Cameron is complacent about the Tory right flank

Internal opposition is not restricted to "one or two backwoodsmen".

The key moment in Michael Gove's interview with Andrew Marr this morning came when he was challenged on the growing opposition from the right of the Tory party to the Cameron project. He replied:

When you carry out any kind of modernisation there are always one or two backwoodsmen who will grumble in the undergrowth.

In fact, the evidence suggests that a far greater number of MPs and activists remain highly sceptical of David Cameron's modernising agenda. There are two critical divisions: the first over policy and the second over party structure. The main tensions in the first category are over climate change and Europe.

On climate change, which ConservativeHome's Tim Montgomerie has predicted will prove as divisive for the party as Europe was in the 1990s, we have seen that reducing Britain's carbon footprint is the lowest priority for Tory candidates. As Montgomerie points out: "You have got 80 per cent or 90 per cent of the party just not signed up to this. No one minded at the beginning, but people are starting to realise it could be quite expensive, so opinion is hardening."

On Europe, although Cameron would most likely be the most Eurosceptic prime minister in history, many activists and backbenchers remain angered by his refusal to promise a referendum on any aspect of Britain's EU membership. Unless he manages to repatriate significant powers from Brussels (which is unlikely), we can expect this issue to flare up again.

Tory modernisers are fond of reminding us that significant sections of the Labour Party never accepted Tony Blair's policy agenda. Yet there is a big difference. Following the repeal of Clause Four, there was no serious constituency of support for wholesale nationalisation. But in the case of today's Tories, the right-wing dominance of the press means that Euroscepticism and and climate-change denialism have not been similarly discredited.

Meanwhile, the Joanne Cash affair demonstrates how hostile many local activists are towards what they see as Cameron's centralisation of the party. That the debacle took place in Westminster North (not usually Turnip Taliban territory) makes one wonder how much anger there is elsewhere in the country.

It is increasingly likely that Cameron will be forced either to swerve to the right or to lead a divided and resentful party. These are equally unpalatable options for a modernising leader.

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George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

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 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism