Lansley tells Cameron: “Back me or sack me”

The Health Secretary issues an ultimatum to Cameron after Clegg’s latest intervention.

After a week that has seen Nick Clegg threaten to dismantle most of Andrew Lansley's key NHS reforms – without a hint of dissent from David Cameron – it's not surprising that the Health Secretary's patience is wearing thin.

Four months ago, Clegg, like almost every other Liberal Democrat MP, voted in favour of the Health and Social Care Bill at its second reading. Yet he now insists that the NHS will not be open to any "any qualified provider" and that the reforms must promote co-operation, rather than competition.

Today's Daily Mail reports that Lansley has told Cameron to "back me or sack me", in a final attempt to persuade the PM to come to his aid. The Health Secretary came close to issuing such an ultimatum in public when he declared: "I don't want to do any other cabinet job. I'm someone who cares about the NHS who happens to be a politician, not the other way around."

Lansley's threat prompts the question: at what point would he walk away? He has already accepted that Monitor, the health regulator, will not be used to enforce competition and that GP-led consortiums will now include nurses and local officials on their commissioning boards. But he is less likely to accept the abandonment of the "any qualified provider" clause – one of the defining features of his proposals.

The key question remains whether Cameron shares Clegg's objections to the reforms, or whether his deputy is merely freelancing. It is hard to see how Cameron could accept Clegg's demands without precipitating Lansley's departure and further antagonising his increasingly restive backbenchers.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood