Purchasing a pair of rainbow-coloured underpants for a government minister. Explaining what a dental dam is to the Justice Secretary. Having my inside leg measured in a government office. It’s all in a day’s work for the small army of ministerial aides or special advisers that populate Whitehall. I did the job for three-and-a-half years, in four departments, for four Cabinet ministers — and even the seemingly-quiet days can have dramatic consequences.

Dominic Cummings, the then-chief SpAd, wasn’t a fan of us working from home, and tried to ban it — even creating a 6pm meeting in Downing Street every Friday afternoon for the 100 or so of us who did the job. But one particular Friday in February 2019 — before Dominic’s reign — I spent the morning in my university hoodie and jogging bottoms, happily tapping away at my laptop and working on my two phones. (There are only two groups of people who always work on two phones, by the way: SpAds and drug dealers.)

I often got a lot more done at home than when I was in the office, as I avoided constant interruption by civil servants. That morning, I got a call from senior 

 journalist Oliver Wright, the paper’s policy editor. As media special adviser to then-Housing Secretary James Brokenshire, I was in frequent contact with Oliver. Had I heard, he asked, that the controversial housing giant Persimmon was rumoured to be about to post profits of £1 billion? I had not. But Oliver, naturally, wanted a comment.

Number 10 Downing Street — where Dominic Cummings held his infamous Friday afternoon meeting for SpAds


I did a little bit of digging before coming up with a short comment from ‘a source close to James Brokenshire’, as media special advisers are frequently described in the press. I pinged the lines through to Oliver and thought little more of it, getting back to my bulging inbox with my rescue cat, Jack, purring away on my lap. The comment I texted was quite strongly worded: the company had not always acted entirely properly in regard to the government Help to Buy scheme, which allows first-time buyers to get a foot on the property ladder. I checked Twitter that night for the front pages of the next day’s papers, which are put online about 10.30 p.m. 

‘Help to Buy house giant faces loss of contract’, with the first paragraph of a story by Wright and two other journalists reading:

Britain’s most profitable housebuilder faces being stripped of its right to sell Help to Buy homes after allegations of poor standards and hidden punitive charges. James Brokenshire, the housing secretary, is reviewing Persimmon’s participation in the government scheme, which accounted for half of the homes it built last year, The Times has learnt.

A few paragraphs later, Wright quoted the source (me):

“James has become increasingly concerned by the behaviour of Persimmon in the last 12 months,’ the source said. ‘Leasehold, build quality, their leadership seemingly not getting they’re accountable to their customers are all points that have been raised by the secretary of state privately.

“Given that contracts for the 2021 extension to Help to Buy are being reviewed shortly it would be surprising if Persimmon’s approach wasn’t a point of discussion.’ They added: ‘James is clear any new government funding scheme will not support the unjustified use of leasehold for new homes, including Help to Buy.”

 acted entirely honourably in publishing it. A few other journalists from other outlets asked me for similar thoughts over the weekend, but aside from the Times front page it didn’t strike me as a huge story.

Then came the following Monday morning, when the markets opened. The story — which was largely the result of my text to Wright as James’s spokesman — resulted in a 4.9 percent drop in the value of Persimmon by market capitalisation. The company’s worth fell by £387 million in a single day. My phone was red-hot for hours, with journalists asking for further detail about the story and whether other, similar companies could be affected.

There aren’t many roles where, sitting in your jogging bottoms in your bedroom on a Friday morning, you could send a text message that would wipe nearly £400 million off the value of an enormous company. But such is the power and influence of a special adviser.

Sixty years ago, SpAds didn’t really exist, until Prime Minister Harold Wilson formalised the role. I was a broadcast journalist before being recruited to the Northern Ireland Office as media SpAd by Theresa May’s Chief-of-Staff, Fiona Hill. I knew Fiona simply because I had booked Mrs May on numerous occasions for Newsnight, Sky News and other programmes I worked on as a producer. On becoming a special adviser, I immediately joined the Conservative party, but I was never the most tribal Tory, having spent a decade in broadcasting very definitely not having an opinion. Indeed, one of my bosses in government, the former Home Secretary Amber Rudd, once asked me which wing of the Conservative Party I am on. ‘Amber,’ I answered, ‘I’m on the sunshine, lollipops and rainbows wing of the party.’

It is a bit like The Thick Of It sometimes — you need copious quantities of Diet Coke to keep the caffeine up...

So what is a SpAd? There are more of them than ever in government these days — about 115 — and every one of them does the job slightly differently. The key weapons in the fight against the media were my phone, a copy of that’s day’s ‘lines to take’ email on any given issue, copious quantities of Diet Coke to keep the caffeine up, and an emergency Snickers bar, in case your minister has a meltdown and needs a sugar hit as you dash between parliament, Downing Street and the TV studios. Quite simply, you’re an adviser, friend and gopher, advising the minister what to say on Radio 4 as well as reminding them to have a pee beforehand.

 sometimes. But I got to do some really cool stuff too — such as travelling in the Home Secretary’s car with armed police officers, discussing what we would say to Prince Harry and Meghan Markle at a Foreign Office reception as the police opened a road for us. I sat in a small meeting with the President of Colombia, who was over on a state visit, and I advised the Prime Minister what to say in interviews about Brexit and the Irish border. I flew in an RAF plane used by members of the royal family and was called to 10 Downing Street for several meetings a week.

Two of my bosses — the Northern Ireland Secretary and Home Secretary — had 24-hour police protection officers, and these brave officers get to know SpAds and civil servants well, although personal relationships such as the one in the BBC1 drama Bodyguard are strictly prohibited. Saying that, one SpAd did send a cheeky Valentine’s Day card to a protection officer who had worked with their ‘principal’ (minister). The card included the line: ‘No need to fire your Taser to make me go weak at the knees.’

When I was SpAd to the Justice Secretary, Robert Buckland, I was privileged to have an amazing seat for the State Opening of Parliament. Of course I had to dress up in a morning suit and arrive very early. I found myself sitting beside the wife of a long-serving Conservative backbencher, chatting as we waited. Wearing pearls and a twinset, deploying cut-glass vowels and essentially fulfilling almost every stereotype of a Tory wife imaginable, she mentioned that during the recent election campaign, she’d had ‘16 or 17’ campaigners staying at her home.

Having wondered if she and her husband had been forced to open another wing of their no-doubt enormous country pile, I mentioned this story to a Conservative friend, lamenting that the woman’s outlook and background were very much the Tory cliché people associated with our party.

‘Yes,’ my friend remarked. ‘And that is why people hate us.’

Dominic Cummings was a lot scarier: ‘If you leak, you will be marched from your desk' he told us...

You don’t last long as a SpAd, though. I was a greybeard who got three-and-a-half years, but two years is about the maximum you can deal with the hours and demands. The only real exception to this rule is a No 10 legend called Sheridan Westlake (I know, what a great name), whom three Prime Ministers have found totally indispensable.

When it comes to political ‘lifers’ in the SpAd world, Sheridan is unparalleled. Once a week, the doyen of SpAds holds court at end-of-the-week drinks, held at a rotating selection of Westminster pubs. Conservative headquarter newbies and seasoned SpAds alike sit at the feet of the master, as Sheridan dispenses his hard-won wisdom on how to deal with recalcitrant officials, Treasury obfuscation and personnel matters such as pay and conditions. Sheridan’s treasure trove of stories, accumulated over two decades in politics, is imparted to the eager gathering, which laps up every word of the Westlake wisdom.

A lot scarier than lovely Sheridan was Dominic Cummings, who I worked with for about six months before he sacked me.

Many criticise Dominic for his bullishness and bluntness, and while he may not be everyone’s cup of tea, there is no doubt he is a strategic genius: the author of the Brexit campaign victory and the huge majority the Conservatives won in 2019. What I didn’t appreciate was his scheduling — the first week I worked with him, he summoned all the SpAds to a meeting at Downing Street at 7.55am on Monday morning. It was a rude awakening (almost literally in my case, as I was half-asleep) to be told: ‘If you leak, you will be marched from your desk by the head of security at your department, your pass will be taken off you and you will be sacked. You have no rights.’ Duly, these sentiments appeared in 

Dominic Cummings, the SpAd of all SpAds, gets his marching in November 2020


Some mornings are more amusing, though. I remember receiving a text from a colleague the morning after the Brit Awards, which they attended, telling me of the antics of the Work and Pensions Secretary, Therese Coffey MP. ‘The image from the Brits that will be burned into the pinholes of my eyes — perhaps for ever’, the text read, ‘is that of Therese Coffey attempting to twerk to Stormzy.’ As a result, poor Therese has been nicknamed the ‘Twerk and Pensions Secretary’.

Some mornings are even less amusing, though.I lost count of the number of times I had calls from the Today programme at 5.30am. And if a number ever came up on your phone as ‘No Caller ID’, it was either Downing Street or someone trying to help you with mis-sold PPI. The Downing Street calls were always via ‘Switch’ — the switchboard — renowned for its calm, assured operators who connect prime ministers to anyone in the world (and even people checking whether Boris Johnson has ever been involved in an accident that wasn’t his fault.)

Switch has almost every number of anyone the PM could possibly want to contact, the world over. Very occasionally, though, it makes mistakes. Once, a No. 10 official asked to be put through to the then Housing Minister Gavin Barwell. The operator misheard and put him through to a recent guest at a No. 10 reception for musicians. Take That frontman Gary Barlow was slightly baffled to receive a call about housing policy from a Downing Street civil servant. I expect it’s a phone call both will Never Forget.

Often, Switch connected me with the SpAds whose job it was, alongside me, to brief my ministers for TV and radio interviews, which can sometimes run to more than a dozen in a morning ‘round’. They can be asked anything from the number of NHS care beds to ‘Were

bosses right to eject the controversial contestant last night?’ It was always a nervous, bleary-eyed experience when you knew your boss was facing Nick Robinson or Piers Morgan the next morning, and often you’d be up late briefing them before the super-early start to get to the Westminster studios to be bashed around.

Prime Minister, if you’re reading this: you still owe me £2.35, plus 15 years’ interest...

You sometimes get to be in meetings with the Prime Minister, too. I had quite a few encounters with Theresa May, not least on the disastrous 2017 election campaign. Escorting her to a BBC interview on one campaign visit, we were chatting, as usual, about who the reporter was and what she was likely to be asked. Despite everything else going on and the thousands of things on her plate that day, she said, ‘Oh, Peter, someone told me it was your birthday. Happy birthday!’

‘Thank you, Prime Minister,’ I replied, ‘that means a lot.’

‘I’m sure you didn’t expect to be spending it in a conference centre in Derby with me!’ she continued. ‘No, Prime Minister,’ I replied. ‘I was meant to be in the south of France having a nice glass of wine with some friends at this exact moment and then YOU ruined it.’ Thankfully, she burst out laughing. It was a fun moment.

I know Boris Johnson less well, although we go back even further. I was on work experience at 

 in the mid-2000s and he was editor. Sending me on the glamorous intern’s errand of buying his morning coffee, he gave me a handful of coins and said: ‘And get one for yourself, too.’ The cash he gave me covered neither the full cost of his latte nor any of the price of my own cup of tea. So, Prime Minister, if you’re reading this, you still owe me £2.35, plus 15 years’ interest.

More seriously, in early 2020, I sat opposite Boris at the Cabinet table in Downing Street discussing the response to a horrendous attack in Streatham and what the best options were to keep people safe. As I sipped water from the crystal glasses on the Cabinet table embossed with the ‘ER’ insignia, I was both nervous and keen to help as much as possible when the safety of my fellow citizens was discussed. It was a surreal experience, and probably the most important meeting of my SpAd career.

But two weeks later, I was out. After three-and-a-half years of my crazy life in government, it was to come to an end very abruptly in a reshuffle.

My final boss was Robert Buckland, the Justice Secretary, who was re-appointed in the reshuffle, but I was not. He returned to the Ministry of Justice to a round of applause from his senior civil servants. I gave him a big hug and said well done, and he spent a few minutes telling us about the conversation he had had with Boris. Robert was clearly extremely happy, but his face fell a few minutes later when I asked, ‘And did they say anything about SpAds?’ Robert asked my SpAd colleague to leave the room for a few minutes, and before the door had clicked shut I said: ‘I’m out, aren’t I?’ Robert confirmed that was so. Dominic and his team were choosing which SpAds to sack, replace, move to other departments or change their responsibilities, and it was decided that I was for the high jump.

I even had to go to Downing Street to be formally sacked, by Dominic’s lieutenant, a man called Lee Cain, who has since resigned as the government’s director of communications.

Ushered into Lee’s huge office in Downing Street, it was a tad chilling to hear the words uttered: ‘The Prime Minister no longer has confidence in your ability to do your job.’ Not a brilliant line to hear, you’ll agree, although I suppose it does imply that at some stage the Prime Minister did have confidence in me, something I had not previously considered.

As Lee spoke, I raised a wry smile as I reflected on the short shelf life of SpAds and on how sometimes the end is the end, but sometimes it is not. Because it was just a few months earlier that Robbie Gibb, then director of communications in 10 Downing Street under Theresa May, was playing the good cop when bollocking a friend of mine about not sticking to the government grid of stories that were agreed to be announced that week.

Cardwell was dismissed by Lee Cain — the PM&#8217;s spin doctor who would later be controversially fired himself


‘Let me give you two examples’, said Robbie to my friend, ‘of two people – one who played the game and one who did not. Example one: Dylan Sharpe. He did the right thing. He stuck to the grid. He kept us informed. When [Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster] Damian Green had to resign and Dylan lost his job as SpAd at the Cabinet Office, we looked after him. We made him head of broadcasting at No. 10. He’ll always have that on his CV. Now, let me tell you another example. Someone who didn’t play the game. Someone who didn’t stick to the grid. Someone who didn’t keep us informed. Someone who will never set foot in this building again: Lee Cain.’

So as Lee Cain sat in Robbie’s former office, in Robbie’s former chair, sacking me, a little part of me wondered whether I would ever be in this office, or this building, again. One day you are cock of the walk, the next a feather duster. Both Lee and I had realised that at various points.

I walked away from the famous black door of 10 Downing Street as the evening moved from twilight to darkness, thinking of all the new SpAds who would soon be unpacking their things, just starting out on a similar adventure to the one I had embarked on three and a half years previously.

As I slowly approached the black steel gates of Downing Street that had been opened for me hundreds of times but would now be closed to me, perhaps forever, I reflected on the words of David Cameron at his first Prime Minister’s Questions in December 2005.

Cameron, the newly elected Leader of the Opposition, leaned across the dispatch box, stared directly at Tony Blair, pointed at the Prime Minister and reminded the House of Commons: ‘He was the future once.’

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