Italy celebrate winning the World Cup in Berlin, July 2006. Photo: Getty
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The last World Cup: after Brazil 2014, is the tournament finished?

Football is a supreme instrument of soft power and can unite people as little else can. But allegations of Fifa corruption have tarnished the image of the beautiful game. Can anything be done to save it?

The imagination is always at the end of an era.

Wallace Stevens

In the spring of 2006 I was working on the Observer when, one quiet afternoon, the editor, Roger Alton, called out to me across the newsroom: “Jase, d’you fancy going to the World Cup?” This was a question to which, if you liked football, the answer could not be “no”. Alton was an inspirational editor. He combined charm with just a hint of menace. He was menacing because capricious and unpredictable. But it was his very unpredictability that made him such a good editor – this and his high intelligence, which he tried to disguise by speaking in a kind of hectic demotic. The writer Geoff Dyer once described him to me, accurately enough, as being like a “cross between an Oxford don and a London cabbie”.

There was no budget for me to go to the World Cup in Germany but Alton sent me all the same for five thrilling weeks. I’m pretty sure, in retrospect, that the amiable sports editor, Brian Oliver, whom Alton affectionately called the Gaffer, had no idea what to do with me, yet he took my being crashed into his team of reporters with grace and good humour.

This was perhaps one of the last assignments of its kind there was to be on a British Sunday newspaper. I was not required to blog or tweet or write daily reports for the website. (Nowadays I’d be told to live-blog every England press conference, or something to that effect.) Rather, my only responsibility was to write a weekly essay, travel the country (all accredited journalists were provided with a complimentary first-class rail pass) and watch football matches. My sense of good fortune was heightened by the extraordinarily warm and settled weather in Germany during those weeks of the tournament.

I rented a small apartment in Berlin, in a building just off Pariser Platz and a short walk from the Brandenburg Gate. My apartment was directly opposite the Hotel Adlon, where Fifa’s blazered officials were holed up for the duration of the tournament in five-star luxury. This was also the hotel from a high window of which Michael Jackson, in an act of demented exhibitionism, precariously dangled one of his baby children, for the amusement of himself and the world’s media. From the window of my flat, I could see Peter Eisenman’s Holocaust Memorial, a forbidding grid of grey, coffin-like concrete slabs, or stelae, occupying a five-acre site, reminding all visitors to the city of the traumas of the German past.

Each morning, if I was not travelling, I bought a selection of newspapers and international magazines from the nearby Hauptbahnhof, the magnificent redevelopment of which had been completed to coincide with the start of the World Cup. Then I’d buy a coffee from the café of a local art gallery and sit on the pavement terrace and watch football fans of all nationalities idle and loiter – you could tell which team was in town that day by the colour of the replica football shirts being worn.

It was obvious that the World Cup was having a transformative effect on Germany. A large screen, on which matches were broadcast live, was positioned near the Brandenburg Gate, the main attraction of the Berlin Fan Fest. There were public viewing areas such as this in cities across the country and they proved to be enormously popular. By the end of the tournament hundreds of thousands were gathering at the Berlin Fan Fest for Germany matches.

Yet the mood inside the country at the outset of the tournament was one of anxious self-scrutiny. Franz “the Kaiser” Beckenbauer, Germany’s greatest player and the chair of the World Cup 2006 organising committee, had spoken of how football “makes a better world, it’s a game that brings tribes together. It is our historic opportunity here now in Germany to be good hosts, to show the world who we are.” He could have added, though the subtext was obvious, “and how we have changed”.

His optimism was not altogether widely shared. Germans are understandably unsettled by ostentatious displays of patriotism. When I arrived in Munich, just before the opening game between the hosts and Costa Rica at the Allianz Arena, I was struck by the absence of German flags on public display. By contrast, in England that World Cup summer, with expectations of success inflated by the promise of Sven’s so-called golden generation of players, the flag of St George was ubiquitous.

 

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There was also the small matter of Jürgen Klinsmann, the German national team coach, who was being caricatured as the “reviled reformer”. The son of a baker, Klinsmann is a Swabian, but rather than live in Germany he was stubbornly resident in California (he is married to an American). He had enjoyed a distinguished and itinerant playing career, in Stuttgart, Milan, Monaco, London and Munich, and spoke fluent English with a North Atlantic accent. He had the calm and good manners of an experienced airline pilot. The German press didn’t like or trust him: he was too cosmopolitan, too committed to a culture of change, too confident in his own certainties.

Klinsmann wanted Germany to play in an entirely new way: a much more expansive, high-energy, attacking game. He and his assistant Joachim Löw (who succeeded Klinsmann as coach in July 2006), had spent time together in London studying Arsène Wenger’s Arsenal, the fast-paced, highly technical multinational team of many talents, the team of Thierry Henry, Dennis Bergkamp, Robert Pirès and Patrick Vieira. They wanted to emulate the style of Wenger’s Arsenal, and would do so with a new generation of players, many drawn from immigrant families. “We need to question every single ritual and habit,” Klinsmann said on becoming national coach. “And we need to do it continuously – and not just in football . . . Reforms don’t happen in phases. They need to be part of an ongoing process, one that doesn’t stop when the World Cup is over.”

Germany had hosted great international sporting events before – the World Cup in 1974, the Olympic Games twice – but never fully successfully. The tournament of 1974 was played in a country divided between a free west and a communist east. Indeed, the old German Democratic Republic surprisingly beat West Germany 1-0 after they were drawn together in the same group. It was the first and only occasion the two Germanys contested an international football match. The game itself was played in Hamburg in torrential rain and it was as if that night even the gods were weeping for the divided nation.

Two years earlier, Munich had been the host city of the 1972 Olympics. But these Games will be for ever remembered for the so-called Munich Massacre, the kidnap and subsequent murder of 11 members of the Israeli Olympic team after a raid on the athletes’ village by the Palestinian militants of Black September. Once again Jews were being terrorised and murdered on German soil as the world looked on and recoiled. Before that, in 1936, the Berlin Olympics were scarred by Nazi propaganda and the grotesque posturing of Hitler.

The mood was so different in 2006. During the weeks of the tournament, as Klinsmann’s attack-minded team progressed to the semi-finals, and as the sun continued to shine and people, bashfully at first but then with much more confidence and obvious joy, began to drape themselves in the German flag, and as more and more Germans and overseas visitors began to gather each day at the Fan Fests to drink beer and watch the games in a spirit of mutual celebration, and as a sceptical press stopped worrying and began to declare the tournament a resounding success, something changed inside Germany. It was as if a nation no longer felt ashamed and suddenly began to experience a kind of relaxed patriotism. The world was watching Germany and the world liked what it saw: a tolerant country, welcoming to outsiders, and one that had become a model of benign liberal democracy. And the trains still ran on time.

By the end of the tournament – Germany were beaten 2-0 in the semi-finals by Italy, the eventual winners, in an enthralling game at Borussia Dortmund’s 80,000-capacity Westfalenstadion that I attended – Angela Merkel was pleading publicly with Klinsmann to renew his contract as coach. She understood what the World Cup had done for her country and how it had brought people together and lifted their spirits. True to his restless nature, Klinsmann accepted the applause and his nation’s gratitude, and promptly returned to America. Job done.

The Netherlands manager gives his players a pep talk in Brazil ahead of this year's World Cup. Photo: Getty

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When Franz Beckenbauer spoke of football’s potential to unite and inspire and to bring tribes together he was surely right. Talk to any Nigerian, for instance, about Nigeria, an unstable post-colonial construct of multiple rivalrous ethnic groups and more than 500 languages, and you will be told that one of the few things that can unite Africa’s most populous nation – perhaps the only thing – is the national football team, the Super Eagles. Even in a more mature democracy such as England, where some of us mourn the passing of anything resembling a common culture, football can create a sense of unity and fellow feeling of a kind that has all but disappeared from daily life in an era of zero-hour contracts, virtual friendships, declining newspaper sales and multi-channel
television: something we can all share in and talk about. This sense of togetherness, of an enlarged and enraptured imaginary community, feels never more palpable than during a World Cup summer, when it can sometimes seem as if every second person you meet is preoccupied by the football. “The imagined community of millions seems more real as a team of 11 named people,” as Eric Hobsbawm wrote.

The game of football has become the lingua franca of our globalisation. It is one of the supreme instruments of soft power, hence the desire of nations to host World Cups and of oligarchs and plutocrats to own great football clubs, the “superbrands” of international sport, as we have been coerced into calling them.

The top European leagues, especially the English Premier League, operate a rapacious winner-takes-all capitalism: the richest are getting richer and the rest can merely dream of catching up or go to hell. The game’s greatest players – Ronaldo, Messi, Ibrahimovic – are some of the most photographed, idolised and imitated people on the planet, their talent remarkable, their wealth stupendous, their influence reaching even into the world’s remotest towns and villages.

Absurd it may sound, but some of the most intense and emotionally draining experiences of my life have come from watching football. Even today, nearly 24 years later, I cannot think of England’s loss to West Germany in the 1990 World Cup semi-final at the Stadio delle Alpi in Turin, following an anguished penalty shoot-out, without feeling a sense of deep regret. Partly, of course, I’m mourning the person I used to be, the lost time and the lived experience that can never be recovered. I was only a year out of university back then and giddy with hope at what the future might hold but also unsettled by what seemed to me to be the sheer strangeness and wonder of the world – its randomness, its infinite variety, its essential mystery. There I was that night, a long way from Italy, gathered with friends around a television set in a rented house in the north London suburbs, watching as England tried and failed, so gloriously, to reach what would have been only their second World Cup final.

Italia ’90 – Gazza’s tears, Pavarotti’s “Nes­­sun Dorma”, Roger Milla’s dance – was when many people in England, those who had been so repelled by the violence and the hooliganism and the stadium disasters of the1980s, succumbed and began to fall in love with football again. They dared to believe that the game, so undermined by racism and the brutality of terrace culture, could be beautiful once more – something that appealed to all classes, to men and women, boys and girls: indeed, just as it does today.

The moneymen sensed the zeitgeist and seized their opportunity. Within two years the Premier League had been launched, after the leading clubs broke away from the old Football League. The new league would be bankrolled by Rupert Murdoch’s Sky Television and marketed as a “whole new ball game”. The fans were described as a “captive market”: it was correctly calculated that they would be willing to pay for satellite television subscriptions and, if the best players began playing in England, for high ticket prices, because they had no choice but to pay, prisoners of their own desires and fantasies.

There is something fundamentally irrational about fandom, about committing yourself so completely to something over which you have no control. The true fan makes that bond of allegiance to club and country in early childhood and it can never really be broken, no matter how helpless you feel or how unhappy or irritated being a supporter makes you. How to account for this? How to account for the hold sport has on the collective imagination?

An estimated 715 million people watched the 2006 World Cup final between Italy and France in Berlin, and South Africa 2010 was broadcast to 204 countries. Fifa has sold the worldwide television rights for Brazil 2014 for $1.7bn; the tournament is expected to generate $4bn in total revenue for football’s governing body. Does any other event have such global appeal?

 

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By the time you read this, the 20th World Cup in Brazil will have begun. But it takes place in the shadow of the corruption allegations over the decision to award the 2018 and 2022 World Cups to, respectively, Putin’s Russia (whose national football league is blighted by rumours of match-fixing) and the repressive pseudo-state of Qatar. Even before the Sunday Times reported the extent of the alleged bribes and bungs used to win the vote for Qatar – such an eminently sensible choice, when you think about it, with its 50° summer temperatures and its hatred of homosexuals, alcohol and liberated women – the stench of corruption hung over Fifa. We should not forget that David (Lord) Triesman was forced to resign as chairman of the Football Association and of the England 2018 World Cup bid team for stating the obvious: the right to host the World Cup can be bought.

The whole opaque process by which Fifa’s 24-man politburo selects the host nation is open to continuous abuse and manipulation, and the English FA has not been a blameless bystander. It was all too willing to play the game rather than attempt to rewrite the rules. It was unedifying to witness the elaborate dance of seduction with which the FA and its associates attempted to woo Jack Warner, the now-disgraced Trinidadian politician who was then vice-president of Fifa. David Beckham and Prince William (aka the Duke of Cambridge) were among the useful idiots the FA took to Trinidad in an attempt to secure the support of Warner who, as president of the Concacaf federation, controlled three votes. In the event, England received only two votes, from Japan and the representative of the English FA, and was eliminated in the first round of voting for 2018. It was as if Warner had accepted their hospitality and favours and then spat at them.

There is nothing wrong with wanting to bring the World Cup to the world’s emerging powers – 2010 was a dull tournament but the South Africans were deserving hosts, even if that country of poverty and mass illiteracy paid billions of pounds it could not afford for the “privilege”. Brazil, the self-mythologising samba nation, is reported so far to have spent £11bn on new stadiums and transport infrastructure. But the people are not yet in the mood to party: Brazil has been destabilised by riots, strikes and street protests and just this past week 10,000 marched on Arena Corinthians, the stadium in São Paulo that will be the venue for the opening game between Brazil and Croatia, to protest against World Cup excess and government indifference. Meanwhile, Qatar has said that it would spend more than £200bn on its World Cup project, and so the decadence and extravagance become more extreme with each tournament.

Yet the greater problem resides less with those wishing to act as hosts than with Fifa. Under the long rule of the megalomaniacal Sepp Blatter, football’s governing body has allowed the World Cup to become ever bigger and more bloated, which suits Fifa just fine. For Fifa, the World Cup is a well-oiled engine of cash generation. It brings prestige and the world’s attention to the hosts, for a transient period – but at what ultimate cost, especially when, as in the case of Qatar, the country has no football culture to speak of and impoverished migrant workers are dying needlessly there as they labour in the horrific heat to build Fifa’s air-conditioned stadiums in the desert?

“It’s a money machine, World Cup after World Cup. For them, that’s more important than serious and clean governance,” said Karl-Heinz Rummenigge, chairman of Bayern Munich and the European Club Association, long before the Sunday Times revelations appeared. “I will give them a chance [to clean up] but I’m ready for a revolution.”

Europe’s leading clubs – Bayern, Barcelona, Real Madrid, Manchester United, Juventus, AC Milan – resent having to lend their players to national associations for matches and tournaments, only to have them returned injured or fatigued. The clubs understand that history is moving in their direction; that club football, at the very highest level, is superior to the international game, with its round of meaningless friendlies and tedious, one-sided qualifying matches against the likes of San Marino and Moldova. The clubs naturally despise Blatter and also resent the machinations of Michel Platini, the former player-turned-head of Uefa, which from 2016, in another act of grandiose expansionism, will increase from 16 to 24 the number of countries playing in the finals of the European Championship (the tournament was at its best when the finals comprised just eight nations).

Perhaps only the clubs and the corporate sponsors have the power and the will to blow Fifa apart and effect the necessary change. Led by Sony, five of the six main Fifa sponsors have expressed public concern so far about the Qatar corruption allegations.

On 14 June, England play their opening group game of the World Cup against Italy in Manaus, capital city of the state of Amazonas in northern Brazil. Many millions of us in this country will be watching on television, despite the match kicking off at 11pm BST. For a while at least, we shall forget, or try to forget, all about how football is administered and sold around the world and allow ourselves to become absorbed by what is happening on the field of play, by the drama or otherwise of the game itself.

But this time, for me at least, it feels different. It fells like the end of something. It feels like the end of an era. After Brazil 2014, unless there is urgent and fundamental reform of a kind that would seem unlikely, the tournament is finished. In Vladimir Putin and the secretive autocrats of Qatar, Fifa has the partners it deserves – and the world should turn away in disgust.

Jason Cowley, editor of the New Statesman, is the author of a memoir, “The Last Game: Love, Death and Football” (Simon & Schuster, £7.99)

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Now listen to Jason Cowley discussing this article on the New Statesman podcast:

Jason Cowley is editor of the New Statesman. He has been the editor of Granta, a senior editor at the Observer and a staff writer at the Times.

This article first appeared in the 11 June 2014 issue of the New Statesman, The last World Cup

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Happiness is a huge gun: Cold War thrillers and the modern nuclear deterrent

For all that books and films laud Britain's strength, ultimately, they show that our power is interdependent.

Francisco “Pistols” Scaramanga, the ­assassin for hire in Ian Fleming’s 1965 James Bond novel, The Man With the Golden Gun, has invested more than money in his favourite weapon. Bond’s colleagues in the Secret Service have concluded from Freudian analysis that Scaramanga’s golden gun is “a symbol of virility – an extension of the male organ”. It is just one of many phallic weapons in the Bond saga. In Dr No, for instance, Bond reflects on his 15-year “marriage” to his Beretta handgun as he fondly recalls “pumping the cartridges out on to the bedspread in some hotel bedroom somewhere around the world”. Objectively speaking, guns comprise little more than highly engineered metal and springs, but Fleming invests them with an ­extraordinary degree of psychosexual significance.

Size matters in the Bond novels – a point made by a furious Paul Johnson in a review of Dr No for this paper in 1958 (“everything is giant in Dr No – insects, breasts, and gin-and-tonics”). One of the Bond stories’ biggest weapons is a rocket carrying an atomic warhead: the Moonraker, which gives its name to the third Bond novel, published in 1955. The most important thing about the Moonraker is that it is apparently British – a gift to a grateful nation from the plutocrat Sir Hugo Drax. And, like Bond’s Beretta, it is freighted with psychosexual significance. When Bond first lays eyes on it there is no doubt that this is an erotically charged symbol of destructive power. “One of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen,” Bond says, with a “rapt expression”:

Up through the centre of the shaft, which was about thirty feet wide, soared a pencil of glistening chromium [. . .] nothing marred the silken sheen of the fifty feet of polished chrome steel except the spidery fingers of two light gantries which stood out from the walls and clasped the waist of the rocket between thick pads of foam-rubber.

The guns in the Bond books can be seen as expressions of their bearer’s power – or, as with Scaramanga’s golden gun, compensation for a lack of virility. The Moonraker is equally symbolic, but on a far larger scale: an expression of a nation’s geopolitical power, or compensation for its impotence.

As what is known officially as Britain’s independent nuclear deterrent (“Trident” to everyone else) returns to the top of the political agenda, the cultural dimension of the debate will no doubt continue to be overlooked. Yet culture matters in politics, especially when the issue is a weapon. As the guns in the Bond novels remind us, weapons are not merely tools, they are also symbols. Trident is not just a system comprising nuclear warheads, missiles and four Vanguard-class submarines. Its symbolic meanings are, to a great extent, what this debate is about. Trident stands for Britain itself, and it does so for different people in different ways. Your opinion on whether to cancel or replace it depends to a great extent on what kind of country you think Britain is, or ought to be.

The Cold War British spy thriller is particularly topical because it developed in tandem with Britain’s nuclear programme through the 1950s and 1960s. Moonraker was published just weeks after Churchill’s government announced its intention to build an H-bomb in the 1955 defence white paper, and three years after Britain’s first atomic test on the Montebello Islands, Western Australia. These novels drew on technological reality in their plots concerning the theft of nuclear secrets or the proliferation of nuclear technology, but they influenced reality as well as reflected it, with stories of British power that helped create Britain’s image of itself in a postwar world.

The main theme of the genre is the decline of British power and how the country responded. Atomic or nuclear weapons serve this as symbols and plot devices. Len Deighton’s debut novel, The Ipcress File (1962), for instance, concerns a plan to brainwash British scientists to spy for the Soviet Union, and has as its centrepiece an American neutron-bomb test on a Pacific atoll, observed by a British double agent who is transmitting Allied secrets to an offshore Soviet submarine. The novel’s technical dialogue on nuclear technology, and its appendices providing a fictionalised account of the Soviet Union’s first atomic bomb test and a factual explanation of the neutron bomb, are in the book not merely for verisimilitude: Deighton’s British spies are observers or victims of the nuclear arms race between the US and the USSR, agents with remarkably little agency.

A more dour variation on the theme is John le Carré’s The Looking Glass War (1965), in which the prospect of obtaining information on Soviet nuclear missiles in East Germany provokes “the Department”, a failing military intelligence organisation, to try to regain its wartime glory with an intelligence coup. This hubris leads to tragedy as its amateurish operation unravels to disastrous effect, le Carré’s point being that military and economic might cannot be regained through nostalgic wish-fulfilment. These novels situate British decline in the context of superpower domination; their characters recall the technological and operational successes of the Second World War but seem unable to accept the contemporary reality of military and geopolitical decline. For Deighton and le Carré, Britain simply doesn’t matter as much as it used to, which is why, in le Carré’s later Smiley novels and Deighton’s Game, Set and Match trilogy (1983-85), the spymasters are so desperate to impress the Americans.

Fleming is usually seen as a reactionary, even blimpish writer – his England was “substantially right of centre”, Kingsley Amis remarked – and he signalled his own politics by making a trade unionist the ­villain of his first novel, Casino Royale (1953). So it might seem surprising that he was as concerned as his younger contemporaries Deighton and le Carré with British decline. The historian David Cannadine, for one, emphasises that although Fleming may have been aghast at certain aspects of postwar change such as the welfare state and unionisation (opinions that Bond makes no secret of sharing), he simply refused to believe that Britain was in decline, a refusal embodied in Bond’s very character.

Bond the man is more than the “anonymous, blunt instrument wielded by a ­government department” that Fleming described to the Manchester Guardian in 1958. He is an expression of the British state itself, demonstrating Britain’s toughness while besting its enemies – the Russian agents of SMERSH and, later, the international criminals and terrorists of SPECTRE. He is supported by a formidable apparatus of technological and logistical capability that mythologises British research and development, which had peaked during the Second World War (a point made more obviously in the film franchise when Fleming’s Armourer becomes the white-coated Q, heir to Barnes Wallis and the ingenious technicians of the Special Operations Executive). And, as Cannadine astutely observes, “this comforting, escapist theme of Britain’s continued pre-eminence” is most evident in Bond’s relationship with the United States. The Americans may have more money, but they cannot spy or fight anywhere near as well as Bond, as is made plain when the hapless Felix Leiter, Bond’s friend in the CIA, literally loses an arm and a leg to one of Mr Big’s sharks in Live and Let Die (1954).

Moonraker, however, exposes a more complex and sceptical side to Fleming’s Bond. It is significant that this emerges in a book that is explicitly about Englishness and the Bomb. The rocket is being built atop another symbol: the white cliffs of Dover, prompting some surprisingly lyrical passages on the beauty of South Foreland coast. And yet, though replete with emblems of English tradition and bursting with hatred of ugly, evil-minded foreigners, this novel has an unmistakable political subtext that undermines its apparent confidence in British power. Drax, it turns out, is a patriot – but a patriot of Nazi Germany, which he had served as an SS officer and plans to avenge with a missile that is pointing not, as everyone believes, at a test site in the North Sea, but at central London, the intended Ground Zero being a flat in Ebury Street, Belgravia (the location, incidentally, of Fleming’s own bachelor pad in the 1930s and 1940s). The missile has been designed and built by engineers from Wernher von Braun’s wartime rocket programme, and its atomic warhead has been generously donated by the Soviet Union, which is looking to bring Britain to its knees without having to go through the rigmarole of fighting a war.

The Moonraker, we are told repeatedly, will restore Britain to its rightful place at the global top table after its unfortunate postwar period of retrenchment and austerity. But the rocket is not British, except in being built on British soil, and the aim of the man controlling it is to destroy British power, not project it. The implication is that Britain is not only incapable of looking after its own defences, but also pathetically grateful for the favours bestowed on it. After the missile is fired, its trajectory diverted by Bond back to the original target (thereby fortuitously taking out a Soviet submarine carrying the fleeing Drax), the government decides to cover it all up and allow the public to continue believing that the Moonraker is a genuinely British atomic success.

One of the ironies of the Bond phenomenon is that by examining the myths and realities of British hard power, it became a chief instrument of British soft power. Of the first 18 novels to sell over a million copies in Britain, ten were Bond books, and Moonraker (by no means the most successful instalment of the saga) was approaching the two million mark 20 years after publication. The film franchise continues to offer Cannadine’s “comforting, escapist” image of Britain (the two most recent pictures, directed by Sam Mendes, are especially replete with British icons), but the novels are altogether more uncertain about Britain’s role in the world. Moonraker is full of anxiety that the myth of British power is nothing more than a myth, that Britain lacks the industrial and scientific wherewithal to return to greatness. It even conjures up an image of the apocalypse, reminding readers of the precariousness of those cherished British values and institutions, when the love interest, the improbably named Special Branch detective Gala Brand, imagines the terrible consequences of Drax’s plan:

The crowds in the streets. The Palace. The nursemaids in the park. The birds in the trees. The great bloom of flame a mile wide. And then the mushroom cloud. And nothing left. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

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Even though their plots ensure that apocalypse is averted, Cold War thrillers thus made their own contribution to forcing us to imagine the unimaginable, as did more mainstream post-apocalyptic novels such as William Golding’s Lord of the Flies (1954), Nevil Shute’s bestseller On the Beach (1957) and The Old Men at the Zoo (1961) by Angus Wilson. In Desmond Cory’s Shockwave, first published in 1963 as Hammerhead and featuring the Spanish-British agent Johnny Fedora (whose debut preceded Bond’s by two years), Madrid is saved from destruction by a nuclear bomb that the Soviet master spy Feramontov almost succeeds in delivering to its target. As he contemplates his objective, Feramontov muses that, in the “bomb-haunted world of the Sixties”, death in a nuclear fireball “might even come as a release, like the snapping of an overtautened string; and after the rains of death had flooded the Earth, those who survived in the sodden ruins might think of him as a benefactor of the race”.

But where the post-apocalyptic dystopias might be viewed as an argument for nuclear disarmament, later Cold War thrillers such as Cory’s usually accepted the fact of mutually assured destruction – and that British peace and prosperity were guaranteed by US nuclear firepower. Nowhere is this more apparent than Frederick Forsyth’s 1984 bestseller, The Fourth Protocol, which turns the Labour Party’s famously unilateralist 1983 election manifesto into a uniquely party-political espionage plot. In it, the general secretary of the Soviet Union conspires with the elderly Kim Philby to smuggle into Britain a small, self-assembly nuclear bomb that a KGB “illegal” will put together and ­detonate at a US air force base in East Anglia.

Unlike in Moonraker and Shockwave, however, the objective is not to provoke hostilities or prompt military capitulation, but to persuade the British public to vote Labour – by provoking horror and outrage at the risks of US nuclear weapons remaining on British soil. However, the new and moderate Labour leader, Neil Kinnock, will have a scant few hours in Downing Street, as a hard-left rival under Soviet control (such as a certain Ken Livingstone, whom Philby describes as “a nondescript, instantly forgettable little fellow with a nasal voice”) will at once usurp Kinnock and reinstate a policy of unilateral disarmament, leading to the removal of the US missiles.

The ideological force of Forsyth’s novel is clear enough: Britain is beset by enemies within and without, and must arm itself morally and politically against communism. But although this is an insistently, even tiresomely patriotic novel, its plot makes no attempt to conceal Britain’s relative military weakness and dependence on the United States, though disaster is averted by the combined brilliance of MI5, MI6 and the SAS. The Fourth Protocol thus becomes an allegory of this country’s world-leading “niche capabilities”, which maintain Britain’s prestige and relevance despite its declining military and economic might.

Today, the political argument remains on much the same terms as at the start of the Cold War. Whichever way you look at it, Trident symbolises Britain. To its supporters, it is symbolic of Britain’s talent for “punching above its weight”, and its responsibility to protect freedom and keep the global peace. To its opponents, it is an emblem of economic folly, militaristic excess, and a misunderstanding of contemporary strategic threats; it is an expression not of British confidence but of a misplaced machismo, a way for Britons to feel good about themselves that fails to address the real threats to the nation. One academic, Nick Ritchie of York University, argues that Britain’s nuclear policy discourse “is underpinned by powerful ideas about masculinity in international politics in which nuclear weapons are associated with ideas of virility, strength, autonomy and rationality”.

In 1945, shortly after Hiroshima became a byword for mass destruction, George ­Orwell predicted in his essay “You and the Atom Bomb” that nuclear weapons would bring about what he was the first to call a “cold war”. Because an atomic bomb “is a rare and costly object as difficult to produce as a battleship”, it could be produced at scale only by countries with vast industrial capacity; this would lead to the emergence of two or three superpowers, confronting each other in a “peace that is no peace”.

Orwell’s point about industrial capacity helps explain why Trident is totemic: it is proof that our industrial might has not entirely vanished. Alternatively, it can be seen as a consolation for industrial decline. This may be why the huge cost of the Successor programme – one of the main arguments wielded by Trident’s opponents against replacement – appears to be a source of pride for the government: the Strategic Defence and Security Review proclaims that, at £31bn, with a further £10bn for contingencies, Successor will be “one of the largest government investment programmes”.

Clearly, size matters today as much as it did when Fleming was writing. But Moonraker again helps us see that all is not what it seems. Just as the Moonraker is a German missile with a Soviet warhead, even if it is being built in Kent, so the missiles carried by the Vanguard-class submarines are, in fact, made in California, Britain having given up missile production in the 1960s. The Trident warheads are made in Berkshire – but by a privatised government agency part-owned by two American firms. Trident may be British, but only in the way Manchester United or a James Bond movie are British.

The Cold War spy thriller presciently suggests that true independence is an illusion. Britain may consume the most destructive weapons yet invented, but it can no longer produce them or deliver them without America’s industrial might. British power is interdependent, not independent: that is the Cold War thriller’s most politically prescient message.

Andrew Glazzard is a senior research fellow at the Royal United Services Institute and the author of “Conrad’s Popular Fictions: Secret Histories and Sensational Novels” (Palgrave Macmillan)

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt