David Cameron: from foolhardy champion swimmer to panicked doggy-paddler

The prime minister's party conference speech had only regurgitated rhetoric, with no policy, ideas or budget to back it up.

 

Do you remember that funny 1980s film, Weekend at Bernie’s? Two losers trying to pretend that their boss hadn’t really died, so that they may continue to party at his expense? That, for me, was the inescapable image of the Conservative Party conference.

The corpse, in this case, is the government’s neoliberal economic policy, complete with comedy hat and sunglasses. The rigor mortis of contraction and unemployment is making it increasingly difficult for George Osborne to manipulate the arm into nonchalantly waving at a passing Christine Lagarde. She’s not buying it. The party is over.

I was fully prepared to write a piece attacking all the erroneous figures, the misquoted statistics, the circular arguments. But I won’t. Firstly, because it is futile; the depressing truth is that nobody with the intellect to be interested in such writing believes much of what this (or any) government says. Secondly, because, having heard Cameron’s evangelical call to arms, there are more fundamental things to address.

“I'm not here to defend privilege. I'm here to spread it”, says Cameron. The delegates cheer ecstatically. But what is the reality behind the one-liner? Privilege is by definition what one has above what others have. The very core of privilege is inequality. In short, the prime minister of a country in which less than 10 per cent of the population control more that 50 per cent of the wealth, wants more inequality. Of course he does, he is part of that 10 per cent.

Still, we mustn’t resort to the “politics of resentment”, we were told with metronomic regularity this week. We mustn’t think ill of those hard-working people who do well. The implication being that, if you’re not doing well, you’re just not working hard enough. Also, that all those who do well, have worked hard. Like Osborne and Cameron who inherited their wealth.

Cameron saluted “the doers” and “the risk-takers”. The Doers and Risk-takers in the City of London and Wall Street, those arsonists largely responsible for setting the world on fire, salute you back, David. And why shouldn’t they? They are seemingly untouchable by regulation, prosecution – and now, even resentment.

On the other hand, when it comes to resenting the poor, the unemployed, the unionised, the immigrant, the sick, the squatter, the public servant, the European, the young, the old, the intellectual, the Muslim, the demonstrator - resentment is not only allowed. It is encouraged.

In this current climate of unemployment and misery, it has never occurred to me when leaving home for a job, to be anything other than grateful that I have a job. I have never glanced at a neighbour’s drawn blinds and thought “you lucky sod, surviving on sixty quid a week”.

The reason 2.6 million unemployed cannot be shoe-horned into three hundred thousand vacancies is mathematics. Not a lack of aspiration.

That word - aspiration… Repeated again and again. “Conservatives are the party of aspiration.” They are here to help those who aspire. “The young people who dream of their first pay cheque, their first car, their first home – and are ready and willing to work hard to get those things.” More cheers from the hypnotised delegate-flock.

It doesn’t occur to David Cameron how utterly depressing it is for the leader of this country to define “aspiration” as the lust for money, cars and property.

It never occurs to him how hypocritical it is for this to come from someone who knew they would get a car as a present on their eighteenth birthday, always have a comfortable home to live in and a pay cheque guaranteed upon graduation because daddy could pull strings.

It does not occur to him how hilariously at odds this is with his rhetoric on the big society. How it exposes the idiocy of the expectation that once this fictional young person, bred to be selfish and materialistic, has accumulated enough pay cheques, enough cars, enough homes, they will go out and run a soup kitchen for those “less aspirational”.

It never even occurs to him that this mass psychosis, of judging success solely by reference to what each person can grab for themselves, is at the root of the social decay he bemoans; at the root of crime, poverty, environmental damage, the looting last summer, the financial crisis in 2008.

But most frighteningly, it does not appear to occur to him that the position of prime minister involves more than passionately delivered, hollow words.

Last year, he framed his speech with “Britannia didn’t rule the waves with her armbands on”. This year he says “it is time to sink or swim”. An elegant, if unwitting, indication of how his thinking has moved on; from foolhardy champion swimmer to panicked doggy-paddler.

The UK economy is fast becoming a small makeshift raft, cobbled together from antiquated dogma, U-turns and fiascos, adrift in a sea of global uncertainty. Selling off the planks to passing sharks is not a solution. When the water is ankle-deep, crew and passengers look to the captain for action, not regurgitated rhetoric, however deftly delivered.

All he can do is stand there and shout passionately “The Free Market will save us! Enterprise will save us! Aspiration will save us!” Abstract, deified, neoliberal concepts without a smidgeon of policy, detail or budget to back them up.

I recognised his speech for what it was: A drowning man’s gurgling prayer.

 

David Cameron. Photograph: Getty Images

Greek-born, Alex Andreou has a background in law and economics. He runs the Sturdy Beggars Theatre Company and blogs here You can find him on twitter @sturdyalex

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Boris Johnson's "juddering climax"? Don't let it distract you from his record as mayor

As Johnson finishes his term as mayor of London, his own parting shot leaves this mole feeling cold.

Initially, the feeling down here in the Mole townhouse was that Boris Johnson's "Operation Juddering Climax" tweet wasn't worth giving airtime to.
 

After all: it's an attention-seeking device as old as the hills. Sex sells; unfortunately, so does the soon-to-be-former Mayor's brand of weird bombast. So it's not surprising some press officer realised if you can get the voters to imagine Johnson in gaudens (see, Boris, bit of Latin for you there!), they'll get distracted. At the very least, it'll rechannel their disgust so they're not thinking about the fact he's a man whose past achievements include such gems as calling black people “picanninies” and, recently, suggesting “part-Kenyan” Barack Obama may have an “ancestral dislike” of the British empire.

Like a dead cat, once the possibility of an active penis is on the table people tend to get distracted.

So yes, reading Johnson's account yesterday did feel a little like supervising a class of fourth-formers who have just discovered euphemism and can't stop slipping it into their answers in class, continuing long after it stops being funny, massive shit-eating grins on their faces all the time. The temptation is always to ignore it, in the hope they'll get bored with their own supposed cleverness.

But it's actually more sinister than that. Because when Boris pulls this sort of sniggering schoolboy rhetoric out about the "climax" of his mayoralty, what he's actually doing is urging you to forget the stray pube of his water cannon, the crumpled tissue of his awful, boiling buses and the crusty sock which is his environmental legacy.

Well, here at the NS we believe a gentleman should always offer to sleep in the wet patch. So here, as a parting gift of sorts, is a short selection of some things you might remember Boris for:

The bus stock whose internal temperature “breaches legal limits for livestock”

Championed the contentious Garden Bridge

Installed a cable car that is used by fewer passengers than London’s, er, 400 busiest bus routes

Abused his planning power in the mayoral office in what the Guardian called “an assault on democracy”

Spend over £200,000 on two second hand water cannon from Germany – which he’s not allowed to use

That's that done. This mole's off for a cigarette.

I'm a mole, innit.