Ivory Tower: Exclusive extracts from the diary of the science minister
Monday
“I’ve drawn up a list,” says the secretary from the House of Lords appointments committee.
“I’ve already chosen the scarlet wool with the fur collar,” I tell them.
“And I’m sure it will suit you very well. No, I mean for your title,” they say.
“Minister for science—I thought that was agreed,” I say.
“For your peerage,” they reply.
“Lord of Science?” I offer.
“I’m sure that’s what the tabloids will call you. It’s better than Lord Covid anyway,” they mutter. “But I was thinking of a place name.”
“Ah, bit trickier, that one. There are so many peers, most of the good ones have gone.”
“Hence the list. Might I run through some suggestions?”
“It should be something connected to me, right?” I ask.
“Absolutely…but it can’t be something from your childhood like Essex or Truro—those have already gone. So we thought, what about your time at St George’s, University of London?”
“Baron St George, that sounds heroic,” I think out loud.
“No, we thought Baron of Tooting.”
“It’s a bit Citizen Smith.”
“Jacqui Smith will be a peer as well,” they say, confused.
“What about my time with GSK?”
“Where did they have their offices?” they reply.
“Barnard Castle.”
“I’d advise against that.”
“How about when I was chief scientific adviser?”
“Lord of the Three Podiums, Lord of the Teatime Telly Briefing, Lord Help Us, Lord Not Again, Lord Not Chris Whitty…” they reel off.
“I can’t believe I came on the bus from Balham for this.”
“Oh, you can have that one,” they say, “it’s not taken.”
“The Baron of Balham? Sounds like a pub.”
“Looking at my list, it seems very suitable,” they add.
“What’s the difference between Balham and Tooting?”
“About £500,000 per house. There’s a Waitrose in Balham,” they say.
I sigh and go back to flicking through the ermine samples.
Tuesday
I’ve been asked to take part in an induction for new ministers. I’m running through my slides when a hand goes up.
“What was that you just said about imposter syndrome?” says Peter Kyle.
“It is when you think you don’t know as much as other people in the room, but you really do,” I explain.
“But what if you really don’t?”
“I don’t understand,” I say, peering down at him through the glasses at the end of my nose.
“What if you really don’t know anything about the brief that you are supposed to be the minister of?” he says, a little anxiously.
“Do you mean, what if you actually were a real imposter?”
“Yes,” he says, turning paler.
“Then they would put you in the Lords and make you minister for further education, higher education and skills.”
He studiously makes a note. I carry on: “Next slide please…”
Wednesday
It’s the state opening of parliament so I take the afternoon off to have lunch with Chris Whitty.
“What are the old crowd doing?” I ask.
“Van Tam is having a challenging time.”
“I saw that he had a gig as a consultant to Moderna. Not the best look.”
“No, he’s taken a job in university admin at Nottingham,” he says, shaking his head sadly.
“Jenny Harries is doing OK at the UK Health Security Agency,” I say.
“It’s easy when the worst you have to deal with is E. coli in a few dodgy salad wraps,” he says, with a hangdog look.
“And Kate Bingham?”
“She wrote a book about it all,” he says, forlornly pushing his peas around his plate.
“Isn’t it called, The Long Shot?”
“It’s all about how she was the best at everything, and nothing to do with the fact she was married to a Conservative MP,” he says, downcast.
“He managed to keep his seat in the election,” I reply.
“Yes, that really was a long shot,” he says, morosely.
“Look Chris, is something the matter? You seem awfully blue. You are the chief medical officer for England.”
“They used to do impressions of me on the radio. You could get a Chris Whitty mug or a birthday card. I used to be mobbed in the street by antivaxxers…I miss the cameras, the roar of the grease paint. Why can’t I have my own department and be a Lord?” he asks, looking up for the first time.
“Where do you live, Chris?”
“Balham, like you.”
“Nah, that one’s taken, mate,” I say.
Thursday
Peter Kyle calls me. “The prime minister wants to know about Europe,” he says.
“Wasn’t he literally shadow minister for Europe at one point?” I ask.
“He wants something clever to say about Horizon at today’s European Political Community summit in Oxford,” says Peter.
“How about, although Horizon was far away, the European sun never set on us,” I suggest.
“Not that clever—there’s going to be a breakout room with scientists,” says Peter.
“I’ve been to a few of those conferences.”
“Any advice?”
“Well, they’ll mostly talk in a monotone about their obsessive interests.”
“Ah, so he’ll fit right in then. Wonder if they’ll know that his dad was a toolmaker?” Peter asks.
“There are uncontacted tribes in the Amazon who know what his dad did,” I say.
“What about Arsenal?”
“Yup, that should do it,” I sigh.
Friday
I’m reading over the report from the Covid inquiry, module one: resilience and preparedness. The phone rings.
“Ten,” says the voice.
“Chris, is that you?” I ask.
“I got 10 mentions in the report. How many did you get?”
“Seven,” I say.
“Never mind, it’s the taking part that counts.”
“It’s a public inquiry—taking part is statutory.”
“I know that. Just calling to ask you a science question.”
“It’s kind of you to think of me as your first port of call, Chris. I thought you’d become jealous of my profile.”
“By profile, do you mean those Specsavers two-for-one glasses or the media circus that you now call a job?” he asks.
“If you were any more jealous, you’d have a magic mirror on your wall,” I retort.
“If I did, I could ask it this science question.”
“Go on, then,” I sigh.
“What did Copernicus say to the science minister?”
“I don’t know.”
“You are not the centre of the universe,” he says, pleased with himself.
“Anything else?”
“Yes, shall we share a cab to the Royal Society event tonight?”
“Of course, 6.30 for 7? See you then,” I say, putting the phone down.
Eight of his mentions were footnotes, only three of mine were. I’m the real winner.
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