Imagine you’re not a civil servant (an heretical thought, I know) and have an idea that would generate billions in additional revenue for the government at a time when it could rather do with the extra cash.
The chancellor, you’d hope, would be rather glad to hear your idea because the extra money would save her having to rob Peter to pay Paul, as she did in her Budget and the Spring Statement, with the millions of losers that those hard political choices inevitably create.
In theory, the chancellor ought to bite your arm off for an idea like that – but how will she ever get to hear of it?
As a non-civil servant, you don’t know how things tick – but you do know that if you disclose the idea first then try to negotiate a price for it, you’ll be lucky to be sent home with a pat on the head and a £10 M&S voucher instead of the serious financial reward your idea merits.
And unless you’re extremely well connected or her security detail’s popped out for a fag break, you’re unlikely to find yourself stuck in a lift with the chancellor for long enough to deliver your elevator pitch.
Writing to her won’t get anywhere (she’ll never get to see it); you’ll never reach her on the phone if you’re not part of the bureaucratic machine; and you can hardly shout out your confidential idea as her official car swishes through the Downing Street gates.
In any case (and judging only by what you’ve seen in Yes, Minister) you have a hunch that while the minister of the day might well make the ultimate decision, the people you’ll need to convince first (because they’re the people she’ll listen to) are the civil servants who make things happen behind the scenes.
But communicating wth those civil servants is every bit as difficult if you’re an outsider. Their contacts are rarely publicised, they’re probably not the right person you need to speak to anyway, and you can imagine their expression if they do get Mr Nobody from Nowhere blathering away on the phone about an idea that would help the government make billions – a prospect that sounds to them about as credible as Del Boy’s assertion that that “this time next year we’ll be millionaires”.
So the problem remains: how do you sell an idea to the government and be properly rewarded for it?
First, the good news: you can stop pretending not to be a civil servant for now. I’m genuinely not one, so I can do the heavy lifting from now on and give you an idea of how things look from the outside, peeking in.
My multi-billion-pound idea relates to the work of the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency. It’s the only possible client on the entire planet, so I can’t walk off in a huff and say I’ll offer it elsewhere.
I need to strike a deal in which, in principle, the other party agrees to pay me a specified fee if the idea is considered to be both commercially viable and politically acceptable.
That’s all the protection I need. I’m confident the idea would be a goer and make millions of motorists very happy with the DVLA (a first, perhaps?); make the government very happy by generating billions in additional revenue without inflicting pain on any section of society; and give the transport secretary of the day a place in history.
My early attempts to bring this about did not go well.
A letter to the Department for Transport was met with a polite fobbing-off that offered no help at all.
A senior official at the DVLA (who only spoke to me in 2011 because, somehow, by some miracle, I got to the then-permanent secretary and she told him to) suggested an NDA and a face-to-face meeting. Said meeting never happened because he left the organisation shortly afterwards and omitted to tell me.
Only this month, someone in a government office (I shan’t name it, out of kindness) who’s paid specifically to help SMEs do business with the government replied that she couldn’t help me (why?) and suggested I should approach the Crown Commercial Service as they deal with procurement.
But that’s a complete dead end because procurement means the government identifies a need, advertises a contract, and invites people to compete to fulfil it.
As the government doesn’t even know what my idea is, and neither does anybody else, how could it possibly advertise competitive tenders to provide that specific idea?
There must be some mechanism for an entrepreneur or innovator to approach the government directly, strike an in-principle deal, then disclose the idea and take their chances.
But is there?
If so, the government certainly keeps it well hidden. In the meantime, an idea that would make a significant difference to the economy in its very hour of need is languishing here in my head instead of being implemented for the national good.
As this magazine is read almost exclusively by civil servants from permanent secretaries to tea-persons, I’d like to think that at least one of them is thinking “Ignorant fool! Hasn’t he even heard of the Such-And-Such Scheme?” or “I’m a permanent secretary and I’d be happy to give him five minutes, just in case there’s something in it.” Or am I kidding myself?
The need to agree an in-principle fee before disclosing the idea makes this a chicken-and-egg problem.
Can anyone help me crack it?
Jon McKnight is a journalist with decades of experience in print and television, including at the BBC. If you want to help his quest to pitch his idea to government, you can reach him via:
thejonmcknight@icloud.com or linkedin.com/in/thejonmcknight/