Read Melanie Phillips' memoir and politely disagree: it will annoy her

A fascinating psychological portrait of a woman who seems to feel most alive when under fire.

Guardian Angel: My Story, My Britain
Melanie Phillips
emBooks, 128pp, £7.20 (ebook)

When I worked at the Daily Mail – I know, I’m sorry, please put down the pitchfork! – we had a running joke. Every week, we ran a “Saturday essay” and we discovered that, whatever the ostensible subject of this 1,800-word tract, it could always fit under the headline “The great betrayal”.

It’s tempting to suggest that this explains why Melanie Phillips found the paper to be such an agreeable home after 21 years working on the Guardian and the Observer. Despite her success and public profile – she has appeared on Question Time twice as often in the past 18 months as all of Britain’s scientists put together – Phillips feels betrayed, marginalised and vilified. She is a lone voice crying in the wilderness as hordes of lefties dominate the airwaves and newspapers, urging the destruction of the family, pushing the myth of climate change and insisting on compulsory gayness lessons for under-fives.

Does this sound like a Britain you recognise? It doesn’t to me and, as I read further through this book, I began to feel that Phillips was that most postmodern of literary devices – an unreliable narrator. She clearly describes the facts and then leaps to a conclusion so unexpected, so different to the one I would draw, that I feel breathless.

For example, after Phillips begins to write columns about education at the Guardian, she receives many letters disagreeing with her – although those that agree often mention that theirs is the minority view and they are afraid to challenge the consensus. She concludes: “What was being described was more akin to life in a totalitarian state. Dissent was being silenced, and those who ran against the orthodoxy were being forced to operate in secret.” Now, I know that rightwingers like to mock the Guardian’s relatively low circulation figures but writing a column there is hardly “operating in secret”. And where are all the columns supporting progressive ideas in the Mail? Or is it only “silencing dissent” when left-wing papers have an editorial line?

There are several incidents like this, in which Phillips recounts how oppressed she was by the Guardianistas, followed swiftly by the flat assertion that she was then appointed leader writer, news editor, columnist or editor of an environmental supplement (even after telling her then editor, Peter Preston, that she believed there was no evidence for man-made climate change).

The vocabulary of this book – “shibboleths”, “hate-mongering”, “denounced”, “besmirch”, “mind-bending” – suggests that she enjoys extreme adversarialism, even while raging against it. Finally, when she leaves the Observer – not before applying to be its editor – for the Sunday Times, she quickly becomes bored with not being attacked: “It just wasn’t where the action was because it was not in the front line of the culture war. My place was on the front line.”

This is a fascinating psychological portrait of a woman who seems to feel most alive when under fire. The chapters about her family – her controlling mother and passive father, her monstrous grandmother, suspected of being partially responsible for the death of her aunt – would provide fodder for an army of therapists. So read it and politely disagree. Phillips would hate that.

Melanie Phillips appearing on BBC Question Time.

Helen Lewis is deputy editor of the New Statesman. She has presented BBC Radio 4’s Week in Westminster and is a regular panellist on BBC1’s Sunday Politics.

Photo: Hunter Skipworth / Moment
Show Hide image

Cones and cocaine: the ice cream van's links with organised crime

A cold war is brewing to the tinkling of "Greensleeves".

Anyone who has spent a summer in this country will be familiar with the Pavlovian thrill the first tinny notes of “Greensleeves” stir within the stolid British breast.

The arrival of the ice cream van – usually at least two decades older than any other vehicle on the road, often painted with crude approximations of long-forgotten cartoon characters and always, without fail, exhorting fellow motorists to “Mind that child!” – still feels like a simple pleasure of the most innocent kind.

The mobile ice cream trade, though, has historical links with organised crime.

Not only have the best routes been the subject of many, often violent turf wars, but more than once lollies have served as cover for goods of a more illicit nature, most notoriously during the Glasgow “Ice Cream Wars” of the early 1980s, in which vans were used as a front for fencing stolen goods and dealing drugs, culminating in an arson attack that left six people dead.

Although the task force set up to tackle the problem was jokingly nicknamed the “Serious Chimes Squad” by the press, the reality was somewhat less amusing. According to Thomas “T C” Campbell, who served almost 20 years for the 1984 murders before having his conviction overturned in 2004, “A lot of my friends were killed . . . I’ve been caught with axes, I’ve been caught with swords, open razors, every conceivable weapon . . . meat cleavers . . . and it was all for nothing, no gain, nothing to it, just absolute madness.”

Tales of vans being robbed at gunpoint and smashed up with rocks abounded in the local media of the time and continue to pop up – a search for “ice cream van” on Google News throws up the story of a Limerick man convicted last month of supplying “wholesale quantities” of cocaine along with ice cream. There are also reports of the Mob shifting more than 40,000 oxycodone pills through a Lickety Split ice cream van on Staten Island between 2009 and 2010.

Even for those pushing nothing more sinister than a Strawberry Split, the ice cream business isn’t always light-hearted. BBC Radio 4 devoted an entire programme last year to the battle for supremacy between a local man who had been selling ice creams in Newbiggin-by-the-Sea since 1969 and an immigrant couple – variously described in the tabloids as Polish and Iraqi but who turned out to be Greek – who outbid him when the council put the contract out to tender. The word “outsiders” cropped up more than once.

This being Britain, the hostilities in Northumberland centred around some rather passive-aggressive parking – unlike in Salem, Oregon, where the rivalry from 2009 between an established local business and a new arrival from Mexico ended in a highish-speed chase (for an ice cream van) and a showdown in a car park next to a children’s playground. (“There’s no room for hate in ice cream,” one of the protagonists claimed after the event.) A Hollywood production company has since picked up the rights to the story – which, aptly, will be co-produced by the man behind American Sniper.

Thanks to competition from supermarkets (which effortlessly undercut Mister Softee and friends), stricter emission laws in big cities that have hit the UK’s ageing fleet particularly hard, and tighter regulations aimed at combating childhood obesity, the trade isn’t what it used to be. With margins under pressure and a customer base in decline, could this summer mark the start of a new cold war?

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 22 June 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The zombie PM

0800 7318496