How to build a speechwriting relationship
In the Autumn of 2022, as the Daily Star livestreamed a wilting 60p lettuce and Liz Truss’s premiership fell apart, a group of government speechwriters from across Whitehall met in the pub opposite Parliament.
It’s a strange thing being a civil servant speechwriter in a high-turnover, post-Brexit world, just as you get used to the whims and ways of your principal, a new one comes along.
By that October, most of us were into our second Secretaries of State of the year, and it was clear that we were about to welcome our third.
As we exchanged anecdotes (and the odd horror story), we realised that as the Tories continued to reshuffle the deck, we were likely to write for each other’s ministers.
In the hope that we could make the transition as smooth as possible, we set up an informal network, ready to pass on the preferences and positions of the incoming politicians.
So, as Andy Burnham mulls over who will be in his cabinet, spare a thought for the Whitehall civil servants who are, once more, preparing for a new bunch of ministers.
Building a relationship with a Secretary of State is never straightforward for a civil‑service speechwriter. Some ministers want to announce more than officials are comfortable with; whilst others rely almost entirely on their political advisers, leaving little room for departmental writers. And in the rush of a private office, you rarely get much time with the person whose voice you’re meant to capture.
So, you make every minute count. In those early days of a new SoS, I’d sit down with private secretaries to learn the basics, whether their boss preferred a lectern or handheld notes, bullet points or full prose, and even their favoured font. I’d watch old speeches, read interviews, and dig through policy papers to get a sense of tone and instinct before we met.
When we finally did get a face-to-face meeting, I focused on their story: why they came into politics, what they loved about their constituencies and what shaped them outside of Westminster.
Those human details are what make a speech sing, and a speaker connect with the audience. So a cancer survivor’s life‑sciences speech carried real weight when rooted in his own experience; a Classics enthusiast lit up when I wove Homer into his remarks and another minister found authority when we drew on his pre‑political career in international forums.
Trust builds slowly, and it is a privilege to write for someone when they are at their most exposed on a stage. I used to think it was important to approach the first few events with caution, until one SoS thought his first COP speech was a bit ‘on the safe side ’, so I ended up writing in a Matt Damon line from The Martian, and he happily promised delegates that the UK would ‘have to science the s**t out of this’. It went down well in the room.
But it is important to listen closely to feedback, and learn how far you can stretch the comfort zone. Over time, as you settle into a rhythm together, the language, rhetoric and anecdotes can become bolder and more impactful.
I always tried to watch the speech itself, to see how it landed, how the audience reacted, and how comfortable the minister felt with the words. I would be writing notes the whole way through, working out what worked and what didn’t. Then I would scan social media and press reaction to see which lines were picked up.
The best speeches are always collaborative. It took me a while to realise this, but red lines, edits and strike‑throughs aren’t criticism; they’re part of the craft, the gradual shaping of ideas until the minister sounds entirely like themselves, only better.
So, as the next wave of ministers prepares to sweep through the departments, spare a thought for the civil servants who’ll once again be sprinting to keep pace and build working relationships with an entirely new set of ministers.