Has Nick Clegg helped the case for a war crimes tribunal?

Clegg’s gaffe over the “illegal” war could strengthen case for involvement of the international cour

Nick Clegg raised more than a few eyebrows yesterday when he called the Iraq war "illegal" while standing in for David Cameron at PMQs.

Clegg might have made a habit of condemning the war while in opposition, but appeared to forget that his partners in government now include neocons such as George Osborne and Iain Duncan Smith, who voted in favour of the conflict. During a heated exchange with Jack Straw, he said:

Maybe [Straw] one day -- perhaps we will have to wait for his memoirs -- could account for his role in the most disastrous decision of all, which is the illegal invasion of Iraq.

The obvious issue is that he has highlighted a division in the coalition, but has Clegg also strengthened the case for legal action?

The Guardian today quotes senior lawyers wondering whether his statement is legally significant because it was made while speaking in the Commons:

Philippe Sands, professor of law at University College London, said: "A public statement by a government minister in parliament as to the legal situation would be a statement that an international court would be interested in, in forming a view as to whether or not the war was lawful."

The No 10 press office has done some hasty damage limitation. A spokesman said that Clegg had been speaking in his capacity as leader of the Liberal Democrats, rather than Deputy Prime Minister -- slightly odd, perhaps, given that he was standing at the despatch box, answering questions on behalf of the government at PMQs.

The coalition government has not expressed a view on the legality or otherwise of the Iraq conflict. But that does not mean that individual members of the government should not express their individual views. These are long-held views of the Deputy Prime Minister.

The issue of the war's legality has rumbled quietly on since 2003. My colleague Mehdi Hasan wrote in January that:

The New Statesman has learned from a senior legal source that not one member of Britain's new 12-justice Supreme Court believes that the war was lawful. One former law lord, Johan Steyn, has called on the Iraq inquiry to publish an interim report before the general election declaring the war illegal.

A recent Sunday Times poll showed that a quarter of the public wants to see Blair stand trial. The International Criminal Court's chief prosecutor even said in 2007 that he could "envisage" a scenario where this took place.

In theory, a senior minister negating the war's legal basis could add force to the argument for a tribunal, should the international court consider the case. But somehow -- particularly as it does not signify a change in the government's official position, and the Chilcot inquiry is not seeking to apportion blame on this point -- that seems distinctly unlikely.

Samira Shackle is a freelance journalist, who tweets @samirashackle. She was formerly a staff writer for 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