My week, by Luke Hall

Ivory Tower: Exclusive extracts from the diary of the new universities minister (whoever he is)

Monday

My first education questions in the Commons. I’m a little nervous about my brief, and there’s extra security in the House today for some reason. The guard at the bag check looks at me quizzically.

“Luke Hall,” I say.

“Don’t know that one,” they say.

“Luke Hall,” I repeat.

“I know Westminster Hall and St Stephen’s Hall,” they reply.

“No, Luke Hall,” I try again.

“I am looking. I can see the hall from here,” they say.

“No, I am Luke Hall,” I explain.

“I don’t care if you are Jerry Hall, you’re not getting in without a pass,” they say.

“I seem to have left it on my desk,” I respond.

“I’ve heard them all, sir. It’s on my desk; the dog ate it; the prime minister has taken it home in her handbag… You’re still not getting in,” they say.

“But I’ll be late for my first education questions as universities minister,” I plead.

“Now, sir, if you are going to make something up, at least make it plausible. If you’ve become separated from your school party, we can put a message out on the boards to your teacher,” they say.

“I’m not with a school group,” I respond, indignantly. “I’m the minister for skills, apprenticeships and higher education.”

“And I’m the Duke of Wellington. Now stand to one side please sir and allow others through,” they say.

“My name is Luke Hall, and I am the MP for Thornbury and Yate, and I am the minister for universities,” I say, exasperated.

“If you are the minister for universities, then tell me, what is the average student maintenance loan, after means testing, to study outside London?” they ask.

“I’ve absolutely no idea,” I say.

“Maybe you could be a minister then,” they say. “I’ll ring my boss, see if they’ll let you in.”

Tuesday

I’m still finding my way around the department. I’m late for a meeting about the levy and trying to find the Kenneth Baker room. I try one at random.

“Is this apprenticeships?” I ask.

“Yes, come in, take a seat,” says the civil servant.

“Is it just us?” I ask. “I was expecting a table full of people.”

“Just the two of us. It’s all quite informal at this stage,” they say.

“Really? I thought they’d make more of a deal of it,” I reply.

“I can assure you, we take any discussion very seriously,” they say.

“OK, shall we get started?” I ask.

“Of course, down to business, I like your style. So, tell me, what school did you go to?” they ask.

“Is that important?” I ask.

“It’s just for our records, really,” they say, making notes.

“I went to my local high school and became a sales assistant in Lidl at the age of 18,” I tell him, wondering if this is part of one of their unconscious bias tests.

“Excellent,” they say. “So that was last summer, was it?”

“Sorry?” I say.

“No need to apologise, you are exactly the sort of person we are looking for,” they reply.

“I became the store manager of Lidl in Yate and then regional manager for the south-west of England at Farmfoods,” I tell him.

“Busy summer, was it? I know it’s hard to get staff, but that’s quite the promotion,” they say, still taking notes.

“But I decided I was more interested in doing a job like this,” I say.

“I’m afraid you might be overqualified,” they say.

“For what?” I ask, incredulously.

“For a civil service apprenticeship in the DfE,” they say.

“But I’m the minister for universities,” I reply.

“Oh, you are definitely overqualified for that,” they say, still making notes.

Wednesday

It’s the last day of polling before the local elections, so I’m out on the stump campaigning for Conservative candidates in Bristol. I knock on a door. It takes an age, but someone eventually answers.

“Luke Hall,” I say, brightly.

“That’s right, Luke Hall works round here,” I think they say, but it’s hard to hear above the dog barking.

“I was wondering if you had any questions,” I say.

They look at me oddly, then say, “Are you from Sky?”

“No, I came by car. You’re thinking of Rishi, he sometimes uses a helicopter,” I joke.

“I rang last week, and they said they’d send someone out,” they say.

“Gosh, that was clever of them. Here I am, then,” I offer.

“It’s the satellite,” they say.

“Let me stop you there. I know we seem similar but that’s really another department,” I say.

“You are kidding me,” they say.

“Yes, I know, it’s confusing. I’m HE but science and space are really a separate department now,” I explain.

“Well, what am I supposed to do about that? I want to watch the Robins report,” they say.

“Yes, I’ve heard of that, very important, apparently. Still getting to grips with all the names,” I say.

They look at me as if I have two heads. “It’s the last day,” they tell me.

“Well, we might be looking at a bad result, but I wouldn’t say it was the end,” I reassure them.

“I’m expecting a victory,” they say. I’m beginning to wonder if they are all quite there.

“We can hope for the best but should perhaps be prepared for the worst,” I say, slowly backing away.

“We’re going to win,” they bellow, as I step further away. “It’s the last day of the season and the Robins are playing Stoke City. I need you to fix the satellite dish,” they shout.

“Would you like a Vote Conservative leaflet?” I ask from afar. They set the dog on me and I start to run.

Thursday

It’s election day, so a good time to catch up with Gillian back in the department.

“Have you seen this about visas?” she asks.

“No, I’ve been campaigning. What is it?” I ask.

“They are going to stop giving them out to universities,” she says.

“They can still use something else though?” I ask.

“Like what?” she says.

“Mastercard or Revolut or American Express,” I say. 

She sighs deeply. “Visas for international students,” she says. “They already can’t bring their families into the country.”

I’m trying to decide whether that’s a good or bad thing. So, she says, “I do hope he calls an election before the next academic year.”

“Why?” I ask.

“So, that we won’t be responsible for the mess,” she says, gazing out the window.

“But after 14 years of Conservative rule, I thought we were entirely responsible for the mess,” I say, then immediately regret it.

“Susan Hall, any relation?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“You know, in the department, they are calling you the apprentice minister,” she says, stirring her tea blankly.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” I say, wondering whether I’ve lost part of my brief.

Friday

The results are coming in slowly. It’s probably best if I switch off the radio and concentrate on my red boxes.

I’m torn between which briefing note to read first. “Are student loan repayment rates progressive?” or “10 things you didn’t know were woke about universities”? The phone rings, it’s Jonathan Gullis, who took over from me as deputy party chairman.

“I think it’s the end,” he says.

“I know your game. Well, you’ll get nothing from me,” I tell him.

“It looks like the end and that’s all you’ve got to say?” he brays.

“I know it’s the end, but I can’t help you,” I tell him.

“I’m shocked,” he says.

“I know it’s the last day of the season and Bristol are playing Stoke, but I can’t help you with tickets,” I tell the potteries MP.

He sighs, “Have you seen the result in Tees Valley?” he asks.

“Who were Middlesbrough playing?” I ask.

He squawks and puts the phone down. “10 things you didn’t know were woke about universities. Number one, pensions…”

Terms of use: this is a free email for fun on a Friday. It should be shared among colleagues like the blame for entirely predictable local election results. Want to make an appointment for Luke Hall to come out and fix your Sky box? Want to say hello? Email ivorytower@researchresearch.com