A bad night for Labour in Tower Hamlets

Labour badly beaten as Respect-backed Lutfur Rahman becomes first elected mayor.

In the end, the Tower Hamlets mayoral election wasn't as close as we'd all expected. Labour was beaten – and beaten badly. Lutfur Rahman, who ran as an independent after he was removed as the party's candidate, won on first preferences with 51.76 per cent of the vote (23,283 votes) on a turnout of just 25.6 per cent. Labour's Helal Abbas finished a poor second with just 25.01 per cent of the vote (11,254 votes).

The Respect-backed Rahman becomes the first-ever elected mayor of the East End borough and wins control of its billion-pound budget. It seems as if anger over his deselection, rather than any mass enthusiasm for his candidacy, played the decisive role.

As I've explained before, Rahman was removed by Labour's National Executive Committee after criticism of his alleged links to fundamentalist Islam and concerns over the "eligibility of participating voters". He was replaced with Helal Abbas (who submitted a dossier on Rahman to the NEC), a controversial choice not least because he finished third, not second, in the original contest. Christine Shawcross, a member of Labour's NEC, suggested that they "put forward Abbas so as not to leave themselves open to the charge of deselecting a Bangladeshi and replacing him with a white man".

In the event, it made little difference. The Bangladeshi community, which makes up a third of the borough's population, swung behind Rahman from the start and was angered by the NEC's manipulation. Meanwhile, Ken Livingstone and others from the left of the party flirted with expulsion by openly campaigning for Rahman.

For Labour, the result is a major reversal of fortune. The party performed well in the East End at the general election, with Rushanara Ali winning Bethnal Green and Bow back from Respect, Jim Fitzpatrick seeing George Galloway off in Poplar, and Respect losing all but one of its councillors.

Labour's London MPs and party grandees, including Harriet Harman and Neil Kinnock, threw their weight behind Abbas and all have lost face as a result of his resounding defeat.

Rahman, as the Guardian's London blogger Dave Hill notes, won "despite being accused of being incompetent, corrupt and beholden to local businessmen and shadowy Muslim extremists". But after one of the most divisive and vicious election contests London has ever experienced, there's already talk of Rahman eventually returning to the Labour fold. One imagines he will be seeking advice from his friend Ken Livingstone on that front.

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