Boundary changes will hit Welsh Labour MPs hardest

There is a clear political dimension to the way that the coalition’s proposed boundary changes will

There is a clear political dimension to the way that the coalition’s proposed boundary changes will be implemented.

Today during Deputy Prime Minister's Questions, the shadow Treasury minister Chris Leslie raised the matter of House of Lords reform, asking Nick Clegg whether the proposed reduction in the number of MPs, accompanied by new coalition appointments to the Lords, was intended as a political move against Labour.

Clegg responded by confirming that the Labour-instituted method for appointing peers will remain in place until a full review of the second chamber has taken place, and also pointed out that a number of Labour peers have just joined the Lords, appointed as part of the Dissolution Honours list in May.

However, the Deputy Prime Minister did not really address the main point of Leslie's question: under the Parliamentary Voting System and Constituencies Bill 2010-2011, which is now making its way through the House, 50 MPs's seats will be scrapped, and it looks as if a significant proportion of them will be in Labour-supporting areas.

Yesterday, the House of Commons Welsh affairs committee published a report which concluded that not only does the coincidental clash of the referendum with the next Welsh Assembly election raise concerns, but that Wales would be affected disproportionately by the cut in the number of constituencies. The report reads:

The reduction in the number of Members of the House of Commons proposed by the bill would affect Wales more than any other part of the UK; the evidence we have received suggests that Wales would lose at least ten of its 40 MPs, a 25 per cent reduction (in comparison to a 17 per cent reduction for Northern Ireland, 16 per cent for Scotland and 5 per cent for England).

Of the 40 Welsh MPs, 26 are Labour, eight are Conservative, and the Lib Dems and Plaid Cymru have three each. Reducing this total by a quarter would inevitably impact more on Labour than any other party, purely as a result of it being the largest political grouping.

The new boundaries would be drawn in order to create constituencies of roughly equal size – each consisting of roughly 76,000 voters. The rights and wrongs of the changes themselves will no doubt still be debated at length before the final vote on the bill. But, without doubt, the boundary changes will have a heavier bearing on the opposition than the government, and clearly there is a strongly political dimension to the way the coalition has gone about delivering its "new politics".

Caroline Crampton is web editor of the New Statesman.

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Appearing in a book is strange – being an actual character must be stranger

Much as it jolts me to come across a reference to my music in something I'm reading, at least it's not me.

I was happily immersed in the world of a novel the other day, Rachel Elliott’s Whispers Through a Megaphone, when suddenly I was jolted back into reality by my own appearance in the book. One of the characters hears someone singing and is told, “‘It’s Leonora. She sings with her window open.’ ‘She’s good – sounds like Tracey Thorn.’ ‘She does, doesn’t she.’”

It was as if I’d walked on stage while still being in the audience. It’s happened to me before, and is always startling, a kind of breaking of the fourth wall. From being the reader, addressed equally and anonymously, you become, even momentarily, a minor character or a representative of something. In this instance it was flattering, but the thing is, you have no control over what the writer uses you to mean.

In David Nicholls’s Starter for Ten, set in the mid-Eighties, the lead character, Brian – a hapless student, failing in both love and University Challenge – hopes that he is about to have sex with a girl. “We stay up for an hour or so, drinking whisky, sitting on the bed next to each other and talking and listening to Tapestry and the new Everything But the Girl album.” Ah, I realised, here I represent the kind of singer people listen to when they’re trying, though possibly failing, to get laid.

Fast-forward a few years, to the mid-Nineties of Bret Easton Ellis’s Glamorama, a book constructed from lists of people and things, clothes and music, which apparently indicate the vacuousness of modern life. “I dash into the Paul Smith store on Bond Street, where I purchase a smart-looking navy-gray raincoat. Everything But the Girl’s ‘Missing’ plays over everything” and later, “In the limo heading toward Charing Cross Road Everything But the Girl’s ‘Wrong’ plays while I’m studying the small white envelope . . .” Here I’m being used to represent the way bands become briefly ubiquitous: our songs are a soundtrack to the sleazy glamour of the novel.

These mentions are all fine; it’s only the music that features, not me. Spotting yourself as an actual character in someone’s novel must be more shocking: one of the perils of, for instance, being married to a novelist. I think of Claire Bloom and Philip Roth. First she wrote a memoir about how ghastly it was being married to him, then he wrote a novel about how ghastly it was to be married to someone very like her. Books as revenge: that’s very different indeed.

Few people who had ever met Morrissey emerged from his memoir unscathed (me included), but particularly Geoff Travis of Rough Trade. He was hung, drawn and quartered in the book, yet seems to have maintained a dignified silence. But it’s hard knowing how to deal with real people in memoirs. In mine, I chose not to name one character, a boy who broke my 18-year-old heart. Feverish speculation among old friends, all of whom guessed wrong, proved how much attention they’d been paying to me at the time. I also wrote about my teenage band, the Marine Girls, and then sent the chapter to the other members for approval. Which led to a fresh outbreak of hostilities and not-speaking, 25 years after we’d broken up. Don’t you just love bands?

Worrying about any of this would stop anyone ever writing anything. Luckily it didn’t deter John Niven, whose scabrous music-biz novel, Kill Your Friends, mixes larger-than-life monsters such as the fictional A&R man Steven Stelfox with real people: and not just celebs (Goldie, the Spice Girls), but record company executives (Ferdy Unger-Hamilton, Rob Stringer) known best to those of us in the biz, and presumably thrilled to have made it into a book. John confirmed to me recently: “In the end I got more grief from people I left out of the book than those I put in. Such is the ego of the music industry. I heard of one executive who bought about 30 copies and would sign them for bands, saying, ‘This was based on me.’ You create the Devil and people are lining up to say, ‘Yep. I’m that guy.’”

In other words, as I suspected, there’s only one thing worse than being written about. 

Tracey Thorn is a musician and writer, best known as one half of Everything but the Girl. She writes the fortnightly “Off the Record” column for the New Statesman. Her latest book is Naked at the Albert Hall.

This article first appeared in the 06 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The longest hatred