I am delighted to announce the launch of my professional advice service for Government ministers who are intent on resigning from their posts. It became very apparent from the performance of those luminaries who departed in the recent “Long Night of the Blunt Pen-Knives” that they had very little understanding of the finer points of resignation.
If I’m accused of submitting advertorial instead of a column, I can only say in my defence that, lacking the facility to claim for cleansing my moat or buying my staples, I need the money.
My method is based on six modules, the first of which is “Keep fit”. One of the problems of ministerial life is a tendency to put on weight, which is unsurprising if you add constant lunch and dinner engagements to an already-bulging expenses account. Living on the fat of the land does not necessarily lead to a sylph-like figure.
Not that I am concerned about your bulk: my interest lies in your fitness. It is vital that you can run quicker than the Prime Minister.
Resignation can be seen as the Westminster variant of the school sports-day egg-and-spoon race, but with the substitution of a microphone for a piece of ribbon at the end of the course.
The PM is disadvantaged at the start of the race, as the resigner chooses the time for the event to begin. An early start can mean you have the mike in your sights while the First Lord of the Treasury is still sticking soldiers into his yolk.
The object of the game is to get to the microphone before the Prime Minister so that you can claim to have resigned before he can announce that he’s sacked you.
This is not a taxing module, because to be honest you have to be in pretty bad physical condition not to be able to outpace the Prime Minister.
The second module is “Have a CV to hand”. The worst thing is to announce your resignation in dramatic Churchillian fashion and find the first questions are: ‘What were you?’ and ‘Who are you?’ You need to have proof you are a minister. You’ll look pathetic if you have to say: “Don’t you remember me? I campaigned to ban Gary Glitter albums and I’ve got a blog.”
Have a handout ready. You don’t want people asking how you spell “Pernel”. Your major problem is that your target audience, television watchers, have no idea who you are. To them, you’re just another pompous ass in a suit.
You may want to purchase a display board bearing your name and title. Failing this, bring along an authenticated piece of departmental headed paper with your name on it.
Module three: “Remove yesterday’s newspapers from the library”. This is vital, especially if the previous day, prior to hearing that you’ve been given the shove, you’ve been calling for unity and insisting we all pull together. It can be very painful to be reminded of quotes you made a short tantrum ago.
Removing newspapers also stops opponents reproducing the improbable smile you were wearing for the cameras the previous day. I advise against smiling throughout the entire resignation exercise, using Hazel Blears as an example. While “Smiling Assassin” can be cool, “Demented Handbag Swinger” cannot.
Fourth module: “Look the part”. Men should go for glamour. I tutor the lines: “He only wanted me in the Cabinet because I’m a hunk. He never appreciated my mind. He only cared for my ankles.
See if you can get a few pictures of yourself in your Y-fronts in Attitude, your dinner jacket in OK! and your element at the Women’s TUC. But don’t look like you’re posing in photos. Try to look surprised. Imagine Plod’s at the door and he’s looking for someone else.
Women should avoid the old Blair Babes cliché, for the simple reason that a babe in 1997 is a babe no longer. It is difficult to have a face of flint and refer to yourself as window dressing. Think more Brown Basher than Blair Babe. Think John Prescott. And egg. But with lipstick.
Module five: “Buy a travel card”. Pretend you know how public transport operates. When you’ve lost the limo, you’ll look really silly if you run to the back of the bus to get on, search for the first-class compartment on the tube or find you only have a half-crown to offer the cab driver. Obtain a credit or debit card and learn to use them. Get someone to find out the PIN numbers you used in pre-ministerial days.
Practice offering your debit card to restaurant staff. Try to remember that ordinary people pay for the food they eat.
On the other hand, disguise any cards whose discovery could be inopportune, such as smutty video fidelity cards taken out in the name of Her Majesty’s Government.
Sixth and finally: Don’t stand anywhere you can be photographed with Charles Clarke. You never know. You may want to return to government someday. One snap beside the Norfolk refusenik could finish you forever.
Troubled ministers can contact the author through Tribune. All enquiries will be dealt with by journalists. Confidentiality is assured.
