Our leaders must abandon the cult of speed

Meaningful change takes time to get right. We need a strategy of slow politics.

It is, of course, reshuffle week. To be honest, I don’t care much about who is up and who is down. Not only is this government heading in the wrong direction on almost every count, it's even stopped being interesting. Compassionate conservatism, as a strain of one nation conservatism, could at best have been something to engage with, at worse something vaguely watchable.  But that moment has gone. What is interesting is the spectacle of the reshuffle and what it says about the culture of modern politics.

The point of a reshuffle is to publicly demonstrate the quickening pace of government, to promote the new and the fast and punish to the old and the slow. Yes, the government now dresses slightly further to the right, but the reshuffle says more about the aura of delivery than it does about ideology. In fairness, David Cameron has held out longer than his predecessors – fending off demands to change the pack right through to mid-term. The impatient ultra-modernisers of New Labour could never manage to sit still for so long. For them, it was the fast and furious politics of an endless, restless, twitching fidget.  

The average tenure of a New Labour minister was 1.3 years. It's one of those remarkable facts that reminds me of the 1980s Paul Hardcastle hit "19", which highlighted the average age at which US troops died in Vietnam. How can anyone possibly achieve anything in the complex world of politics in 1.3 years? Remember, that’s an average.  Many posts were held for less and having Gordon Brown in the Chancellor's job for 10 years must have skewed the figures. There have been eight transport secretaries in 10 years, a turnover now mirrored in the civil service as three departments have had three different permanent secretaries in the last two years. Surely only football managers are scalped faster?

Of course, everything in politics is speeding up as everything in life speeds up. Short-termism defines the economy. In 1966, institutions held shares in FTSE 100 firms for an average of eight years, today the average is less than one. Our culture is dominated by fast food, always on communications, omnipresent media and the ever-quickening pace of the consumer treadmill as obsoleteness becomes not just technically built in but psychologically embedded. Besides, China never sleeps and never slows down. We either run faster or we lose.   

Politics has found it impossible to avoid the same fast fate. As politicians give up managing the economy in the interests of society, or saving the planet – they have to justify their existence by meddling in ever more areas of our life, at a faster and faster pace. A dangerous bout of displacement activity sees political leaders justify their existence any way they can – other than dealing with the causes of the problems we face. So within the tight time cycles of our first-past-the-post electoral system they go for the quick fix; the big IT project, another piece of legislation or another round of re-organization to fill the 24/7 media channels, look busy and impress the people. Speed begets speed, as the knowledge of your almost certain shift in one to two years means acting fast now or facing the chop. And worry not, as you’ll be in another post long before anyone notices how many novice mistakes you made.

Today, the abiding philosophy is that change can only be imposed quickly from above. It’s a mish mash of Soviet-style centralisation and target imposition alongside the heroic CEO of the free market as the drivers of change. What neither model can do is trust the people to change things for themselves by themselves. It is raw elitism over pluralism, the politics of the blueprint over politics as a shared journey, it refuses to allow people to learn best by learning from their mistakes as power is used over rather than with the people. It’s the short-term over the long.

What we need instead of the cult of speed is a slow politics, which seeks fundamental and deeply embedded change. Such a slow politics is based on the recognition that meaningful, sustainable and popular change takes time to get right, that a consensus needs to be negotiated to build popular agreement on the way forward and that decisions need to be shared if people are to feel ownership of change, work for it and pay for it. It is the politics of the tortoise, not the hare.

Raymond Williams, the brilliant Welsh cultural theorist and socialist, understood all this better than most. His book The Long Revolution was written because Williams saw the sheer complexity of any kind of socialistic change towards self-government, rather than the easy paternalistic forms of nationalisation.  Which all reinforces one of the golden rules of the left, namely that democracy may take more time than the target or the market – but it comes up with better solutions.  And more than anything else it is the planet that needs us and our politicians to slow down.

The lesson of history, whether Bolshevik or Blairite, is that you cannot short cut history. If you try, then disaster looms. It's not just reforms that take time but truly hegemonic transformational change is a slow process too. It took ten years for the welfare state to emerge from the 1930s crash. The new right gestated for three decades before it took power.  My favourite example is the Swedish social democrats, who took power in the 1930s and steadily, surely, and slowly built a rather good society that didn’t reach its peak until over half a century later. 

We need a different theory of change, one that matches principle with patience, the purpose of which is to head in the right direction and find as many fellow travellers as possible to share the journey with. A switch to proportional representation would help, then a long-term progressive consensus could be secured. Ironically, the perpetual failure of one-party-fast-politics is delivering just such hung parliaments. Meanwhile, this week's reshuffle will change almost nothing. 

More film references to end with. Politics is not akin to Keanu Reeves on a bus that will explode if it slows down, it is more akin to Walkabout and a process of self-discovery through tough terrain with others.  And then there is the brilliant line in the otherwise rather average film The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel: "It will all be okay in the end, and if it's not okay it's not the end". With that I leave you for this week – sorry, I’ve got to rush.

Neal Lawson's column appears every Thursday on The Staggers.

Short-termism defines the economy and politics. Photograph: Getty Images.

Neal Lawson is chair of the pressure group Compass and author of the book All Consuming.

Qusai Al Shidi/Flickr
Show Hide image

I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war