Why does it matter how Jeremy Corbyn dresses? Given all the many other things of which one can accuse the leader of the Labour Party, his somewhat scruffy attire is surely one of the least objectionable things about him?
Well, maybe so. But the outrage of Corbyn's supporters over David Cameron's remarks in Parliament during Wednesday's Prime Minister's Questions is still opportunistic, hypocritical opprobrium of the highest order.
Those who say that politics should be about ideas and policies, not about appearance – and that Cameron should be engaging with Corbyn's arguments, rather than making snide remarks about how he dresses – might have a point if they hadn't spent the past six years taking every opportunity to bring up irrelevant personal issues such as which school the Prime Minister went to, along with endless tedious references to the Bullingdon Club, photos of the Prime Minister in formal white tie attire (which are evidently supposed to make us think badly of him, for some reason), and an endless stream of increasingly tiresome 'PigGate' 'jokes' on social media.
The left-wing journalist and commentator Steve Topple wrote in The Independent that Cameron's use of 'personal attacks' against Corbyn proved the Prime Minister had 'lost it'. A quick check through Mr Topple's Twitter account reveals he's not above a few 'personal attacks' himself. It takes a special sort of unscrupulous chain-puller to deploy those kind of tactics against someone for years, then get on your high horse the moment it is returned in kind.
But all of this rather misses the point. Because actually, Corbyn's appearance does matter.
Maybe it doesn't matter very much. Maybe it matters an awful lot less than Trident or Hamas or austerity or housing or anything like that. But it does matter.
Partly, of course, because how you choose to present yourself to the world matters. For anyone. Your clothes, your hair, the way you speak, how you act – all of these things send an instant message to people about what kind of person you are. In politics, where so much of the job is about communicating well, it is foolish to assume these things have no significance. As in any job, if you want people to take you seriously, start by taking yourself seriously – and show up looking like you actually give a damn.
But also because, as Leader of the Opposition, Jeremy Corbyn is lining himself up as a potential next Prime Minister himself. He is asking an electorate to look at him, and choose him to be the person who represents Britain on a global stage. That's not a trivial thing.
Polling has shown us that one of the reasons Labour lost last year's general election is because the public simply didn't see Ed Miliband as a Prime Minister-in-waiting – and nobody could say he wasn't trying. In his ill-fitting, shabby brown jacket that looks like he picked it up in an Oxfam shop, voters don't see Jeremy Corbyn as someone who can go to the United Nations, or the G20, and make people take Great Britain seriously. Facing David Cameron across that dispatch box is an audition to be more than just a backbench MP agitating for fringe causes – to be a statesman. And Corbyn is not coming off well.
Showing posts with label ed miliband. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ed miliband. Show all posts
Friday, 26 February 2016
Saturday, 2 May 2015
What's in a name?
One thing which really annoyed me when I was watching the BBC Question Time special on Thursday evening, with all three main party leaders answering questions from an audience, was the over-use of people's names.
All three party leaders did it. A question would come from an audience member called, say, Joseph. "Well, Joseph, I think that's a really good question…" David Cameron, Ed Miliband or Nick Clegg (whoever's turn it was to face the audience) would begin in response. (It always is 'a really good question', isn' it? These politicians never tell an audience member that what they've just said is an absolute load of nonsense, do they? Even when it is…)
It's a device politicians use to seem personable, reasonable, down-to-earth people who genuinely care about the people they're talking to. But it doesn't wash, because it sounds rehearsed and stilted, and is obviously something their exorbitantly expensive voice coaches have trained them to do. It is a perfect example of the polished faux-sincerity which, rather than making politicians look like 'real people', just makes them seem slimy and willing to do anything to ingratiate themselves with voters. (It is probably worth pointing out that politicians, like as not, don't actually want to do this – but they feel they have to, because there is a perception that we, the voters, want to see politicians who behave like 'ordinary people'. Even though we then crucify them for giving us what we so often seem to be telling them we want from them.)
Ed Miliband, however, took this device a step further on Thursday, though. As well as using the names of audience members whose names had already been given (either by them, or by David Dimbleby), the Labour Party leader went out of his way to find out the name of anyone else who asked him anything as well. It was obvious that the only reason he was asking for people's names before going on to answer (or, in some cases, before going on to avoid answering) their questions was so that he could shoehorn his little "I'm a nice, genuine guy, honest!" gambit in before going on to say anything of any worth.
Unfortunately, the fact that he did this – and did it so obviously, too – made him appear the opposite of genuine, decent and reasonable. He came over as someone who can't answer a straight question without relying on the 'crutch' of little pre-prepared phrases and tricks designed to make him look good. It also made him seem profoundly creepy, asking people for their names, taking an unnatural interest in them as people and constantly returning to them, repeating their full name in little idioms which had obviously been carefully worked out in advance.
I would implore all politicians to drop this faux-sincerity that makes them look like such creepy trie-hards, and instead just be genuine; actually genuine – not forced 'genuine' which has clearly been carefully rehearsed to fit certain criteria. As with any performance, you come over best when you relax, and don't try so hard to look like you really, really want to be there.
All three party leaders did it. A question would come from an audience member called, say, Joseph. "Well, Joseph, I think that's a really good question…" David Cameron, Ed Miliband or Nick Clegg (whoever's turn it was to face the audience) would begin in response. (It always is 'a really good question', isn' it? These politicians never tell an audience member that what they've just said is an absolute load of nonsense, do they? Even when it is…)
It's a device politicians use to seem personable, reasonable, down-to-earth people who genuinely care about the people they're talking to. But it doesn't wash, because it sounds rehearsed and stilted, and is obviously something their exorbitantly expensive voice coaches have trained them to do. It is a perfect example of the polished faux-sincerity which, rather than making politicians look like 'real people', just makes them seem slimy and willing to do anything to ingratiate themselves with voters. (It is probably worth pointing out that politicians, like as not, don't actually want to do this – but they feel they have to, because there is a perception that we, the voters, want to see politicians who behave like 'ordinary people'. Even though we then crucify them for giving us what we so often seem to be telling them we want from them.)
Ed Miliband, however, took this device a step further on Thursday, though. As well as using the names of audience members whose names had already been given (either by them, or by David Dimbleby), the Labour Party leader went out of his way to find out the name of anyone else who asked him anything as well. It was obvious that the only reason he was asking for people's names before going on to answer (or, in some cases, before going on to avoid answering) their questions was so that he could shoehorn his little "I'm a nice, genuine guy, honest!" gambit in before going on to say anything of any worth.
Unfortunately, the fact that he did this – and did it so obviously, too – made him appear the opposite of genuine, decent and reasonable. He came over as someone who can't answer a straight question without relying on the 'crutch' of little pre-prepared phrases and tricks designed to make him look good. It also made him seem profoundly creepy, asking people for their names, taking an unnatural interest in them as people and constantly returning to them, repeating their full name in little idioms which had obviously been carefully worked out in advance.
I would implore all politicians to drop this faux-sincerity that makes them look like such creepy trie-hards, and instead just be genuine; actually genuine – not forced 'genuine' which has clearly been carefully rehearsed to fit certain criteria. As with any performance, you come over best when you relax, and don't try so hard to look like you really, really want to be there.
Wednesday, 22 April 2015
Is Ed's #Milifandom a force for good?
I think it's fair to say that the news of Ed Miliband having his own 'fandom' has come as a bit of a surprise to most of the politics world. While some people are content to praise the teenagers who have developed a strange obsession with the Labour leader for 'proving that young people do care about politics', and for 'helping other young people to engage', the whole thing seems to me to be rather sinister…
Started up by Twitter user '@twcuddleston', and gaining momentum and breakneck speed, the 'MiliFandom' is one of those strange, left-field phenomena which no one could ever have predicted would be filling news columns just a few weeks out from a general election. Ed Miliband having his own ‘fandom’ of adoring teenage girls would’ve seemed extraordinarily unlikely even just a couple of weeks ago – but a quick search on Twitter and an article on BuzzFeed confirm that this is in fact the case.
Personally, I have always found the ‘fandom’ concept a little odd – it is a strangely cultish attachment to an icon whose cultural significance is transient and often quite flimsy (most likely a pop star, or television programme). Ultimately, however – although these things do sometimes have a dark side – they tend to be relatively harmless; the kind of teenage obsessions many people have felt, fuelled by the passions and the certainty of youth, which subside as we progress into ever more bewildered adulthood.
When it comes to politicians, though, I’m not sure this is actually the case. Most ‘fandoms’ start out as a genuine liking for that particular thing – but this quickly morphs into besotted fanaticism where the object of the fandom’s adoration can do no wrong. This is why the most obsessive fans of pop singer Justin Bieber still leap to his defence even when he is caught drink-driving, or when he is seen on video spitting at his own fans.
From a rational, objective standpoint, this is disgraceful, indefensible behaviour and Bieber should be hauled over the coals for it; his ‘fandom’, however, make excuses for him and defend him, because their idol could never be to blame. And in doing so, members of the ‘fandom’ signal to each other what die-hard fans they truly are; somebody who enjoys Bieber’s music, but believes drink-driving is just not on, is not enough of a ‘true fan’ – the more obsessive you become about your hero, the more of a real fan you are, and the more you prove your unwavering faith to the rest of your peers in the ‘fandom’.
I don’t believe we should see politicians this way. We should respect them for taking on a difficult, often thankless, but incredibly important job – and we should give them credit when they do it well (something we currently do nowhere near enough) – but we should also view them with a healthy scepticism, not with wide-eyed adulation, or with the dogmatic devotion of religious zealots. In despotic dictatorships, political leaders demand to be worshipped; they demand unthinking praise, and total fealty even in the face of rational criticism. The cult of personality around 'the leader' in North Korea is particularly intense. In such climates, questioning a politician – or any authority – is unthinkable.
Ed Miliband has not demanded this deification – in fact, he seems slightly embarrassed by it – but it is disturbing all the same. The blinkered hero-worship of ‘fandoms’ is the antithesis of rational debate and the exchange of ideas; no matter how much it might help young people to 'engage' with 'issues', when politics becomes about the former, not the latter, we are all in trouble.
Started up by Twitter user '@twcuddleston', and gaining momentum and breakneck speed, the 'MiliFandom' is one of those strange, left-field phenomena which no one could ever have predicted would be filling news columns just a few weeks out from a general election. Ed Miliband having his own ‘fandom’ of adoring teenage girls would’ve seemed extraordinarily unlikely even just a couple of weeks ago – but a quick search on Twitter and an article on BuzzFeed confirm that this is in fact the case.
Personally, I have always found the ‘fandom’ concept a little odd – it is a strangely cultish attachment to an icon whose cultural significance is transient and often quite flimsy (most likely a pop star, or television programme). Ultimately, however – although these things do sometimes have a dark side – they tend to be relatively harmless; the kind of teenage obsessions many people have felt, fuelled by the passions and the certainty of youth, which subside as we progress into ever more bewildered adulthood.
When it comes to politicians, though, I’m not sure this is actually the case. Most ‘fandoms’ start out as a genuine liking for that particular thing – but this quickly morphs into besotted fanaticism where the object of the fandom’s adoration can do no wrong. This is why the most obsessive fans of pop singer Justin Bieber still leap to his defence even when he is caught drink-driving, or when he is seen on video spitting at his own fans.
From a rational, objective standpoint, this is disgraceful, indefensible behaviour and Bieber should be hauled over the coals for it; his ‘fandom’, however, make excuses for him and defend him, because their idol could never be to blame. And in doing so, members of the ‘fandom’ signal to each other what die-hard fans they truly are; somebody who enjoys Bieber’s music, but believes drink-driving is just not on, is not enough of a ‘true fan’ – the more obsessive you become about your hero, the more of a real fan you are, and the more you prove your unwavering faith to the rest of your peers in the ‘fandom’.
I don’t believe we should see politicians this way. We should respect them for taking on a difficult, often thankless, but incredibly important job – and we should give them credit when they do it well (something we currently do nowhere near enough) – but we should also view them with a healthy scepticism, not with wide-eyed adulation, or with the dogmatic devotion of religious zealots. In despotic dictatorships, political leaders demand to be worshipped; they demand unthinking praise, and total fealty even in the face of rational criticism. The cult of personality around 'the leader' in North Korea is particularly intense. In such climates, questioning a politician – or any authority – is unthinkable.
Ed Miliband has not demanded this deification – in fact, he seems slightly embarrassed by it – but it is disturbing all the same. The blinkered hero-worship of ‘fandoms’ is the antithesis of rational debate and the exchange of ideas; no matter how much it might help young people to 'engage' with 'issues', when politics becomes about the former, not the latter, we are all in trouble.
The myth of the 'Progressive Alliance'
The BBC's Challengers' Debate which aired last Thursday was interesting for several reasons. It was particularly strange to see Ed Miliband – remember him? 'Hopeless' or 'useless' Ed Miliband – come off surprisingly well, seeming the sanest, most serious option with the most credibility compared with the leaders of four minor, rather parochial parties.
One of the most frustrating things, however, was the evidence that the concept of a 'Progressive Alliance' – of all the parties who are even vaguely on 'the left' of British politics teaming up to work together 'for the common good' – still hasn't died the death it richly deserves.
In the UK, we live in a multi-party democratic system; something which most 'progressives' consider a good thing, and would want to increase. "Multi-party politics is here to stay!" claims the Electoral Reform Society, who say they campaign for 'a better democracy'. Why, then, do the leaders and representatives of self-professed 'progressive' parties forsake this view when push comes to shove, and instead attempt to reduce politics to a simple, binary choice between 'the Tories' and 'not the Tories'?
On the BBC debate last week, Scottish National Party leader Nicola Sturgeon made an offer to Ed Miliband, claiming she could help the Labour leader 'lock out the Tories' (a stance which is rather at odds with the SNP's earlier claims that Labour and the Conservatives are 'all the same' – if this were really the case, why would Sturgeon be happy to work with one but not with the other?). The implication of this exchange between Sturgeon and Miliband, however, is that it is actually Labour and the SNP (and the Green Party, Plaid Cymru, and anyone else who comes under the broad 'progressive' banner) who are 'the same' – simply by dint of not being the Tories.
There may be some common ground between these parties (both the SNP and Labour are advocating a 'Mansion Tax', for example), but there are fundamental differences, too. Even aside from the most obvious split between the parties – that the Labour Party is innately unionist, whilst the SNP have long campaigned for Scotland's independence – there are other issues on which the parties are divided (for example, on the renewal of the Trident Nuclear Deterrent, which Ed Miliband explicitly said he supported during last week's debate on the BBC). Add into this mix the Green Party – which might agree with the SNP on Trident, but has starkly different plans from Labour in areas such as immigration, education, and a referendum on Britain's membership of the European Union – and Plaid Cymru – who oppose welfare caps and are looking for billions more funding to devolved Wales – and we can see that the concept of the 'progressive alliance' airbrushes the heterogeneity of these different parties and their diverse aims and policies, instead assuming that anybody who doesn't vote for the Conservatives automatically dream the same dream and want the same thing.
This doesn't mean that these parties could not work together in a coalition government, or in a 'supply and confidence' voting arrangement – we have been governed for the last five years by a coalition of two parties who disagree in many areas, after all. But this is different from the suggestion that these parties are all the same because they all disagree with the Conservatives.
Indeed, on some issues, a 'progressive' party may agree more with a party on 'the right' than with their fellow left-wingers. For example, the Green Party propose to hold a referendum on Britain's rôle in the EU (although they would campaign for Britain to stay in); the Conservatives have also promised an EU referendum, but Labour (much more a natural ally of the Greens, you would think) have ruled it out. The Green Party also support scrapping the costly HS2 high-speed rail infrastructure project – another area where they align with UKIP policy instead of with their 'progressive' counterparts in the SNP, Plaid Cymru or Labour. To lump all these 'progressive' parties in together as being in agreement with each other, and as opposing the Tories, consistently and across the board, is simplistic and wrong.
It is worth remembering that, in the UK, you can only vote for a party or candidate – you cannot specifically vote against a party or candidate. It is fallacious to claim that a vote for any one party is automatically a vote against another party, and a de facto rejection of that party's stance on all issues. Any attempt to turn the UK's interesting and diverse plurality of left-wing political parties and movements into one homogeneous bloc with the same views and the same aims, therefore, is extremely facile. The 'progressive alliance' remains, I am afraid, a delusion which exists only in the minds of nerdy politics wonks obsessed with strategies and polls, and naïve left-wing student 'activists'.
One of the most frustrating things, however, was the evidence that the concept of a 'Progressive Alliance' – of all the parties who are even vaguely on 'the left' of British politics teaming up to work together 'for the common good' – still hasn't died the death it richly deserves.
In the UK, we live in a multi-party democratic system; something which most 'progressives' consider a good thing, and would want to increase. "Multi-party politics is here to stay!" claims the Electoral Reform Society, who say they campaign for 'a better democracy'. Why, then, do the leaders and representatives of self-professed 'progressive' parties forsake this view when push comes to shove, and instead attempt to reduce politics to a simple, binary choice between 'the Tories' and 'not the Tories'?
On the BBC debate last week, Scottish National Party leader Nicola Sturgeon made an offer to Ed Miliband, claiming she could help the Labour leader 'lock out the Tories' (a stance which is rather at odds with the SNP's earlier claims that Labour and the Conservatives are 'all the same' – if this were really the case, why would Sturgeon be happy to work with one but not with the other?). The implication of this exchange between Sturgeon and Miliband, however, is that it is actually Labour and the SNP (and the Green Party, Plaid Cymru, and anyone else who comes under the broad 'progressive' banner) who are 'the same' – simply by dint of not being the Tories.
There may be some common ground between these parties (both the SNP and Labour are advocating a 'Mansion Tax', for example), but there are fundamental differences, too. Even aside from the most obvious split between the parties – that the Labour Party is innately unionist, whilst the SNP have long campaigned for Scotland's independence – there are other issues on which the parties are divided (for example, on the renewal of the Trident Nuclear Deterrent, which Ed Miliband explicitly said he supported during last week's debate on the BBC). Add into this mix the Green Party – which might agree with the SNP on Trident, but has starkly different plans from Labour in areas such as immigration, education, and a referendum on Britain's membership of the European Union – and Plaid Cymru – who oppose welfare caps and are looking for billions more funding to devolved Wales – and we can see that the concept of the 'progressive alliance' airbrushes the heterogeneity of these different parties and their diverse aims and policies, instead assuming that anybody who doesn't vote for the Conservatives automatically dream the same dream and want the same thing.
This doesn't mean that these parties could not work together in a coalition government, or in a 'supply and confidence' voting arrangement – we have been governed for the last five years by a coalition of two parties who disagree in many areas, after all. But this is different from the suggestion that these parties are all the same because they all disagree with the Conservatives.
Indeed, on some issues, a 'progressive' party may agree more with a party on 'the right' than with their fellow left-wingers. For example, the Green Party propose to hold a referendum on Britain's rôle in the EU (although they would campaign for Britain to stay in); the Conservatives have also promised an EU referendum, but Labour (much more a natural ally of the Greens, you would think) have ruled it out. The Green Party also support scrapping the costly HS2 high-speed rail infrastructure project – another area where they align with UKIP policy instead of with their 'progressive' counterparts in the SNP, Plaid Cymru or Labour. To lump all these 'progressive' parties in together as being in agreement with each other, and as opposing the Tories, consistently and across the board, is simplistic and wrong.
It is worth remembering that, in the UK, you can only vote for a party or candidate – you cannot specifically vote against a party or candidate. It is fallacious to claim that a vote for any one party is automatically a vote against another party, and a de facto rejection of that party's stance on all issues. Any attempt to turn the UK's interesting and diverse plurality of left-wing political parties and movements into one homogeneous bloc with the same views and the same aims, therefore, is extremely facile. The 'progressive alliance' remains, I am afraid, a delusion which exists only in the minds of nerdy politics wonks obsessed with strategies and polls, and naïve left-wing student 'activists'.
Sunday, 5 April 2015
Campaign getting shirty
It shouldn't matter what politicians wear, should it? Sadly, in the modern age, such image-related issues have become the main focus of election coverage; the politics of personality – of identity – has superseded the politics of ideas in a quite alarming fashion. Which is why the BBC News website today is running a story about what shirts David Cameron, Ed Miliband and Nick Clegg have been wearing on the campaign trail.
It shouldn't matter. And yet, for some reason, it does. It matters because the strangely homogenous garb of political leaders (all three leaders have favoured a dark blue V-neck jumper over a light blue shirt, with dark jeans or trousers) is indicative of the 'no-win' situation many politicians find themselves in. What I mean by that is that politicians are always being told that we (the electorate) want to see politicians who are 'normal', and who act just like 'ordinary people' (whatever that means); they can't go out and about campaigning in a suit and tie, because 'normal people' don't go out in a suit and tie, and they need to look like they're 'one of us'. And yet when they try to look like 'one of us', we lambast them for trying to look 'normal'. Which is pretty mean of us, really.
It's also pretty stupid. This shallow vapidity distracts from the serious side of politics, and while everyone's busy laughing at the Prime Minister trying to be one of 'the kids', or the leader of the Opposition looking silly while eating a bacon sandwich, their policies – which may well be pretty ghastly – go unnoticed.
The fetishisation of 'normal' is not good for British politics. The more we force politicians to behave in the way they think we want them to, ever fearful of putting a toe wrong lest they be laughed out of office by the court of public opinion, the more homogenous and consensual politics becomes, and the less choice there is (or, at least, appears to be) between the different parties and their different leaders. And then we have the temerity to complain that all politicians are 'the same'! Maybe you think politicians are all the same – but as I have remarked before, the incessant whining of the electorate has made politics that way.
It shouldn't matter. And yet, for some reason, it does. It matters because the strangely homogenous garb of political leaders (all three leaders have favoured a dark blue V-neck jumper over a light blue shirt, with dark jeans or trousers) is indicative of the 'no-win' situation many politicians find themselves in. What I mean by that is that politicians are always being told that we (the electorate) want to see politicians who are 'normal', and who act just like 'ordinary people' (whatever that means); they can't go out and about campaigning in a suit and tie, because 'normal people' don't go out in a suit and tie, and they need to look like they're 'one of us'. And yet when they try to look like 'one of us', we lambast them for trying to look 'normal'. Which is pretty mean of us, really.
It's also pretty stupid. This shallow vapidity distracts from the serious side of politics, and while everyone's busy laughing at the Prime Minister trying to be one of 'the kids', or the leader of the Opposition looking silly while eating a bacon sandwich, their policies – which may well be pretty ghastly – go unnoticed.
'How the leaders would dress if they weren't tied to focus groups' would be an interesting feature. I reckon Ed would untuck his shirt.
— Jeremy Duns (@jeremyduns) April 5, 2015
Tuesday, 3 February 2015
I'm out of touch, you're out of time…
As well as being the title of an immortal Hall & Oates song, 'out of touch' remains one of the most frustrating, facile and ultimately meaningless insults in political discourse.
I mean, why bother to argue against the points your political opponents put forward, and the policies they espouse, when you can just discredit them as people in the eyes of the electorate by describing them as 'out of touch' – proud members of an èlite professional political class* so cosseted and so far removed from 'ordinary life' that they have no idea what 'normal' people go through?
Of course, the whole thing is predicated on the idea that everyone wants their politicians to be ordinary and just like them – personally, I can't think of anything worse – but more to the point, it is complete nonsense.
The Daily Mail highlights how 'professional politicians'* like Labour leader Ed Miliband have come under fire for never having had a 'real job' (whatever that means). 'How can a politician hope to run the country properly if he's never even had a real job like real people? He doesn't know what things are like for us! No one fully understands life until they've worked in a shop!' goes the argument. Unfortunately, by that logic, those of us who've never worked in politics have no idea what life is like for politicians, and therefore have no authority to comment on the things they say or do either.
It's time we stopped pretending that 'politics' and 'the real world' exist on two totally separate planes, completely removed from each other. Politics doesn't exist in a bubble; it is a vital part of a functioning society. The decisions of politicians directly affect the rest of us – and what happens in business, in the charitable sector, in the church, etc. also has an impact on politics. Everybody's experiences differ, but we all live in 'the real world' – and plenty of politicians work as hard at their jobs as you do at yours. Now can we please talk about policies, instead of who's worked as a milkman or a ferret-trainer?
* As I have remarked before, there is an ongoing crusade against so-called 'professional politicians' – who are considered axiomatically bad, for some reason – but what's the alternative? Amateur politicians? Yeah, they sound competent…
I mean, why bother to argue against the points your political opponents put forward, and the policies they espouse, when you can just discredit them as people in the eyes of the electorate by describing them as 'out of touch' – proud members of an èlite professional political class* so cosseted and so far removed from 'ordinary life' that they have no idea what 'normal' people go through?
Of course, the whole thing is predicated on the idea that everyone wants their politicians to be ordinary and just like them – personally, I can't think of anything worse – but more to the point, it is complete nonsense.
The Daily Mail highlights how 'professional politicians'* like Labour leader Ed Miliband have come under fire for never having had a 'real job' (whatever that means). 'How can a politician hope to run the country properly if he's never even had a real job like real people? He doesn't know what things are like for us! No one fully understands life until they've worked in a shop!' goes the argument. Unfortunately, by that logic, those of us who've never worked in politics have no idea what life is like for politicians, and therefore have no authority to comment on the things they say or do either.
It's time we stopped pretending that 'politics' and 'the real world' exist on two totally separate planes, completely removed from each other. Politics doesn't exist in a bubble; it is a vital part of a functioning society. The decisions of politicians directly affect the rest of us – and what happens in business, in the charitable sector, in the church, etc. also has an impact on politics. Everybody's experiences differ, but we all live in 'the real world' – and plenty of politicians work as hard at their jobs as you do at yours. Now can we please talk about policies, instead of who's worked as a milkman or a ferret-trainer?
* As I have remarked before, there is an ongoing crusade against so-called 'professional politicians' – who are considered axiomatically bad, for some reason – but what's the alternative? Amateur politicians? Yeah, they sound competent…
Monday, 13 October 2014
Throw away your television
As Douglas Carswell returns to parliament today as the first ever UKIP MP to be elected to the House Of Commons, the issue of whether UKIP leader Nigel Farage should appear in the party leaders' television debates in the run up to next year's general election is once again in the spotlight.
It's easy to think there's no simple answer to this conundrum. Some people say the debates should be restricted to those party leaders who have a realistic chance of becoming the next Prime Minister - in which case, should Liberal Democrat leader Nick Clegg even be included, since the next Prime Minister is likely to be either David Cameron or Ed Miliband? Other people, however, say that UKIP have a right to be included, now that they have parliamentary representation, and can therefore claim to be a serious political movement - but in that case, shouldn't the Green Party, who've been represented in the Commons by Caroline Lucas since 2010, also be involved? And how about parties like Plaid Cymru, the SNP, the DUP, etc. - all of whom have more MPs sitting in Westminster than either UKIP or the Greens?
However, there is a simple answer, and it is this: scrap the television debates.
That's right. Let's get rid of this clunky, unnecessary, counter-productive political device which has been imported from America and shoehorned into our vastly different political system with practically no alterations.
In America, voters have a straight choice between candidate this guy and candidate that guy - the television debates can help to set out the difference between each candidate's vision, and allow people to make a more informed choice when they go to vote. Here in the UK, we have a multi-party parliamentary system; very few of the people watching the debates will actually be voting for David Cameron, Ed Miliband, Nick Clegg or Nigel Farage - and with many parties competing for representation in the House Of Commons, looking to influence policy, the choice facing British voters is not a simple 'this or that' decision.
The televised leaders' debates serve to make our electoral system seem more presidential, and in doing so, diminish the link between local MPs and their constituents. They oversimplify politics in a way which doesn't serve the country at all. It's time to admit that they were a mistake in 2010, and we'll be better off without them in 2015.
As for UKIP…? They have one narrative - an attempt to frame political discourse as a simple case of UKIP and their supporters against the world (because all the other political parties are the same), and whether they are involved in the television debates or not, this too will be twisted to fit this narrative.
Exclusion from the debates will prove that UKIP are victims of an 'establishment' conspiracy to keep them down - whilst inclusion will give Mr Farage the chance to show how the other party leaders are all 'ganging up' on him, proving that there's no difference between the main parties, and that UKIP is the only credible alternative to a Westminster consensus which is only looking out for itself and not the interests of the country at large. Once again, we're better off without the debates altogether.
It's easy to think there's no simple answer to this conundrum. Some people say the debates should be restricted to those party leaders who have a realistic chance of becoming the next Prime Minister - in which case, should Liberal Democrat leader Nick Clegg even be included, since the next Prime Minister is likely to be either David Cameron or Ed Miliband? Other people, however, say that UKIP have a right to be included, now that they have parliamentary representation, and can therefore claim to be a serious political movement - but in that case, shouldn't the Green Party, who've been represented in the Commons by Caroline Lucas since 2010, also be involved? And how about parties like Plaid Cymru, the SNP, the DUP, etc. - all of whom have more MPs sitting in Westminster than either UKIP or the Greens?
However, there is a simple answer, and it is this: scrap the television debates.
That's right. Let's get rid of this clunky, unnecessary, counter-productive political device which has been imported from America and shoehorned into our vastly different political system with practically no alterations.
In America, voters have a straight choice between candidate this guy and candidate that guy - the television debates can help to set out the difference between each candidate's vision, and allow people to make a more informed choice when they go to vote. Here in the UK, we have a multi-party parliamentary system; very few of the people watching the debates will actually be voting for David Cameron, Ed Miliband, Nick Clegg or Nigel Farage - and with many parties competing for representation in the House Of Commons, looking to influence policy, the choice facing British voters is not a simple 'this or that' decision.
The televised leaders' debates serve to make our electoral system seem more presidential, and in doing so, diminish the link between local MPs and their constituents. They oversimplify politics in a way which doesn't serve the country at all. It's time to admit that they were a mistake in 2010, and we'll be better off without them in 2015.
As for UKIP…? They have one narrative - an attempt to frame political discourse as a simple case of UKIP and their supporters against the world (because all the other political parties are the same), and whether they are involved in the television debates or not, this too will be twisted to fit this narrative.
Exclusion from the debates will prove that UKIP are victims of an 'establishment' conspiracy to keep them down - whilst inclusion will give Mr Farage the chance to show how the other party leaders are all 'ganging up' on him, proving that there's no difference between the main parties, and that UKIP is the only credible alternative to a Westminster consensus which is only looking out for itself and not the interests of the country at large. Once again, we're better off without the debates altogether.
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