Photo: Kalpesh Lathigra
Show Hide image

Take back the power: Naomi Klein

The rock-star activist and author on how the rise of Donald Trump could startle the global left into finally getting its act together.

“Care is such a radical idea,” says Naomi Klein. “I find it interesting that we struggle with the word. I’m not ready to let go of it. I feel like we need to grow into it.” Klein is as close to being a rock star as you can get on the radical left. She has been a public thinker since her first book, No Logo, achieved cult status in the anti-globalisation movement of the early 2000s, but she eschews her celebrity status as much as possible. We meet in early June at the People’s Summit, an enormous convention of American progressives in Chicago, a couple of days before her latest book, No Is Not Enough, comes out – but she is not on a promotional tour. She’s here, like everyone else, because she cares.

“Trump is creating this appetite, fuelling this appetite for systemic change. He is a signal of system failure and, yes, it turns out that that’s more powerful than climate change. I’m deeply excited about the potential for transformation.”

Klein really does talk like this, inexhaustibly and without stopping, and you believe that she means it. Born in Canada in 1970 to Vietnam War resisters, she has never apologised for being an activist as well as an author and journalist. No Is Not Enough is her most urgent and instructive political work to date – and her most personal. She segues from discussing strategies for resisting the sexist, racist, kamikaze corporate agenda of the Trump administration to des­cribing her experience of motherhood (she has a four-year-old son) and the way that her understanding of human responsibility changed after her mother had a stroke while Klein was still in her teens. What links them all is the architecture of care – and care, as Klein tells me, is “anything but soft”.

“Care” gets a bad rap on the left. It sounds like something that cartoon bears or teenage girls who have lots of feelings about dolphins do. The Leap, the Canadian ­climate and social justice movement that Klein oversees, has the tagline “Caring for the Earth and One Another”. That, as she acknowledges, could be from an advert for organic granola. It’s also a neat summary of what human beings have failed to do over the past several centuries and what we must now learn to do, or face disaster.

The work of caring for one another and for our communities is not so much a feminist agenda as a feminine and feminised agenda – which is why it has remained absent from mainstream politics for so long. So, it is fitting that the driving force behind the People’s Summit is National Nurses United (NNU), America’s largest nursing union, many of whose 150,000-plus members are women of colour. “I would follow nurses anywhere,” Klein said at the opening rally, and she repeats the sentiment when we meet behind a small row of bookstalls on the third day of the summit. Four thousand people have spent 36 hours in this cavernous convention complex, in talks and breakout sessions, the swirling artificial lights and freezing air-conditioning adding to the sense that this is a space out of time, a space where anything is possible, even – especially – in Donald Trump’s America.

Klein has a knack for producing the right book at the right time. No Is Not Enough was written in a four-month sprint while she was running an activist group and raising a child, and it is brilliant. It is a guide to resistance in the age of Trump, grounded in the idea that simply resisting oppression is insufficient. We must decide as a society, Klein argues, not merely what atrocities we will not tolerate, but what we are prepared to build instead. The book manages to be that rare thing in political writing: both rousing and profoundly sensible. Reading it – and attending the People’s Summit – I found myself nodding along to demands for significant changes in the way we organise economic policy, climate action, racial justice and much, much more, in the same way you might nod along as a doctor explains your treatment plan for a serious illness. It’s a frightening proposition. It is also the only thing that makes sense. The urgency of this period of human history ­demands no less.

“As our ideas are becoming more popular, so are the most toxic and dangerous ideas on the planet,” says Klein. “They’re surging and manifesting as extreme acts of violence on the streets, perpetrated by the state and perpetrated by [right-wing] supremacists, inspired by having people in the White House who reflect their views. It’s a race against time intellectually, it’s a race against time socially, it’s a race against time ecologically.”

***

If you’re going to get sick at any sort of mass gathering, I recommend that you get sick at a convention attended by hundreds of nurses. I came to Chicago to interview Klein and to figure out if there was any hope for the left in the first long, hot summer of Trump’s America. But the second I stepped off the plane, I came down with what is known to science as the galloping lurgy.

My bones felt like they were being boiled for soup. My head was full of toxic slime. At the check-in desk, I happened to ask if anyone had any painkillers. Ten minutes later, I’m sitting on a plastic couch, trying to keep down my breakfast, and Deborah Burger, a co-president of the NNU – who surely has better things to do – is asking me what hurts.

Everything, I want to tell her. Everything hurts. Everyone I know is working too hard for too little money. Late capitalism is slowly strangling what remains of my generation’s youthful energy. My country is in political free fall, and it seems as though every other week another religious psychopath goes on a murder spree . . . And, on top of all that, I have the mother and father of a headache.

Burger gives me some painkillers and a cup of orange juice and talks to me about the coming end of kleptocracy. “We sponsored the People’s Summit because we have to continue the momentum in this fight,” she says. “We feel it’s important to have our voices heard as nurses, as well as being activists.”

Burger is a nurse, but she doesn’t believe that her job ends when the patient leaves. “We can’t just stop our advocacy at the bedside. We have to make it broader, because we want to prevent people from coming into the hospitals. We want to be advocates for preventative care. We want to be advocates for keeping people out of prisons, because the money that is drained off to incarcerate people could have been going to health care, to a good education.”

That is the sort of co-ordinated, serious movement of care that Klein advocates. “The role of the trade union movement in providing infrastructure and being the backbone for social movements has been historically so important,” she tells me. “Your generation and even my generation of organisers are so untethered from any sort of infrastructure that can bind. [I admire] the vision that the nurses have had in just stepping up and saying, ‘We’re going to be the backbone.’ But it’s a different kind of union. It’s a union that is majority women, majority women of colour, and the work itself is the work of care.”

Part of the reason Klein was able to write such a detailed work so quickly is that, in many ways, she has been preparing for this book her entire adult life. It is a synthesis of the theories in her three main previous political books: No Logo, on the political power of brands; The Shock Doctrine, on how elites exploit economic and social crises to consolidate their power; and This Changes Everything, on how the coming climate crisis will make a new kind of activism necessary for the survival of our species.

“I wrote the book for a lot of reasons, but the most pressing one was the feeling that so much of the way we were talking about Trump lacked any sort of historical context,” she says. Too many people are still treating the walking constitutional crisis in the White House “like a shocking aberration, with the logical conclusion that we just get rid of him and everything’s fine. We’ve made that mistake before. In some ways, we made it with [George W] Bush.” Trump, however, has clarified a great deal.

Nobody here is glad that Trump is the president of the United States. But the stakes have become obvious to many who were previously prevaricating. For instance, it’s desperately clear that the pro-business, anti-climate-defence agenda and the power-
grab of racist, sexist throwbacks are intimately connected, and resistance to them is the same struggle. Trump may be the shock – to use Klein’s expression – that will stun the global left into getting its act together.

Nobody at the People’s Summit wastes much time arguing about theory. What I see, over the course of three days here, is a great many women and people of colour with varying life experiences talking about different ways of remaking power and, good God, it is refreshing. If there’s one thing that the left is in no urgent need of, it is endless panels of elderly white guys ­arguing about Marx.

Talking of grizzled socialists, Bernie Sanders is due to speak in an hour. The line to see him is already half a mile long. Surely there is no way that all these people will get in and, if they don’t, I predict a riot: this is the one point in the weekend when we are allowed to go hog-wild and stamp and cheer and assign superhuman qualities to a nice, normal old man from Vermont who argues like your socialist uncle at the dinner table. Somehow, however, we do make it inside, and we get to hear Sanders speak.

The speech is good – at least, the parts I can hear over the applause and the callbacks. It’s like a mash-up of a mega-church sermon and the most rousing bits of Les Misérables, which is to say that even if it isn’t your thing, you can see why people get into it. There have been many charismatic speakers already and Sanders doesn’t say anything that others haven’t been saying all weekend. He is, however, the designated point of mass enthusiasm, and somehow his plain-speaking, angry-uncle shtick is charming. Not charming enough to make me get to my feet and roar with everyone else, but I’m a bit too sick and a bit too British for that.

This is when I finally realise the point of Sanders. Being right is not enough. People need symbols of faith, even if this faith is in the plain, reasonable idea that ordinary people deserve to survive and thrive. Bernie is the personification of an idea whose time has come, not least because even after two years of filling stadiums, he still looks a little surprised that people are paying attention and a little downhearted to find himself at a point in history when the request that sick children not be turned away from hospitals sounds like a revolutionary demand.

It shouldn’t be but, in the United States, it is. For the past few decades, Americans in particular have lived with a political consensus that the meaningful redistribution of wealth and power can only go one way: straight to the top. It has become ever harder for anyone who wasn’t born rich to keep their head above the rising tide of inequality.

The difference at the People’s Summit is something that the global left has been lacking for a generation: it works. People with no more time for drama are listening to each other respectfully and making connections. The sessions are inclusive and pragmatic. The food is sufficient and tolerable. The organisers manage, somehow, to make sure that 4,000 people know where they need to be and when. That is no small feat in a stratum of society defined by disarray, infighting, brittleness and the failure to organise our collective way out of a paper bag.

“It’s a reminder of why physical spaces matter,” Klein says. “We need to look each other in the eye. I think there’s a real desire now to create a culture of accountability, the ability to have criticisms, to have conflict, but not to bring the house down.”

Yet there is baggage. Most of the people at the summit are Sanders supporters and there is no love here for the centre right of the Democratic Party, but few are in a hurry to re-enact the Bernie-Hillary wars of 2016. “I really do not want to be having that conversation,” says the Women’s March veteran Linda Sarsour, in a panel discussion on intersectional organising. “Let’s give each other the benefit of the doubt that we’re actually all working from the right place, and let’s put our one-issue politics to the side and understand that this is a global movement that is rooted in collective liberation.”

In No Is Not Enough, Klein refers to this as part of “becoming the caring majority”. Nurses are among those at the forefront of this change, because they have been living it for years, as Kari Jones, an organiser with the NNU, says. “I think the reason nurses have stepped forward as leaders in the progressive movement is because they embody a value system that is the equal opposite of where our profit-driven value system has taken us: one that values caring, compassion and community. It’s very hard to undermine the intentions of a nurse.”

Jones explains this to me in her hotel room, where I have just spent three hours sleeping. “We made sure you had ibuprofen and helped you find a quiet place to lie down,” she says, “even if that’s in my own room. It’s not something we do for you. It’s something we do with you. It’s important to walk the walk of the world we want.”

That architecture of care is the real site of resistance. It can be as small a chore as helping a sick journalist, or as big a task as reorganising the culture of a superpower to prioritise collective health and welfare. It can be as easy as ensuring that indigenous people are well represented on your discussion panels, or as hard as demanding that the oil buried under Native American land stays in the ground. This is where the struggle for change is being lived. It’s not only about marching in the streets, though that helps. It’s about what we demand of our society, our state and each other.

***

The critical theorist Nancy Fraser has identified a “crisis of care” running alongside what many have declared the crisis of capitalism. The work of building families, communities, institutions and democracies is not work that capital can absorb and monetise – yet without it, the human component of capitalism atrophies. People become miserable and sick.

For that reason alone, the fight for medical care for everyone, regardless of income, is central to the American left right now. Reinstating Obamacare is not enough. On every panel, in every speech at the People’s Summit, the demand for universal health care is repeated in some form, and it consistently gets the biggest cheers.

Providing universal health care in the United States would require a huge redistribution of wealth from rich to poor. In California, the cost will be enormous – and the state can afford it. But a bill for single-payer health care is stuck at the state senate stage. It’s a question of priorities: about a sense of the common good and the common weal. It is, in a serious sense, about love.

When Hillary Clinton came up with the slogan “Love trumps hate”, it felt silly, because it was. It felt pat and insipid because it was not grounded in a firm understanding of what love is. Love, in a political sense, is not a feeling or a sentiment: it is an action. It is ruthless and unrelenting. It is the discipline of showing up for one another and for the collective good, time and time again.

Loving other people is damn hard. ­Spending 36 hours in a convention centre with members of the international left will remind you of this. “The people” are moody and under-caffeinated and like to cheer for celebrities and slogans. Half the time, they can’t stand to be in a room with each other; but when the chips are down, none of that counts. What matters is that you show up for one another.

Many people misunderstand what “the power of the people” means. First, “the people” are not unified, and the phrase doesn’t refer to physical power. It doesn’t mean the power to withstand bullets or drone strikes. That power of the people can be stopped, easily. Rather, it is the power of memory and resistance; the power of caring and responsibility.

“It’s such a fearsome responsibility,” Klein says. “It’s not a responsibility I grew up with. In my adult political life, it didn’t occur to us that we could actually take power. What we’re seeing with Bernie’s campaign, with [Jeremy] Corbyn’s campaign, even with what [the leftist presidential candidate Jean-Luc] Mélenchon did in France, with Podemos, is that it is within reach.

“And the fearsome responsibility of that, as the climate clock strikes midnight, as all of these overlapping crises are hitting us – I wouldn’t describe it as hope, but I would describe it as a pregnant moment. I don’t ­really want to waste too much time thinking about hope.” 

Laurie Penny is a contributing editor to the New Statesman. She is the author of five books, most recently Unspeakable Things.

This article first appeared in the 29 June 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit plague

Photo: ANDREW TESTA/THE NEW YORK TIMES/ EYEVINE
Show Hide image

Interview: Nicola Sturgeon's Scottish referendum dilemma

In a candid interview, the First Minister discusses Theresa May’s coldness, Brexit and tax rises – and why she doesn't know when a second referendum will be held. 

Nicola Sturgeon – along with her aides, who I gather weren’t given much choice – has taken up jogging in the verdant country­side that lies to the east of the Scottish Parliament. “The first time was last week,” she says, when we meet in her large, bright Holyrood office. “Loads of people were out running, which made me a bit self-conscious. But it was fine for ages because everybody’s so focused. Then, suddenly, what must have been a running group came towards me. I saw one of them look and as they ran past I turned round and all of them were looking.” She winces. “I will eventually get to the point where I can run for more than 100 yards at a time, but I’m not at the stage yet where I can go very far. So I’m thinking, God, they’re going to see me stop. I don’t know if I can do this.”

This is a very Nicola Sturgeon story – a touch of the ordinary amid the extraordinary. She may have been a frontbencher for almost two decades, a cabinet minister for half of that and the First Minister since 2014, but she retains that particularly Scottish trait of wry self-mockery. She is also exceptionally steely, evident in her willed transformation over her adult life from a shy, awkward party member to the charismatic leader sitting in front of me. Don’t be surprised if she is doing competitive ten-kilometre runs before the year is out.

I arrived at the parliament wondering what frame of mind the First Minister would be in. The past year has not been especially kind to her or the SNP. While the party is still Scotland’s most popular by a significant margin, and Sturgeon continues to be its dominant politician, the warning lights are flashing. In the 2015 general election, the SNP went from six seats out of 59 to 56, a remarkable result. However, in Theresa May’s snap election in June this year, it lost 21 of those seats (including those of Angus Robertson, the SNP leader at Westminster, and Alex Salmond), as well as half a million votes. Much of the blame has been placed on Sturgeon and her call for a second independence referendum following the vote for Brexit. For critics, it confirmed a suspicion that the SNP only cares about one thing and will manipulate any situation to that end. Her decision also seemed a little rushed and desperate, the act of a woman all too aware of the clock ticking.

But if I expect Sturgeon to be on the defensive, maybe even a little downbeat, I’m wrong. Having just come from a feisty session of First Minister’s Questions, where she had the usual barney with her Tory opposite number, Ruth Davidson, she is impressively candid. “When you come out [of FMQs], your adrenaline levels are through the roof,” she says, waggling a fist in my direction. “It’s never a good idea to come straight out and do an interview, for example.” Adrenalised or not, for the next hour, she is thoughtful, frank, funny and perhaps even a little bitchy.

Sturgeon’s office is on the fourth floor, looking out over – and down on – Holyrood Palace, the Queen’s official residence in Edinburgh. As we talk, a large artistic rendering of a saltire adorns the wall behind her. She is similarly in blue and white, and there are books about Burns on the shelves. This is an SNP first minister’s office.

She tells me that she and her husband, Peter Murrell, the party’s chief executive, took a summer break in Portugal, where his parents have a share in an apartment. “We came home and Peter went back to work and I spent a week at home, just basically doing housework…” I raise an eyebrow and an aide, sitting nearby, snorts. She catches herself. “Not really… I periodically – and by periodically I mean once a year or once every two years – decide I’m going to dust and hoover and things like that. So I did that for a morning. It’s quite therapeutic when you get into it. And then I spent a week at home, reading and chilling out.”

In a recent Guardian interview, Martin Amis had a dig at Jeremy Corbyn for having “no autodidact streak”. Amis said: “I mean, is he a reader?… It does matter if leaders have some sort of backing.” One of Sturgeon’s great strengths is that she is a committed bibliophile. She consumes books, especially novels, at a tremendous rate and raves to me about Gabriel Tallent’s astonishing debut, My Absolute Darling, as well as Bernard MacLaverty’s Midwinter Break. She has just ploughed through Paul Auster’s daunting, 880-page 4 3 2 1 (“It was OK. I don’t think it should be on the Booker shortlist.”) She also reread the works of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie before interviewing her onstage at the Edinburgh International Book Festival in August.

The First Minister is now reading What Happened, Hillary Clinton’s book about her defeat by Donald Trump. “I’ve never been able to read any of her [previous] books because literally every word is focus-grouped to the nth degree,” Sturgeon says. “This one, there are moments of frankness and raw honesty and passages where it’s victimhood and self-pity, but that’s kind of understandable and very human. The thing that fascinates me about Hillary, apart from the politics, is just her sheer bloody resilience.  Given what she’s gone through and everything that’s been chucked at her, I genuinely don’t know how she keeps coming back.”

***

Speaking of resilience, does she have any fellow feeling for Theresa May, humiliated by the electorate and, for now, kept in No 10 like a racoon in a trap by colleagues who are both power-hungry and biding their time? “At a human level, of course,” she says. “When you’ve got an insight into how rough and tough and, at times, downright unpleasant the trade of politics can be, it’s hard not to feel some personal sympathy. Her position must be pretty intolerable. It’s tempered, though, by the fact that nobody made her call an election and she did it for purely party-political interest.”

How does she get on with May – who is formal and restrained, even off-camera – in their semi-regular meetings? Sturgeon starts laughing. “The Theresa May that the country ended up seeing in the election was the one I’ve been dealing with for however long she’s been Prime Minister. This is a woman who sits in meetings where it’s just the two of you and reads from a script. I found it very frustrating because David Cameron, whose politics and mine are very far apart, always managed to have a personal rapport. You could sit with David and have a fairly frank discussion, agree the things you could agree on and accept you disagree on everything else, and have a bit of banter as well.

“I remember just after May came back from America [in January], when she’d held Trump’s hand [Sturgeon starts laughing again], she’d also been to Turkey and somewhere else. This was the Monday morning. We sit down, it’s literally just the two of us, and I say, ‘You must be knackered.’ She said, ‘No! I’m fine!’ And it was as if I’d insulted her. It was just impossible to get any human connection.”

Given this, and the weaknesses exposed during the election, Sturgeon is scathing about how the Conservatives fought the campaign, putting May’s character and competence front and centre. “The people around her must have known that vulnerability,” she says. “God, we all make mistakes and we all miscalculate things, so this is not me sitting on high, passing judgement on others, but don’t build a campaign entirely around your own personality when you know your personality’s not capable of carrying a campaign… Even if you can’t see that yourself, somebody somewhere around you should have.”

Sturgeon might not be in May’s beleaguered position but she has problems. Her demand in March, at a press conference at Bute House, Edinburgh, for a second independence referendum by spring 2019 was a serious mistake and it has left a dent in what had seemed her impermeable personal popularity. Polls show support for the SNP and independence now share a similar downward trajectory. Over the next three years, the First Minister must persuade a sceptical electorate that her party deserves a fourth consecutive term in government.

Does she regret demanding another vote on separation?

Here she gets as close as she will go to a mea culpa. “Obviously I’m thinking pretty deeply about it. I think Brexit is a complete and utter car crash – an unfolding disaster. I haven’t changed my views on that, and I think it’s deeply wrong for [Scotland] to be taken down that path without the ability to decide whether that’s right or not.

“I recognise, as well – and it’s obviously something I have reflected on – that understandably people feel very uncertain about everything just now, partly because the past few years have been one big decision after another. That’s why I said before recess that I will not consider any further the question of a second referendum at this stage. I’m saying, OK, people are not ready to decide we will do that, so we have to come back when things are clearer and decide whether we want to do it and in what timescale.”

Will she attempt to hold a second referendum? Could it be off?

“The honest answer to that is: I don’t know,” she says. Her expression of doubt is revealing.

Would she, however, support a second EU referendum, perhaps on the final separation package? “I think it probably gets more and more difficult to resist it,” she tells me. “I know people try to draw lots of analogies [between the EU and independence referendums], and there are some, but whatever you thought of the [Scottish] white paper, it was there and it was a fairly detailed proposition.

“One of the beautiful things about the independence referendum was the extent to which ordinary folk became experts on really technical, big, macro­economic positions. Standing on a street corner on a Friday morning, an ordinary working-class elderly gentleman was talking to me in great detail about lender of last resort and how that would work. You can say the white paper was crap, or whatever, but it was there, people were informed and they knew what they were voting for.

“That was not the case in the EU referendum. People did not know what they were voting for. There was no proposition put forward by anyone that could then be tested and that they could be held to account on. The very fact we have no idea what the final outcome might look like suggests there is a case for a second referendum that I think there wasn’t in 2014. It may become very hard to resist.”

Sturgeon hasn’t found the Brexit process “particularly easy”, especially when the government at Westminster is in the grip of what is becoming an increasingly vicious succession battle. The SNP administration has repeatedly clashed with the relevant ministers at Westminster, whom it says have given little care to Scotland’s particular needs. Sturgeon’s view of David Davis, Liam Fox and Boris Johnson is not rosy.

“Probably not a day goes by where I don’t look at them and think, ‘What the hell’s going on?’” she says. “That’s not meant as a personal comment on their abilities – although [with] some of them I would have personal question marks over their abilities. But they’re completely paralysed, and the election has left them in a position where you’ve got a Prime Minister who has no control over the direction of her government, and you have other senior ministers who are prepared to keep her there only because it’s in their short-term interests to do it. If you’re sitting on the European side of the table now, how can you have a negotiation with a government where you don’t actually know what their position is, or whether the position you’re being told across the table is one that can carry support back at home? It’s a shambles and it’s increasingly going to be the case that nothing other than Brexit gets any bandwidth at all. It’s really, really not in the interests of the country as a whole.”

***

This is an accusation that is directed at the SNP, too – that the national interest takes second place to its constitutional imperative. It is undoubtedly something that Sturgeon considered over the summer as she sought to rebalance her administration. As a result, the programme for government unveiled earlier this month was impressively long-term in places: for example, its promise to create a Scottish national investment bank, the setting of some ambitious goals on climate change and the commitment to fund research into a basic income.

Most striking, however, was Sturgeon’s decision to “open a discussion about… responsible and progressive use of our tax powers”. With the Scotland Act 2016, Westminster passed control over income tax to Holyrood, and Sturgeon intends to use this new power.

“For ten years,” she says, “we have done a pretty good job of protecting public services as best we can in a period of austerity, while keeping the taxes that we’ve been responsible for low. We’re now at a stage where austerity’s continued, we’re going to have economic consequences from Brexit, we all want good public services, we want the NHS to continue to have strong investment, we want our public-sector workers to be paid more, we want businesses to have the right infrastructure. How do we progressively and responsibly, with the interests of the economy taken strongly, fund our public services going forward? Most people would think right now that there is a case for those with the broadest shoulders paying a little bit more.”

I wonder whether the success of Jeremy Corbyn has influenced her thinking – many expect that a revival of Scottish Labour would force the SNP to veer left (it will also be interesting to see how Westminster reacts to Scotland raising the top rate of income tax). “It’s not particularly Corbyn that’s made me think that,” she insists, a little unconvincingly.

Isn’t Sturgeon concerned that making Scotland the highest-taxed part of the UK could undermine its competitiveness, its attraction as a place to live and as a destination for inward investment? “We should never be in a position where we don’t factor that kind of thing into our thinking, but you talk to businesses, and tax – yes, it’s important, but in terms of attracting investment to Scotland, the quality of your infrastructure matters. Businesses want good public services as well, so it’s the whole package that determines whether Scotland is an attractive place to live and invest in and work in,” she tells me. “It’s seeing it in the round. The competitiveness of your tax arrangements are part of what makes you attractive or not, but it’s not the only part.”

As for the immediate future, she is upbeat. She believes that Ruth Davidson, her main rival, is overrated. “I think Ruth, for all the many strengths people think she might have, often doesn’t do her homework very well,” she tells me. “From time to time, Ruth slips up on that… Quite a bit, actually. I know what I want to do over the next few years, and I’m in a very good place and feeling really up for it. After ten years in office, it’s inevitable you become a victim of your own success. What’s more remarkable is that, after ten years, the SNP still polls at least 10 and usually 10-15 points ahead of our nearest rivals.”

Author's note: Shortly after this interview went to print, the SNP got in touch to say that Nicola Sturgeon’s comment, ‘the honest answer to that is: I don’t know’, was about the timescale of the next independence referendum and not whether there would be one. The misinterpretation was mine.

Chris Deerin is the New Statesman's contributing editor (Scotland). 

This article first appeared in the 29 June 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit plague