Stuart Andrew

I would point the hon. Lady to how the NHS was being run in Wales—it certainly was not the great success that she is trying to allude to. In politics there are difficult jobs and there are impossible jobs, and then there is inheriting a Department after one’s predecessor spent two years promising the electorate that this is the one Bill to rule all Bills and fix virtually everything short of death itself. This was not just a hospital pass, but a hospital pass delivered by catapult. One can almost hear the poor Secretary of State gulping. “Thank you, Prime Minister,” he replies faintly, in the tone of a man accepting command of the Titanic after it has already struck the iceberg. Off he trudges to the Department of Health and Social Care, where the automatic doors open and his nostrils are struck immediately by a strange, lingering aroma. It is not the scent of modernisation or the smell of efficiency, and it is certainly not the fragrance of falling waiting lists. No—it is the unmistakeable odour of political panic, mixed delicately with the perspiration of failed leadership manoeuvres and lightly seasoned with the ashes of abandoned promises. There waiting for him, naturally, is Sir Humphrey—because however much Governments modernise, digitise, integrate, recalibrate or synergise, Whitehall always produces a Sir Humphrey. I can imagine the conversation. The new Secretary of State says brightly, “Good news, Sir Humphrey. I understand that my predecessor has already solved everything through the Health Bill.” At this point, an eerie silence descends. Civil servants suddenly become more fascinated by ceiling tiles, and one junior official attempts to escape through a stationery cupboard. Sir Humphrey clears his throat in the way only permanent secretaries can; a sound rather like an early—