Skip to main content

Cliffe notes; autumn changes

The following is a briefing on UK politics I wrote for my boss, Matthew Parris, on Tuesday 18th, covering the previous ten days. 

The air is chillier here now, and not just because of Autumn. Since you’ve been away, EU talks have stalled further. No Deal has risen in prominence. The prospect of economic disaster seems more real, and more worrying, than ever before. This is a step change. Speaking personally, the consequences of Brexit have always felt quite abstract for me. They still do, partly because there seem so many possible outcomes, but No Deal is beginning to get under my skin. Even worse is the problem we’ve had since the referendum: no big figure in either main party is willing to tell the truth, at least while the prospect of their own personal success still glimmers. But when has politics ever been different? The referendum, as we’ve said, changed those rules and those laws, but nobody seems to have noticed, and personal fulfilment, whether of ideology or selfish ambition, remains the interpretative lens for British politics, even as the eclipse of our status in the world suggests we ought to be reaching for a more existential one. 

The drift seems to be in Labour’s favour. At PMQs today, Jeremy Corbyn wiped the floor with Theresa May, as only both of them could. He was sharper than usual, tossing out whipsmart repartee, and trouncing the prime minister on the economy. As ever, though he won, he lacked anything resembling a killer touch. She went through the motions, like a Labour adviser playing the part of a generic Tory PM for the Leader of the Opposition to practice against. You know, ‘Labour government, debt & mess’, ‘Tories for the strong economy’. To jeers she talked about an energy cap bringing fairness, and you felt even more that her ‘Tory strong economy’ line was empty backbencher rote. 

Jeremy Cliffe, ex-Bagehot columnist and Economist Berlin Bureau chief, started a political party on twitter and then resigned twelve hours later from the leadership. I thought one of the more interesting aspects of his sally was the derisive reaction from political journalists. Put simply, there’s not much good faith out there. Yes Cliffe's idea was probably foolish and maybe it’s just Twitter. But Twitter can strangle things at birth. 

Another issue coursing through the body politic these last few days has been the continuing fallout from the Harvey Weinstein allegations. The hashtag #MeToo has been trending all over social media (by which I mean Facebook and Twitter), as women share their experiences of sexual harrassment, both in the workplace and in general life. The revelations have been astonishing and depressing. A huge portion of women appear to have been assaulted, groped, or aggressively pursued. It is generating a great deal of momentum. It may be that in twenty years we look back at the Weinstein scandal as a fundamental shift in male/female relations. There is a definite sense of watershed. But, as ever, the online world can be like sticking your head under the shower, you’re overwhelmed by the sound of the water, yet step outside and you can forget it in a moment. The trick is judging when the rubicon has been crossed, so to speak. At the least, I feel women will be much more confident in calling out, as the lexicon has it, inappropriate behaviour. There will too, no doubt, be a counter-revolution of sorts at some point. Indeed some of this has already taken place on the online pages of the Spectator, with the usual grim suspects (Young, Delingpole) duking it out with the forces of light. Fraser Nelson ought to cleanse the Spectator of their rubbish (the two predictables), no matter how many clicks they bring in.

In summary, there is, at some level, a sense of change: the Brexit talks appear to be going from bad to worse; the silent dominance of men over women appears to be close to ending. But support for Brexit has not fallen off a cliff, nor indeed has support for the Tories, despite their struggles. And it remains to be seen how quickly or effectively the online awakening about sexual harassment and assault will spread into the analogue world. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The smallest gold train in the world

There’s a cannon in the Kremlin so big it’s never been fired in anger; no cannon ball has ever left its cavernous aperture. The Tsar Cannon keeps guard, uselessly, as waves of tourists stream past. Just down the path lies the Tsar Bell, the largest bell ever cast. But a huge, ten ton chunk broke off during the casting and its note has never sounded. They’re both massive and imposing, and designed only ever to be those.  The Kremlin is full of such stuff, spanning the mega, the mini, and all in between. Elsewhere there were swords, regalia, thrones, helmets, shields, and guns. All owned by Prince this and Tsar that. There was a throne for the twin Tsars, complete with a secret compartment from which their mother and regent could whisper to them. And then, as if it were totally normal, you stumble into a side room and come eye to eye with a fully stuffed horse. The best bit was the royal carriages. These ornate wooden traps, often entirely gilded, or painted a deep maroon, w...
Post a Comment
Read more
I’ve been at war with rodents.  On the street where I lived in Brixton I’d see them sometimes, big, well fed, three or four convulsing a bin bag. Once, some rats even moved in underneath the tarpaulin on our roof terrace, after the fox, our first tenant, had cleared out. Climbing up the rusty fire escape towards our front door, I’d hear them squeak and see them scurrying away. Sometimes I chased them beneath the stairs, cornered them, and then wondered what, exactly, I’d planned to do. Probably I would have yelped and run away if Mister Ratto ever charged me. Eventually, though, we twigged to the rodent colony, binned the tarp, and rid ourselves of the rats.  Fast forward a year and to a new house, new challenger. These were smaller, less intimidating, more insidious, than their ratty cousins. They chosen method of warfare was psychological. I’d wake in the middle of the night to ‘eek eek eek’, the scratching of mousine claws on some err, protein powder (I can explain...
Post a Comment
Read more

Pt 2: Joseph Paxton vs the Dinosaurs

As often happens with places you see on a map, on the ground I felt a bit lost. There was the giant, six-lane Crystal Palace Parade, and then a confusing series of one way streets forming a triangle. This…is it, I thought, feeling deflated.  And so it was. I hopped through the three lanes, looking for somewhere to sit and ‘soak up the incredible atmosphere of Crystal Palace’ as I’d told myself in my head. The portents were not great, I have to say. As I crossed one junction the people in the car next to me were having a huge argument with the passenger window down.  ‘Well you’ll just have to let me out right here, won’t you’, said the passenger to the driver as they crossed the big junction onto the equally big quasi-motorway. If he’d been let out he would have been squashed in an instant. He looked mid 30s, with a big beard, and seemed petulantly angry. ‘I can’t put up with this any more.’ Yikes! I was sad to see them turn away. I wanted to keep listening. But on...
Post a Comment
Read more