Goodbye, David

Miliband Sr looks set to announce he’s quitting — and it’s the right thing to do.

Had David Miliband disowned the Iraq war during the summer-long Labour leadership campaign, he would now be leader of the Labour Party. I can't prove it, but, Nick-Robinson-style, I feel it in my "gut".

So it's rather ironic that the shadow foreign secretary, a prickly and insecure politician to begin with, and reeling from the shock of such a narrow defeat at the hands of his kid brother only 72 hours earlier, should choose the Iraq passage of Ed Miliband's conference speech to inadvertently reveal to the world his (understandable?) irritation and frustration at the current state of affairs. The clip from ITV News seems to show him saying, to a clapping Harriet Harman:

You voted for it, why are you clapping?

Bizarre. Did he not realise that journalists and photographers would be watching his every facial expression throughout the speech, to try and catch him looking unhappy? Here's a title for a future book: "Why do intelligent people do such stupid things?"

Harman's answer, however, is key:

I'm clapping because he is the leader, and as you know, I'm supporting him.

If Miliband decides to stay on in the shadow cabinet — and, like others, I doubt he will — he would have to internalise this rather crucial point. He is not leader. Ed is. Oh, and he got Iraq wrong, Ed (in private, if not in public) got it right.

But, the truth is, if he does decide to stay on, the media will spend the next five years looking for splits/divisions/rows between the two brothers. For the sake of Ed's leadership and the future of the Labour Party, this "giant", to quote my colleague James, has to walk away from the front bench and, I would assume, parliament, too. (Is there an IMF or EU position becoming vacant in the next year or two??)

On a side note, those of you who criticise journalists/columnists/bloggers for being ultra-cynical and suspicious about politicians and their various public statements and motives (eg, Jeremy Paxman's "Why is this lying bastard lying to me?"), should pay attention to the David Miliband story.

Here is a politician who spent the entire campaign saying again and again that he had no plans to quit front-line politics, even if his brother beat him. He told me in an interview for the magazine, in mid-July:

I'm not walking away from the people of South Shields. I'm not walking away from the Labour Party . . . I'm very happy to serve under anyone.

And on the Politics Show on BBC1 three weeks ago, he mocked me as a journalist of "infinite impatience" for daring to suggest that he wouldn't be able to serve under his younger brother. Asked by me to give an explicit, on-air guarantee that he'd stay in the shadow cabinet under an Ed Miliband leadership, he said:

Of course. And I am absolutely clear about my intentions, my assumptions, and I answered that very, very clearly.

I guess we'll see if my journalistic cynicism (and impatience!) is vindicated at 5pm.

Mehdi Hasan is a contributing writer for the New Statesman and the co-author of Ed: The Milibands and the Making of a Labour Leader. He was the New Statesman's senior editor (politics) from 2009-12.

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The Tories play Game of Thrones while the White Walkers from Brussels advance

The whole premise of the show is a pretty good metaphor for the current state of British politics.

If you’re a fan of asking “who’s that, then?” and “is that the one who killed the other one’s brother?”, I bring great news. Game of Thrones is back for a seventh series. Its vast assortment of characters was hard enough to keep track of before half of them got makeovers. But now the new Queen Cersei has reacted to the arrival of the long winter by investing heavily in the kind of leather ball gowns sold by goth shops in Camden, and Euron Greyjoy, once a fairly bland sailor, has come back as a Halloween costume version of Pacey from Dawson’s Creek, all eyeliner and epaulettes.

The show’s reliance on British character actors is the only thing keeping me vaguely on top of the cast list: what’s Diana Rigg up to these days in Highgarden? And what about that guy who was in Downton Abbey that time, who now has the scaly arms? (Luckily, the next thing I watched after the Game of Thrones series premiere was the first two episodes of the revived Twin Peaks, which put my confusion into perspective. There, Agent Cooper spent most of his time talking to a pulsating bladder attached to one of those fake trees you get from Ikea when your landlord won’t let you have real plants.)

The day-to-day business of Game of Thrones has always been power – answering the question of who will sit on the Iron Throne, forged by Aegon the Conqueror from the swords of his defeated enemies. But its backdrop is a far bigger threat: the arrival of a winter that will last many years, and the invasion of an army of the undead.

That might seem like an unkind way to think about Michel Barnier and his fellow Brexit negotiators – inexorably marching towards us, briefing papers in hand, while Liam Fox frantically rings a bell at the entrance to the Channel Tunnel – but nonetheless, the whole premise of Game of Thrones is a pretty good metaphor for the current state of British politics.

The current internal Conservative struggle for power might be vicious but it is at least familiar to its contestants; they know which weapons to deploy, which alliances are vital, who owes them a favour. Meanwhile, the true challenge facing every one of them is too frightening to contemplate.

In 2013, this magazine celebrated the early success of the show with a cover depicting one of our terrifying painted mash-ups: “The Tory Game of Thrones.” Our casting has been strangely vindicated. George Osborne was our Jaime Lannister – once the kind of uncomplicated bastard who would push a child out of a window but now largely the purveyor of waspish remarks about other, worse characters. Our Cersei was Theresa May, who spent the early seasons of The Cameron Era in a highly visible but underwritten role. Now, she has just seized power, only to discover herself beset by enemies on all sides. (Plus, Jeremy Corbyn as the High Sparrow would quite like her to walk penitently through the streets while onlookers cry “shame!”)

Michael Gove was our Tyrion Lannister, the kind of man who would shoot his own father while the guy was on the loo (or run a rival’s leadership campaign only to detonate it at the last minute). Jeremy Hunt was Jon Snow, slain by the brotherhood of the Night Shift at A&E, only in this case still waiting for resurrection.

The comparison falls down a bit at Boris Johnson as Daenerys Targaryen, as the former London mayor has not, to my knowledge, ever married a horse lord or hired an army of eunuchs, but it feels like the kind of thing he might do.

We didn’t have David Davis on there – hated by the old king, David Camareon, he was at the time banished to the back benches. Let’s retrospectively appoint him Euron Greyjoy, making a suspiciously seductive offer to Queen Cersei. (Philip Hammond is Gendry, in that most of the country can’t remember who he is but feel he might turn out to be important later.)

That lengthy list shows how Conservative infighting suffers from the same problem that the Game of Thrones screenwriters wrestle with: there are so many characters, and moving the pieces round the board takes up so much time and energy, that we’re in danger of forgetting why it matters who wins. In the books, there is more space to expound on the politics. George R R Martin once said that he came away from The Lord of The Rings asking: “What was Aragorn’s tax policy?” (The author added: “And what about all these orcs? By the end of the war, Sauron is gone but all of the orcs aren’t gone – they’re in the mountains. Did Aragorn pursue a policy of systematic genocide and kill them? Even the little baby orcs, in their little orc cradles?”)

Martin’s fantasy vision also feels relevant to the Tories because its power struggles aren’t about an “endless series of dark lords and their evil minions who are all very ugly and wear black clothes”. Instead, everyone is flawed. In Westeros, as in the Conservative Party, it can be difficult to decide who you want to triumph. Sure, Daenerys might seem enlightened, but she watched her brother have molten gold poured down his throat; plucky Arya Stark might tip over from adorable assassin into full-blown psychopath. Similarly, it’s hard to get worked up about the accusation that Philip Hammond said that driving a train was so easy “even a woman” could do it, when David Davis marked his last leadership campaign by posing alongside women in tight T-shirts reading “It’s DD for me”.

The only big difference from the show is that in real life I have sympathy for Barnier and the White Walkers of Brussels. Still, maybe it will turn out that the undead of Game of Thrones are tired of the Seven Kingdoms throwing their weight around and are only marching south to demand money before negotiating a trade deal? That’s the kind of plot twist we’re all waiting for.

Helen Lewis is deputy editor of the New Statesman. She has presented BBC Radio 4’s Week in Westminster and is a regular panellist on BBC1’s Sunday Politics.

This article first appeared in the 20 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The new world disorder