G. K. Chesterton wrote that the human race (“to which so many of my readers belong”) has a favourite game called Cheat the Prophet: “The players listen very carefully and respectfully to all that the clever men have to say about what is to happen in the next generation. The players then wait until all the clever men are dead, and bury them nicely. Then they go and do something else.”
David Boyle's new book celebrates this spirit. The future has arrived, but it is not what the clever men planned.
It is clear from Authenticity that David and I come from precisely the same generation. We both remember getting TV21 comic every week, watching James Burke and Raymond Baxter on Tomorrow’s World and being woken to see Neil Armstrong walking on the moon.
So we grew up expecting to inherit a world of tower blocks, nuclear power and landings on Mars. Later fashions changed, technology moved on and we were meant to look forward to a future of cyborgs, supercomputers and virtual reality in which humans were largely redundant. One thing was sure about both visions of the future: food would come in pills or plastic tubes.
Instead, David writes, today we live in a society where “Organic food is enjoying an explosion of interest on both sides of the Atlantic. Cookery TV programmes and cookery books are some of the most popular. Farmers markets, stuffed with fresh produce straight from the farm, are popping up in towns and cities all over the country.”
He attributes the arrival of this very different future to the rise of a social group he identifies as New Realists. They can come from any class or age group, but what unites them is a desire for authenticity. And authenticity, says David, “may mean natural or beautiful, it may mean rooted geographically or morally, but behind all that it means human.”
He traces this search for the real through chapters on business, food, culture, relationships and politics. Real politics in particular seems a difficult idea, but David sees hope in a number of developments. He points to the trend towards decentralising power in Britain, and in America to the hunger for finance reform in Presidential elections and the decision of a number American States to enforce 'clean elections', with strict spending limits and public funding of campaigns.
One of the great virtues of Authenticity is its optimism. For decades those who champion these authentic values have been in retreat, but here there is a cautious sense that history is now on their side. David talks of a new Renaissance that is giving humanity back some dignity and challenging “those old industrial attitudes that people are controllable cogs in machines that our business and political leaders cling to”.
Another strength of the book is its refusal to look to the state for salvation. So much of what passes for left-wing or radical politics these days fails to get beyond a demand for more public spending and the employment of more people in the public sector. David, by contrast, dismisses slogans like 'education for all' and 'justice for all' as "re-heated rhetoric of the 1940s". They have been sucked dry of meaning and now just sounds patronising. Instead he looks with hope to the upsurge of local activism taking place far beyond the Westminster village.
If there is a criticism of this book it is that “authentic” and “real” are slippery concepts. We nod in agreement when David writes of “a longing for something we can't quite put our fingers on,” but a study of the many things that have been claimed as “natural” over the years shows that there could be problems. It is also hard to escape the feeling that the things the New Realists are against are all too real: it's the alternatives that are worryingly nebulous.
But these are minor criticisms of a fascinating book. What I like best about Authenticity is that it is a work of social criticism. In the nineteenth century being a social critic was a respected role – practically a profession – but today the activity is out of fashion. The right thinks the market can do no wrong, and the left is always ready to pounce on elitism.
But David manages to be clear-eyed about the worst of current society and hopeful about the future. Which makes this a thoroughly enjoyable – and thoroughly Liberal – book.
The years from the end of the First World War to the Orpington by-election represent the Dark Ages of British Liberalism. The achievements of Gladstone and Asquith and the advances of recent decades are familiar to us, but the period between remains a mystery.
Alun Wyburn-Powell’s biography of the man who led the Liberal Party between 1945 and 1956 is a welcome event, not least because it helps recover this lost history. He lists his sources meticulously and makes particular use of recent work by members of the Liberal Democrat History Group.
Clement Davies emerges as an attractive figure – not the dour Nonconformist one imagined, but a successful barrister and company director with friends across the political spectrum. He was born in 1884, and Lloyd George tried to persuade him to fight a winnable seat as early as 1910. He finally entered the Commons in 1929 as MP for Montgomeryshire, finding a party in the doldrums. The excitement of the Yellow Book years was gone, and Liberal MPs were soon to split over their attitude to Ramsay MacDonald's National Government.
Davies supported the National Government and was unopposed at the 1931 and 1935 elections as a consequence. This led to tensions with his constituency party but freed him to do good works. Wyburn-Powell describes his service on the West Africa Commission and chairing of an inquiry into tuberculosis in Wales, but one would like to know more about the Ice Cream Bill he piloted through the Commons in 1937.
In private things were less smooth. Davies experienced intermittent drink problems and, bizarrely and cruelly, three of his four children were to die in unrelated incidents at the age of 24. Stanley Davies, the youngest child, admitted to a sense of relief on reaching his 25th birthday.
Davies became leader almost by default when only 12 Liberals were returned in 1945. His position was complicated by the expected return of the previous incumbent, Sir Archibald Sinclair, and the high profile of loose canons like Megan Lloyd George and Violet Bonham Carter. By 1951 things were even worse: there were only six Liberal MPs, and two of them owed their seats to local pacts with the Conservatives.
When Winston Churchill offered Davies a Cabinet seat as part of a Tory-Liberal coalition that year, it was in part a sentimental gesture towards his old party. Had Davies accepted, it would surely have led to the Liberals’ disappearance as an independent force. But he turned Churchill down, making the later revival under Jo Grimond possible. Davies heard of the victory at Orpington a few days before he died in 1962.
Perhaps Davies’ greatest achievement was his co-ordination of the opposition to Neville Chamberlain in 1940. He worked with dissidents in all parties to ensure that Chamberlain fell and was replaced by Churchill.
After the Norway debate, reports Wyburn Powell, one of Lord Beaverbrook’s employees exclaimed: “Thank God we’ve got a new Prime Minister.” Beaverbrook replied: “Don’t thank God, thank Clem Davies.”
Jeremy Hargreaves argues that the way our
party makes policy is flawed. The current system, which sees working groups draw
up detailed policy papers which are submitted to the Federal Policy Committee
(FPC) and then to Conference, is too slow and its outcome reflects professional
opinion more than Liberal Democrat ideals.
The system is certainly cumbersome. Groups
typically meet for 18 months or two years, and some for longer than that. A
paper we will debate at Bournemouth was commissioned nearly three years ago.
One effect of this is to limit what
Conference can debate, as policy motions are not accepted if they cover topics
that are about to be or have just been the subject of policy papers. Given the
stately pace at which things move, this rules out an awful lot of interesting
subjects. There is much to be said for Jeremy's idea of having more topical
debates that are not tied to the policy process.
And the current system is dominated
by professional opinion. Advertisements appear in this newspaper asking people
to apply to serve on a working group. When FPC chooses between them, those who
work in that field tend to be favoured. They then receive a brief which is no
more than a list of topics FPC would like to see considered; there is rarely any
political guidance offered.
When the group produces its paper, FPC may
ask for parts to be rewritten in clearer language but it rarely questions the
conclusions. And if you believe that the Liberal Democrat Conference scrutinises
policy papers, think again. Not one of the 62 papers put to it since the party
was formed has been rejected.
All this explains why we often see Liberal
Democrat policy implemented by other parties. That policy is chiefly a
reflection of expert opinion in a given field, and those experts will be telling
other parties much what they tell us. Jeremy argues that we need policies with a
stronger infusion of Liberal Democrat ideology. In other words, policies that
other parties will disagree with.
Our policy process matters, and this pamphlet deserves to be widely read and acted upon. Jeremy spoke about his ideas at a Bournemouth fringe meeting organised by Liberator magazine, and you can order Wasted Rainforests from him for £2.50 at 21a Huntingdon Street, London N1 1BS (jeremy@jeremyhargreaves.org).
During their first brush with fame in the 1960s John Bird and John Fortune would entertain audiences at Peter Cook’s Establishment Club by simply reading out official documents. As their present-day collaborator Rory Bremner says, such publications are often funnier than anything a scriptwriter can produce.
Rowan Candappa also appreciates the comic possibilities of a deadpan account of real events. He describes Tony Blair’s career, emphasising the run up to the conflict in Iraq. His model is Mark Haddon’s bestseller The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, which is narrated by a 15-year-old autistic boy. The clever thing about Haddon’s book is that its style, which reflects the hero’s difficulty understanding human emotion, is nevertheless extremely moving.
Candappa is no Haddon, and his Anthony Algernon St Michael Blair owes much to Adrian Mole and the secret diary of John Major that Private Eye used to run. I am sure it was their Major who first owned a Letts Prime Minister’s Diary. But The Curious Incident of the WMD in Iraq is consistently amusing and the product of thorough research.
We first meet Blair at Fettes College, which was “Just like Harry Potter. Except that back then I couldn’t do magic”. A profound thinker – he stresses his belief in “The People’s God” – he gravitated to politics. He recalls that as an aspiring Labour candidate “it was very important to wear the right badges. My best badge was a CND badge. I used to wear it all the time.”
Once at Westminster the young Blair set about reforming the party with his friends Peter and Gordon. (“This was not the 1960s singing duo Peter and Gordon as I first thought.”) He soon became leader, changing its name to “New Labour” after toying with “I Can’t Believe We’re Not Tories”.
As prime minister he preferred to leave domestic affairs to Gordon. Abroad, it was easier to know “The Right Thing To Do”. So after 9/11 he was happy to help George W. Bush defeat the “Dangerous and Uncontrollable Rogue State of Afghanistan and its Evil Taliban masters by doing Bombing Back To The Middle Ages”.
They then turned to Iraq, but “George must have been really busy at this point because he didn’t have time to ring me and get me involved in any of this planning and decision making”. The invasion took place even so and we are still living with the consequences.
Mark Haddon’s narrator concludes by announcing his ambition to take a first class honours degree and become a scientist. Anthony Algernon St Michael Blair’s career may not end so happily.
There can be few politicians who have never progressed beyond junior cabinet rank yet seen their name enter the language. One such was the subject of this biography – the begetter of the Belisha beacon.
It is Leslie Hore-Belisha’s achievements as transport minister (1934-7) and secretary of state for war (1937-40) that most interest Ian Grimwood. Hore-Belisha was first elected as Liberal MP for Plymouth Devonport in 1923, but by the time he held office he had joined the Liberal Nationals – the grouping that crossed the floor to support a National government increasingly dominated by the Conservatives.
Few now appreciate the carnage that reigned in the early years of motoring. Hore-Belisha himself, as a former journalist with an eye for a headline, referred to it as “mass murder”. In 1934, the year he took office, 7,343 people were killed on the roads. (The figure for 2005 was 3,201.) He tackled this by rewriting the Highway Code, introducing the driving test, improving dangerous junctions – and bringing in pedestrian crossings, of course. The result was a significant drop in casualties.
Hore-Belisha found life harder at the War Office. He
was a supporter of rearmament against the Nazi threat, but his attempts to
improve the life of the common soldier brought him into contact with the
military establishment. The top
brass’s animus against him was also fuelled by blatant antisemitism, and they
evenually succeeded in having him sacked by Neville Chamberlain.
After
that Hore-Belisha emerged as something of a critic of the conduct of the war
under Churchill. That’s right, John Reid and John Prescott, even at our
darkest hour everyone understood the importance of free debate if we were to
find a way to save ourselves.
Hore
Belisha resigned from the Liberal Nationals in 1942 to sit as an independent,
and served in the short-lived Conservative “Caretaker” government of 1945 as
Minister for National Insurance.
In the
1945 election, standing as a National Independent, he was defeated by Labour’s
Michael Foot. He later joined the Tories and was elected to Westminster City
Council in 1947. He unsuccessfully fought Coventry South in 1950, and Churchill
gave him a peerage in 1954. Leslie Hore-Belisha died in 1957.
This book tells you all you want to know about Hore-Belisha’s ministerial career – in all honesty, it probably tells you more than you want to know about it. Yet there are some interesting political questions that are not discussed in such detail.
In particular, was the Liberal Nationals’ absorption into the Conservative Party inevitable? We tend to assume that it was, and Ernest Brown, the party’s wartime leader who served in Churchill’s cabinet, must be the most profoundly forgotten figure in British political history.
Yet things may not be as simple as that. Clement Davies also sat as a Liberal National, but he returned to the fold to lead the Liberal Party and ensure that it survived as an independent force.
Hore-Belisha’s own break with the mainstream Liberals seems to have come about at least in part because he did not trust Lloyd George, thinking him too close to the Labour Party. But then plenty of good radicals, such as Charles Masterman and Percy Harris, did not trust Lloyd George in 1918. So maybe the Liberal Nationals deserve more attention from the historians.
In short, Hore-Belisha was a charismatic young MP for Plymouth Devonport who enjoyed early success, changed parties, fancied himself an expert on defence but ended his career in obscurity. Does that remind you of anybody?