In praise of Michael Gove

He’s wrong on free schools but right to ban BNP teachers.

I'll try not to make these "In praise of . . ." blog posts too common, but some Conservatives do deserve plaudits from the left – yesterday, Peter Oborne of the Telegraph, and today, Michael Gove, the Education Secretary.

He might be wrong and misguided on free schools and academies but Gove is absolutely right to give head teachers the power to dismiss teachers who are members of the BNP. (Remember: police and prison officers are already banned from joining the far-right party.)

The Labour government failed to take action against BNP teachers in our schools and, in my view, Gove's predecessor Ed Balls was wrong to endorse the verdict of an official review, chaired by the former chief inspector of schools, Maurice Smith, which concluded back in March that a ban on BNP teachers would not be "necessary" and would instead be "taking a very large sledgehammer to crack a minuscule nut".

Gove, on the other hand, takes a harder line, and points to the risk posed to innocent "young minds" from fascists and extremists in positions of authority. From today's Guardian:

The pledge by the Education Secretary, Michael Gove, follows the case of a BNP activist who used a school laptop to post comments describing some immigrants as "filth". Gove said he would allow school heads and governing bodies to sack teachers for membership of the far-right party. Members of the BNP are barred from working as police or prison officers.

The minister told the Guardian: "I don't believe that membership of the BNP is compatible with being a teacher. One of the things I plan to do is to allow headteachers and governing bodies the powers and confidence to be able to dismiss teachers engaging in extremist activity.

"I would extend that to membership of other groups which have an extremist tenor. I cannot see how membership of the British National party can coexist with shaping young minds."

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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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood