Obama’s “USA!” moment

The president’s poll ratings have leapt in the wake of Bin Laden’s killing, but Republicans are shar

A seminal time for his presidency: a true test of his leadership. Little wonder, you might think, that Barack Obama's approval ratings have soared in the wake of the targeted killing of Osama Bin Laden – from the lowest of his presidency to the highest in years. A series of polls shows that some 56 per cent of Americans now approve of his performance in his job as president, while more than two-thirds aprove his handling of the terrorism threat.

It's not surprising, when you read the accounts of Obama's coolness under pressure as he watched the live feed of that daring raid by Navy SEALs . . . when you consider that while making one of the most important decisions of his career, he managed to pull off a creditable comedy riff to a crowd of hacks at the White House correspondents' dinner . . . when you bask in the brief euphoria of what the pundits are calling the "USA! USA!" moment the country hasn't experienced for years.

It's ripped up another stereotype, too: that of Obama as hand-wringer in chief, an image of indecisiveness and weakness that has dogged him almost from the moment he took office. Suddenly his harshest critics – yes, even the likes of former Vice-President Dick Cheney and Obama's talk-show nemesis Rush Limbaugh – were lining up to offer praise. As the FT put it, "Mr Obama has a compelling new narrative."

So, it's not surprising, either, that the president tried to sieze the opportunity to build some of that political unity everyone's been paying lip-service to since, well, for ever. In his speech to the American people – which 56 million people tuned in to watch – he was pretty optimistic. As he said: "It is my fervent hope that we can harness some of that unity and some of that pride to confront the challenges we still face."

Yeah, right. It lasted all of about 12 hours before the Republicans went back on the offensive, with the Democrats hard on their heels. Here's the Republican senator Jim DeMint, not long after he had offered his "heartfelt thanks" to the president for "pursuing the neccessary policies to bring about today's success", changing his tune rather radically to weigh in to the adminstration's economic record. "The command-and-control paranoia that we see in this administration is antithetical to everything that we understand about freedom in our country," the senator opined.

And Tom Pawlenty, who's off to South Carolina to debate his GOP presidential rivals on Thursday said that "the time to engage President Obama is now" – and that despite the Bin Laden killing, Obama's "national defence posture" won't be off limits.

Nor did politics on the Hill take long to get back to the usual partisan sniping, with Republicans railing against the White House about everything from petrol prices to light bulbs (yes, really). The Democrats have hardly been sitting on their hands, either – barely pausing for breath before scheduling a press conference attacking the Republican plans for Medicare.

So the glow of national pride of the past few days, that "USA!" moment that echoed around Ground Zero, could very well turn out to be just that – a moment – as the normal dynamic of the 2012 campaign takes over once again. And despite the events of this week, that dynamic is likely to be driven by one thing: the economy. Take note: Obama's ratings here are by no means as healthy as his handling of the terror threat, and are still languishing at an all-time low.

There's no doubt that the president has proved his credentials as commander-in-chief: it'll be hard to keep asking that "3am phone call" question. But by the time Americans go to the polls next November, it could well be jobs, gas prices, the debt and the deficit that decide the way they vote. Without doubt, the economy will be the GOP's biggest electoral opportunity. And, blink and you'll miss it, but Obama and his campaign team could just have their best chance yet to make sure it's no longer their biggest electoral liability.

Felicity Spector is a deputy programme editor for Channel 4 News.

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The beggar used to be friendly – now he was ranting at everyone

What was I doing, dismissing him with maximal curtness – and not caring?

The first beggar was walking but still wretched. Probably in his early twenties, clearly ravaged by more than just alcohol, he made a beeline for me, as if he had an appointment. He was not to know that I was in a mood from hell, though the look on my face would have told him, if he’d been in any kind of state to register it.

“Excuse me, have you got 10p for…”

“No.” And I walked on.

Why? I am almost invariably a soft touch for this kind of thing. But as I said, I was in the foulest of tempers.

Also, this was East Finchley. For those who do not know London, East Finchley is a northern suburb, which at one end hosts the wealthiest street in the country – the Bishops Avenue, where multimillionaires tear down houses and erect new ones even uglier than those they have replaced – and at the other end a typically seedy, dull collection of terraced houses.

The main supermarket is Budgens, a name so ungainly that it could only have belonged to a real person, either too proud or unimaginative to think of something else.

But what, I asked myself, was someone this wretched doing in East Finchley? And what was I doing, dismissing him with maximal curtness – and not caring?

The second beggar, further up the street, I met the next day: much older and clearly mad, rather than chemically poisoned. He asked how I was doing.

“Not so well, as it happens,” I replied.

“Would you like me to say a prayer for you?”

“Why not?” I said, and he placed a clenched fist to my forehead and made a brief incantation, something like an exorcism, and then kissed the large white plastic crucifix hanging from his neck.

I half-expected to feel a jolt of faith, some kind of divine restructuring. This time I gave him money: a pound coin and a 50p coin. But then later I thought: why didn’t I give him more? I’d been doing some tidying earlier and had retrieved a heavy pocketful of change; I could have given him a generous handful.

The third beggar was in Shepherd’s Bush. I knew him from the days when I lived there: a skinny, middle-aged guy who would occasionally stop and rant in a friendly way at me, just sane enough not to ignore. That was ten years ago. Now he was raging at everyone, accusing the teenagers queueing in the kebab shop of being batty boys and saying “bloodclaat” a lot. (Batty boy: homosexual. Bloodclaat: tampon.)

The people he was addressing knew perfectly well what he was saying. They shrugged it off. I got on the bus; so did he, and the whole bus knew about it. There was nothing friendly in him now, and I wondered through which hole in the increasingly threadbare welfare safety net he had been allowed to slip.

That’s it, I thought. I’m getting out of London, its pampered core oblivious to the surrounding anguish. The world in a nutshell. Luckily, my great friend S— had asked if I could cat-sit for her in Brighton. I know her cat, and I know Brighton. Also, I know about a dozen people there who I keep meaning to see, so why not? London was making me ill, and possibly a bad person. So S— invited me down a couple of days before she was due to go on her holidays, and I took the first train I could.

And now I find myself sitting on a sunlounger in a tiny backyard, in a charming house just abutting the North Laine, and the mood is palpably different to the capital’s. It is like a city ought to be: compact, diverse and funky. There is no reek of High Capitalism. It is healthily decadent. It would appear to be full of people who have rejected the idea of London. It still has an enormous number of beggars, but more people were dropping money for them than I ever saw do so in W1, W12 or N2.

So this is what it’s like to fall out of love with the city of one’s birth. What most surprised me was the speed and force with which it happened. I’d made my mind up over a nice lunch that my friend N— was buying me, to cheer me up.

“Don’t you have to stay in London? You know, for book launches and things like that?”

“I don’t go to fucking book launches any more,” I said. I was taken aback by the vigour of my reply. I’m only here for ten days but I have plenty of people to see and dozens of memories, all good, to bump into. I’m already feeling better. 

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 14 September 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The German problem