Newt Gingrich loses his cool over "open marriage" accusations

The Republican candidate may have shot himself in the foot with last night's tirade.

At last night's Republican debate in South Carolina, all eyes were on Newt Gingrich as he erupted over claims he wanted an "open marriage" with his second wife and lashed out at what he described as "the destructive, vicious, negative nature" of the media.

CNN's John King opened the debate by asking Gingrich if the allegations made by former wife Marianne were true. The stunned presidential hopeful was prompted by King who asked: ""Would you like to take some time to respond to that?" A red-faced Gingrich replied: "No, but I will," earning cheers and a standing ovation from the audience.

Newt's tirade continued as he blamed the media for making it "harder to govern this country, harder to attract decent people to run for public office" and said he was appalled that CNN began a presidential debate on that topic.

Unsurprisingly Gingrich vehemently denied the claims, stating: "To take an ex-wife and two days before the primary [raise] a significant question in the presidential campaign is as close to despicable as anything I can imagine ... I am frankly astounded that CNN would take trash like that and open the debate."

However, a combative Gingrich wasn't done yet. After King pointed out that it was ABC, not CNN, who aired his ex wife's claims of an "open marriage", Gingrich told him not to blame anybody else and stressed his disgust that the debate was opened with such a personal question. He then blamed the "elite" media for protecting President Obama.

However, despite earning a standing ovation from the South Carolina crowd when he angrily rebuked King, it appears Newt doth protest too much and his outburst may turn out to be a PR disaster, giving greater prominence to the allegations and therefore alienating the evangelical Christians who dominate South Carolina.

Fellow nominee Rick Santorum expressed worry over Gingrich's temper, saying that "these are issues of character to consider" and Ron Paul, who was more of a spectator than a participant in last night's debate, made a blatant attempt to highlight his own personal values, piously expressing his pride over his wife of 54 years.

Frontrunner Mitt Romney, with whom Gingrich is almost neck-and-neck in the polls, earned applause by taking the high road and saying: "Let's get on to the real issues. That's all I've got to say." However, he might have regretted moving off the subject of Newt's escapades so quickly as he was faced with yet more questions about his tax returns. A defensive Romney fumbled through his answer, vaguely promising to release the past year's tax return in April.

Three-times-married Gingrich is well-known for his infidelities, causing many staunch conservatives to question his moral fibre. He famously called for the impeachment of former President Bill Clinton following his Oval Office dalliance with Monica Lewinsky, at the same time that he himself was having an affair.

Gingrich's explosive temper was also an issue when he served as House speaker. He was blamed for two partial government shutdowns during the battle over the budget, which made him seem reckless and hot-headed. A wide-spread editorial cartoon depicted him as having a rather embarrassing temper tantrum.

Despite a storming performance at Monday night's debate, by unleashing such a tirade last night Gingrich may have inadvertently shot himself in the foot.

 

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France is changing: an army stalks the streets and Boris Johnson wanders the Tuileries

Will Self on the militarisation of France, and Boris Johnson at the Foreign Office.

At the corner of the rue D’Hauteville and the rue de Paradis in the tenth arrondissement of Paris is a retro-video-games-themed bar, Le Fantôme, which is frequented by some not-so-jeunes gens – the kind of thirtysomethings nostalgic for an era when you had to go to an actual place if you wanted to enter virtual space. They sit placidly behind the plate-glass windows zapping Pac-Men and Space Invaders, while outside another – and rather more lethal – sort of phantom stalks the sunlit streets.

I often go to Paris for work, and so have been able to register the incremental militarisation of its streets since President Hollande first declared a state of emergency after last November’s terrorist attacks. In general the French seem more comfortable about this prêt-à-porter khaki than we’d probably be; the army-nation concept is, after all, encrypted deep in their collective psyche. The army was constituted as a revolutionary instrument. France was the first modern nation to introduce universal male conscription – and it continued in one form or another right up until the mid-1990s.

Even so, it was surprising to witness the sang-froid with which Parisians regarded the camouflaged phantoms wandering among them: a patrol numbering eight ­infantrymen and women moved up the roadway, scoping out doorways, nosing into passages – but when one peered into Le Fantôme, his assault rifle levelled, none of the boozing gamers paid the least attention. I witnessed this scene the Saturday after Mohamed Lahouaiej-Bouhlel ran amok on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice – it was a little preview of the new state of emergency.

On Monday 18 July the French premier, Manuel Valls, was booed at a memorial service for the victims of the Nice attacks – while Marine Le Pen has been making all the populist running, whipping up anxieties about the enemy within. For many French, the events of the past week – including the failed Turkish coup – are steps along the way limned by Michel Houellebecq in his bestselling novel Submission; a via dolorosa that ends with La Marianne wearing the hijab and France itself annexed by a new caliphate.

Into this febrile drama comes a new player: Boris Johnson, the British Foreign Secretary. What can we expect from this freshly minted statesman when it comes to our relations with our closest neighbour? There is no doubt that Johnson is a Francophile – I’ve run into him and his family at the Tuileries, and he made much of his own francophone status during the referendum campaign. In Paris last winter to launch the French edition of his Churchill biography, Johnson wowed a publication dinner by speaking French for the entire evening. He was sufficiently fluent to bumble, waffle and generally avoid saying anything serious at all.

Last Sunday I attended the Lambeth Country Show, an oxymoronic event for which the diverse inhabitants of my home borough gather in Brockwell Park, south London, for jerked and halal chicken, funfair rides, Quidditch-watching, and “country-style” activities, such as looking at farm animals and buying their products. Wandering among ancient Rastafarians with huge shocks of dreadlocks, British Muslims wearing immaculate white kurtas blazoned with “ASK ME ABOUT ISLAM” and crusty old Brixton punks, I found it quite impossible to rid my mind of the Nice carnage – or stop wondering how they would react if armed soldiers were patrolling, instead of tit-helmeted, emphatically unarmed police.

I stepped into the Royal Horticultural Society marquee, and there they were: the entire cast of our end-of-the-pier-show politics, in vegetable-sculpture form and arrayed for judging. There was Jeremy Corbyn (or “Cornbin”) made out of corncobs – and Boris Johnson in the form of a beetroot, being stabbed in the back by a beetroot Michael Gove. And over there was Johnson again, this time rendered in cabbage. The veggie politicians were the big draw, Brixtonians standing six-deep around them, iPhones aloft.

The animal (as opposed to the vegetable) Johnson has begun his diplomatic rounds this week, his first démarches as tasteless and anodyne as cucumber. No British abandonment of friends after Brexit . . . Coordinated response to terror threat . . . Call for Erdogan to be restrained in response to failed coup . . . Blah-blah, whiff-whaff-waffle . . . Even someone as gaffe-prone as he can manage these simple lines, but I very much doubt he will be able to produce rhetorical flourishes as powerful as his hero’s. In The Churchill Factor: How One Man Made History, Johnson writes of Winnie overcoming “his stammer and his depression and his ­appalling father to become the greatest living Englishman”. Well, I’ve no idea if Bojo suffers from depression now but he soon will if he cleaves to this role model. His Churchill-worship (like so many others’) hinges on his belief that, without Churchill as war leader, Britain would have been ground beneath the Nazi jackboot. It may well be that, with his contribution to the Brexit campaign, Johnson now feels he, too, has wrested our national destiny from the slavering jaws of contingency.

Of course the differences between the two politicians are far more significant: Johnson’s genius – such as it is – lies in his intuitive understanding that politics, in our intensely mediatised and entirely commoditised era, is best conceived of as a series of spectacles or stunts: nowadays you can fool most of the people, most of the time. This is not a view you can imagine associating with Churchill, who, when his Gallipoli stratagem went disastrously wrong, exiled himself, rifle in hand, to the trenches. No, the French people Johnson both resembles and has an affinity for are the ones caught up in the virtual reality of Le Fantôme – rather than those patrolling the real and increasingly mean streets without. 

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 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt