Goodbye Andy. And good riddance

Some random thoughts on Coulson’s resignation.

1) Where's Jo Moore these days? Remember the good ol' "good day to bury bad news" and 9/11? The problem for the Tories is that the news hasn't been buried – by Blair's return appearance at the Iraq inquiry or by Alan Johnson's resignation as shadow chancellor – and is leading all the bulletins, even on the BBC, which basically ignored the story for as long as it could.

2) That Coulson couldn't spin his own departure in a suitable manner speaks volumes about his skills (or lack thereof) as a top-level spinner.

3) That Cameron decided to back his director of communications so publicly – on Monday morning's Today programme – less than 72 hours before Coulson handed in his resignation speaks volumes about the Prime Minister's political judgement (or lack thereof) and so, too, of course, does his decision to hire Coulson in the first place.

4) It's been a bad 24 hours for the Chancellor, George Osborne. He'll have to raise his departmental game as he's now facing Ed Balls across the despatch box – Labour's most formidable economist (just ask Samuel Brittan of the FT!) and a brilliant political strategist, too. Plus, Boy George is the man who convinced Cameron to hire Coulson in order to (re-)build relations with the Murdoch empire and the right-wing press. Bad move.

5) Vince Cable's "war" against the Murdoch empire may have backfired but hats off to the Guardian's Nick Davies and the Labour MPs Tom Watson and Chris Bryant for leading the charge against the News of the World and the pathetic efforts by the Murdoch and Coulson apologists to shut this story down.

6) The Press Complaints Commission, the CPS and Scotland Yard should all hang their heads in shame and I'm sure they'll have to, at some stage in the near future. This story ain't going away.

7) On the issue of resignations, isn't it fascinating, in this era of leaks, gossip, 24-hour news channels, blogs and tweets, that both Labour and the Tories were able to keep their respective resignations (of Johnson and Coulson) under wraps and leak-proof? Johnson told Ed Mili that he was quitting on Monday; Coulson told Cameron he was standing down on Wednesday.

8) My then colleague James Macintyre predicted that Coulson would be gone within six months . . . four months ago. Semi-prophetic.

9) The political obituaries of Coulson seem to be glossing over his "bullying" of colleagues while editor of the News of the World. If you need a reminder, check out my NS column from September 2010 for the details.

10) Who succeeds Coulson as the Tories' – and the government's – spinner-in-chief? Will Cameron go for a Murdoch empire appointee? Ironically, Ed Miliband did (in the form of the ex-Times hack Tom Baldwin). Is the ex-Sun political editor George Pascoe-Watson the natural replacement? Or will it be the more thoughtful and Cameroonian ex-speechwriter and former Indie deputy editor Ian Birrell? Will the Lib Dems get a say in the appointment? Just kidding . . .

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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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism