a Hamas supporter during my time as secretary of state and accused the board members of sharing extremist views while performing my duties as secretary of state, and in accordance with long-held precedent it is quite right that the department pays the bill, if they are so keen on apologising,” I say.
She looks at me. I look back. She keeps looking at me. I sign the paper.
“The retraction tweet will be posted today at 4pm,” she says.
“Does that mean I get my phone back?” I ask.
“No,” she says.
Wednesday
The media are reporting that the damages payment was £15,000.
“Who told them that?” I ask my Spad, sitting in the rear of the ministerial car on our way back from the budget.
“If the taxpayer is picking up your bill for libelling people, they probably deserve to know how much they are paying,” they say, grumpily looking out the window.
“It’s not a lot of money,” I say.
“Did you hear the chancellor talking about Whitehall waste? What happens tomorrow when he goes on telly to sell his budget and all he gets asked about is your libel bill?” they say, being unusually forthright.
“It’s not as bad as the Elon Musk NFTs,” I reply.
“How much did you lose on those?” they say, alarmed.
“Let’s call it an undisclosed sum,” I reply, looking out the other window.
“You should’ve known better. You were the digital secretary,” they fume.
“I bought those NFTs during my time as secretary of state and they lost all their value while I was performing my duties as secretary of state. In accordance with long precedent, it is only right that the department pay that bill,” I say, wondering if I’ve got this one quite right.
I think my Spad is crying. I keep looking out the window.
Thursday
I phone Penny Mordaunt to thank her for her kind words in the House.
“It’s my job to defend you,” says Penny, sounding irked.
“I hadn’t really thought of it like that,” I say, “but you are right. I didn’t take that £16,000 redundancy payment when I resigned as education secretary after 36 hours in the job, so maybe I’m owed £15,000 for a libel payout from the taxpayer.”
There is silence down the phone.
“In fact, I’m still owed a grand,” I say.
Still silence.
“Got any nice plans for Easter?” I ask.
She puts the phone down.
I look across at my Spad, who is packing a cardboard box. “Tidying up?” I ask.
“Just thought I’d make a head start,” they say, sniffling back what could be tears.
“That’s weird,” I say. “I’ve just had an email from the permanent secretary asking if I’m thinking about resigning.”
My Spad stops sniffling and looks at me.
“But I’ve already signed those papers—why does she want me to re-sign them?” I ask.
My Spad starts sniffling again.
Friday
What a week, but I’ve made it to Friday. Listening to Sondheim’s I’m Still Here as I catch up on some red boxes. My favourite is always the Space Agency briefing.
This one looks interesting: “Astronauts wanted for UK moon base mission, must be available to leave at short notice for long-term travel without earthbound commitments.” I wonder who they could get to do that?
The phone rings. It’s Number 10 but the mobile signal here is really bad, or it’s this old pre-smart phone they’ve given me.
“Sorry, what did you say? Looking at repayment options? I’ve just come off a fixed-term mortgage, so I’d be open to that,” I say.
“Stand to one side? Is this about that cheeky barista? I knew they would share my data,” I say down the crackly phone line.
“Rishi isn’t happy? I’m not surprised—did you see that YouGov poll?” I say.
The line is too bad so I give up and go back to the red boxes. What’s this? UKRI-funded health science projects this week. “The benefits of including hummus in the British lifestyle”?
I wonder if Policy Exchange has heard about this.
Terms of use: this is a free email for fun on a Friday. It should be shared widely like a taxpayer-funded retraction for libel by a secretary of state. Want to buy some Elon Musk NFTs (one previous careful owner)? Want to say hello? Email ivorytower@researchresearch.com.