Government by WhatsApp: diary gossip or a threat to democracy?

“I text Philip May, ‘Leadsom is despicable — Sarah Palin on crack.’” So writes the former MP and Cabinet minister, Alan Duncan (pictured), in his forthcoming political diary In the Thick of It. Judging from the extracts, serialised in the Daily Mail this week, such observations are not just reserved for Leadsom – according to one estimate, Duncan has attacked 27 of his fellow Tory MPs in these extracts alone.

But while such revelations might be shocking – even by a politician’s standards – the words themselves are less interesting than the way in which they were delivered: by text message. Indeed, words like “texted” and “WhatsApp” appear dozens of times. We are accustomed to such techno-speak today, but it’s easy to forget how novel it is – you wouldn’t find these terms in the early volumes of Alastair Campbell’s diaries, let alone the Benn Diaries.

Or take the two latest dramas in British politics – the Alex Salmond scandal and the lobbying scandal involving the former prime minister, David Cameron. Both revolve around text messages. In the case of the latter, the smoking gun is a series of texts Cameron sent to the Chancellor, Rishi Sunak, asking for millions of pounds in Covid loans on behalf of Greensill Capital. 

When New Labour were in power, it was said that Cabinet government had been replaced by “sofa government”. The key decisions were made in small “bilaterals” between Tony Blair, Gordon Brown and key figures such as the late Jeremy Heywood, the former Cabinet Secretary, who is also implicated in the Greensill scandal. With the rise of special advisers (and powerful spouses), this style of government is now the norm.

But thanks to the technological revolution, particularly in terms of smartphones, even sofa government now seems antiquated. As the Greensill scandal proves, a politician does not even need to be in the room to be part of the decision-making process. And even if they are not part of it, Duncan’s book proves that they will still have a lot to say about it. It’s government by WhatsApp.

Nowadays, Parliament itself seems less divided by party than the various WhatsApp groups. Some have proven to be quite influential, such as the European Reform Group (ERG) administered by Steve Baker, which in effect whipped successive votes against Theresa May’s Brexit deal and ultimately helped precipitate the downfall of her government. Politicians and staffers of all stripes are members of such groups. 

But using the world’s most popular messaging app is one thing – using covert apps which allow messages to self-destruct is something else. One such app, Signal, is already used by MPs (and WhatsApp has also recently added this function).

This undoubtedly has implications for democracy. Back during the Brexit saga, Parliament asked the Government to publish digital messages that key officials were sending each other. The Government refused. In the last few weeks, a campaigning group has mounted a legal challenge seeking to stop the use of self-destructive messaging services by ministers, and this might proceed to judicial review.

The problem, as one campaigner associated with the challenge said, is that the current period of British history is at risk of becoming a “black hole”. Of course, the official record, Hansard, is a wonderful and vital source of information. But what about the unofficial record? If Duncan’s diaries are anything to go by, this is where there the real gold is to be found. 

In many ways, journalism is the unofficial record – the “first rough draft of history”. And journalists are the direct beneficiaries of government by text message. The chances are that the juicy quotes you read in your morning paper were texted late at night by a politician to their trusted contact in the press. It’s like Donald Trump’s tweeting, only more secretive.

This is undoubtedly convenient for both politicians and journalists, but some in the media are critical. In a recent article in the New Statesman, one news executive was quoted to have said that “an exclusive is a story you got yourself, not something a politician gave you. You get it through something called journalistic endeavour, not a text sent to you at 10pm”.

It’s a fair point. Yet journalism has always relied on flexible forms of communication. Before text messaging it was crumpled handwritten notes and before that it was the carrier pigeon. Text messaging is simply the latest incarnation – and it has its benefits: it is secure, immediate and can be done anywhere, any time. One wonders how many political careers have been terminated from the back of a cab.

But while texting itself is not a crime, it can of course be a conduit for it. The problem with self-destructive messaging services is that the public will never know whether such crimes have been committed. It is the sort of technology Richard Nixon could only dream of.

There is also something almost Hogarthian about the most powerful people in the land conducting matters of both national and trivial importance (often simultaneously) by text message. If it led to more efficient government this could be forgiven. Judging from Duncan’s diary, however, it certainly seems that politicians spend more time texting each other gossip or leaking stories to the press than reading the briefings in front of them.

A lot of power resides in a small number of fingertips.

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