Whither George Osborne?

Tory MP calls for the chancellor to be replaced.

Yesterday, it was the future of Conservative co-chairman Sayeeda Warsi that was being questioned by influential members of her own party. Today, it's the Chancellor George Osborne's turn to have his competence impugned by a colleague. In an article in the Mail on Sunday, Tory MP Brian Binley offers a fairly withering assessment of Osborne's record in government thus far. Binley writes:

The economy is in dire straits – even George Osborne must acknowledge that. It is now clear that the Chancellor will not fulfil his Election promise of eliminating the deficit by 2015. His much-trumpeted public spending cutbacks are illusory.
Binley goes on to make the kind of arguments for supply-side reforms that one hears alot both on the Tory backbenches and in the right-wing commentariat. He also says, baldly, that he doesn't think Osborne is up to the job of implementing such reforms.
I believe that George Osborne should be moved from the Treasury to the party chairmanship, to allow him to concentrate exclusively on winning the  next General Election. It would allow a Chancellor to  be appointed who has a deep command of economics, as well as political instincts that chime with the bulk of the party. Top of the list should be Defence Secretary Philip Hammond, who has the analytical strengths and broad commercial experience to become a fine Chancellor.
In an interview on the BBC's Andrew Marr Show this morning, Osborne had a chance to respond to criticisms like this. He gave a blustering, needled performance that compared unfavourably with the preternatural self-assurance and fluency of Shadow Business Secretary Chuka Umunna, who appeared on the programme before him. Asked about critics inside his own party, Osborne invited them to "get behind the government", and he swatted away a question about the wisdom of his continuing to combine occupancy of Number 11 Downing Street with a role as the Conservatives' chief election strategist. "I'm 110 per cent focused on the economy," he said.
What that focus will yield when Parliament returns, it appears, is legislation to reform the planning process which Osborne identified as one of the principal obstacles to the kinds of infrastructure projects that would provide a significant stimulus to the economy (which, incidentally, the Chancellor insists, all empirical evidence to the contrary, is "healing"). Marr wondered if that was part of the fabled "Plan B" that the Chancellor's critics have long been urging on him. Osborne demurred. "It's a hard road to recovery," he said. "And there is no alternative [to the government's deficit reduction strategy]."
As for a possible reshuffle, the Chancellor suggested that Marr ask David Cameron. One suspects we haven't heard the last of it.


On his way? George Osborne outside Number 11 Downing Street (Photograph: Getty Images)

Jonathan Derbyshire is Managing Editor of Prospect. He was formerly Culture Editor of the New Statesman.

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How did I, obsessed with non-places, not know about the Trafford Centre?

My wife had booked us all in to a showing of the latest Bond film at the IMAX Cinema at the Trafford Centre. “Why the Trafford Centre?” I taxed her. She looked at me as if I were a complete ass, but refused to enlighten me. 

Last year I bought a copy of J G Ballard’s last novel, Kingdom Come, a dystopic tale of the near future in which bored suburbanites descend into anomic violence as they retreat inside a giant shopping mall. Predictably, I bought my copy at the Bluewater shopping mall in north Kent, on the outskirts of London. Bluewater held the title of Britain’s biggest shopping mall for a number of years and it is surpassing large: a huge circular corridor that has become a destination. I asked a police officer where the Waterstones was and discovered she was a good old-fashioned bobby-on-the-beat – her beat having been, for seven years, to walk slowly around and around . . . Bluewater.

But I wasn’t fettered by Bluewater’s surly gravity, any more than I was galvanised by rampant consumerism. Novel purchased, I took a cab over the soaring Queen Elizabeth II Bridge to Essex, where I alighted at Bluewater’s twin establishment: the Lakeside shopping mall in West Thurrock. I headed for the Lakeside branch of Waterstones, where I . . . well, you guessed it: I returned my copy of Kingdom Come. This surreal little exercise was undertaken for the BBC Radio 4 documentary Malled: Sixty Years of Undercover Shopping, and I’ve detailed it here purely in order to illustrate this point: I have more than a passing interest in shopping malls.

This is why the events of a fortnight ago, when Family Self went up to Manchester for what is termed, I believe, a “city break”, seemed quite so bizarre. My wife had booked us all in to a showing of the latest Bond film at the IMAX Cinema at the Trafford Centre. “Why the Trafford Centre?” I taxed her. “It’s in Trafford, which is five miles from the city centre.” She looked at me as if I were a complete ass, but refused to enlighten me. My revelation came later, when we were wandering the rococo halls of the Trafford Centre, marvelling at the lashings of gold leaf applied to the serried columns as our soles slapped on the Italian marble flooring. My wife couldn’t believe that one such as I, obsessed by what the French philosopher Marc Augé has named “non-places”, didn’t know about the Trafford Centre.

But I didn’t – it was a 207,000-square-metre hole in my map of the world. I knew nothing of the bitter and protracted wrangling that attended its inception, as successive planning applications were rejected by ever higher authorities, until our Noble Lords had to step in to ensure future generations will be able to buy their schmutter at TK Maxx and then sip their lattes at Starbucks without having to brave the harsh Lancashire elements. Did I feel small as my savvier spouse led me through these storied halls? You bet your waddling, wobbling, standing-still-on-the-travelator bum I did. How could I not have known about the great central dome of the Trafford mall, which is bigger – and statelier – than that of St Paul’s? How could I have been unaware of the Orient, Europe’s largest food court, with its seating for 1,800 diners, served by a plethora of exciting outlets including Harry Ramsden’s, Carluccio’s and those piquant bun-pushers, McDonald’s?

Actually, the Orient completely bowled me over. The Trafford Centre’s imagineers point to the nearby Manchester Ship Canal as influencing this wholly novel and utterly weird space, which is formed by a sort of Möbius strip of 1930s ocean-liner design, being at once superstructure – railings, funnels, tables arranged to simulate the deckchairs on a sun deck – and interior. However, nothing like this ever cruised by Runcorn. Not that I object to this, any more than I objected to the cluttered corridor full of orientalism – noodle bars, sushi joints, all-you-can-eat Chinese barbecues – that debouched from it and led us back into the weirdly glistering main retail areas, with their ornamental griffins and neoclassical columns bodged up out of medium-density fibreboard.

The Trafford Centre’s imagineers also make great play of design features – such as the aforementioned griffins – that are meant to tie the humongous mall to its hinterland (these are the heraldic symbols of the de Traffords, who used to own hereabouts), and to the north-east’s proud industrial heritage. But this is all ornamental balls; the truth is that the Trafford Centre’s ambience is so sumptuously wacky, it could quite reasonably be twinned with Las Vegas.

While the rest of the family went in search of retail opportunities, I watched the Mancunians process. It occurred to me that if there were any influences at work here – besides the Baudrillardian ones of hyperreality and simulation that underpin so much of the contemporary built environment – it was the presence of a large British Asian community. The only people who didn’t look out of both place and time, wandering about among all the gilded pomp and crystalline circumstance, were women wearing saris, shalwar kameez and burqas. Tracksuit bottoms and hoodies just didn’t cut it – although, I concede, come the breakdown in civil society anticipated in Kingdom Come, this pseudo-sportswear will come into its own as the perfect pillaging outfit.

Next week: Lives of Others

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State