My Week: Lord Mandelson

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Monday

“Hello little postman,” I purr at the soaking wet fellow in the blue fleece and Day-Glo waistcoat who is tied to my office chair. “Don't be afraid.” The darling chap is positively quivering. His teeth are chattering. I tell him I shan't hurt him. I shan't even bite him. Unless he wants me to.

“Why ... ?” manages the postman, rolling his eyes in the direction of the burly Dutch postal workers who are standing behind his chair, holding buckets.

“... did I have you cudgelled over the head and brought here in your own mailsack?” I give him a paternal smile. “Merely as an illustration. Because only this morning, you were in, um, Liverpool?” “Blackpool,” stammers the postman, straining against his little red rubber-band bonds.

“Whatever,” I say. “The North. And now here you are, in my oak-panelled dungeon in Westminster. Where nobody can hear you scream. Is this not a formidable service?” The postman sobs. I don't think he understands.

“You were not lost,” I explain. “You were not delayed. Manhandling was kept to a minimum. And this is precisely what private contractors can offer the Royal Mail. You see?” The postman's eyes roll back. I sigh and nod at the nearest Dutchman, who flings another bucket of water in his face. What more can I do to convince these people I am on their side?

Tuesday

No doubt all these Dutch businessmen know better, but I've never really got the point of post. Whom am I supposed to know, in all these ghastly little regional places? Outside of London, in my own personal circle of friends, it is considered positively common to live anywhere near a postbox. And also, why do they have to be red? It's all so 1979.

Wednesday

Still, mustn't let on. Must put these darling postal types at ease. And so, I'm singing. “Postman Peter, Postman Peter,” I trill, “Postman Peter, would you like a margarita?” I have invited a few of those staunch, balding fellows from the post unions over for a drinks party, you see, on a charm offensive. Nobody wants a margarita. “Beer, please,” says one.

“Now,” I say, stifling a grimace. “Darlings. Who wants to see what I learnt from the Dutch?” One of the union men tells me he's a happily married man. Another asks me why his stout has an umbrella in it. I sigh. Britain is so parochial. I did prefer Brussels.

Thursday

“That's the great thing about having you in the Lords,” says Gordon, who is passing through one of his more lucid phases and has even come in from the window sill. “You don't need to worry about voters.” “Voters,” I muse. “Voters. Rings a vague bell.” “Never mind,” says Gordon. “God, I wish I had a whole Cabinet like you. You've got nothing to lose, have you? Everybody hates you already. They call all send you to Coventry and you wouldn't give a damn.” I feel sick. “Please don't send me to Coventry,” I say.

“Figure of speech,” says Gordon.

“Oh,” I say. “Good.”

Friday

If the posties and the union men are bad, all these renegade MPs are even worse. Honestly, I can't imagine why Gordon still bothers with MPs. A bunch of them come to my office. One of them says that my proposals just aren't very popular with the voters.

“That word again,” I say. “Remind me.” “Voters,” repeats the MP. “Come on, Peter. You must remember voters.” He reckons I must once have had some of my own, in some place called Hartlepool.

“Never been there in my life,” I tell him. “But that's exactly my point. That's why part-privatisation is the answer. Companies will compete to deliver stuff to real places, like Notting Hill and Westminster. But the State must stay involved, too, because of these nowheresville backwaters, like Gordon's Coventry, and this Hartlepool of yours, and wherever it was that we picked up that postman.” “Aaaagh,” says the MP. “I hadn't noticed him. Is he okay?” “He's just sleeping,” I say. “It's no concern of yours.”