Fear and loathing on the left

Why are Labour governments, from Attlee to Blair, always so riven by personal animosities? Andrew Ma

Why is the left so nasty? Why are politicians brought up in a Labour movement that bangs on about brotherhood and sisterhood so consumed with dislike and suspicion of one another? If we believe the newspapers, most members of the cabinet and many other Labour MPs are almost perpetually at daggers drawn, or at least simmering with mutual resentment. The rejoicing at Peter Mandelson's fall, and then the whooping at Charlie Whelan's resignation, are only the latest examples. And on this subject, mirabile dictu, the newspapers are certainly to be believed.

It is a tradition. One of Labour's mid- century heroes was Ernie Bevin, the trade union leader turned foreign secretary. Bevin has many earthy, pearl-encrusted lumps of wisdom for today's party. But new Labour has taken only one Bevinism to its heart: his retort to Attlee's remark about Herbert Morrison (a fellow member of the 1945-51 government) being his own worst enemy. Bevin snarled: "Not while I'm alive, he ain't."

So it goes on; a cosy party of worst enemies ever since, like a convoluted Sicilian family whose feuds are repeated generation after generation. John Prescott, the nearest we have to an Ernie Bevin, waged a long and malicious semi-public campaign against Mandelson, Morrison's grandson, constantly mispronouncing his name as "Mendelson", and once comparing him to a crab. Class hatred? Bevin would have approved. Meanwhile, I don't suppose there's a single important minister who someone else hasn't told me is lazy, corrupt or paranoid. Then, just as we were all digesting the Mandelson affair, we got an eerie echo of today's events, courtesy of the 30-year delay on cabinet papers being released. Alongside the modern grudge matches, the press simultaneously relayed the latest news from 1968 when Ray Gunter resigned from the Wilson government because he couldn't stand the "the bloody middle classes and intellectuals within the cabinet" and, in particular, "that bitch" Barbara Castle. There's a ringing feeling in my ears.

It was also the year of the fall of George Brown and he, too, was a famous hater. There's a story about him marching up to Len Williams, an ex-general secretary of the Labour Party, and one of Brown's enemies, who had just agreed to become the governor-general of Mauritius. Did the post involve wearing a plumed hat, Brown pleasantly asked. Yes, said Williams modestly, yes it did. "Well," said Brown, "I hope your fucking feathers fall out."

Is Labour fated to relive, government after government, the poisonous personal feuding that undermines the party's moral authority? And if so, why? Before the election, Tony Blair was warned that his biggest headache in No 10 was likely to be relations between his senior ministers - Gordon Brown and Mandelson, Brown and Robin Cook, Cook and Mandelson, Prescott and Brown, and so on. He laughed the idea off.

He probably isn't laughing now. This might be less damaging if it weren't for the striking similarities with cabinet feuding in the now-reviled Wilson years. The publication of Dick Crossman's cabinet diaries in the mid-1970s was a watershed because, for the first time, it tipped the cabinet's mutual animosities and bitterness into the public arena. For people outside the closed world of Whitehall and the press lobby, it was a moment of revelation. I can vividly remember my history teacher's shock and amazement as he read out entries to us.

Harold Wilson, realising what damage was being done, tried to get the rules on publication of cabinet diaries toughened up - to little effect, since the Castle diaries and then the voluminous Benn diaries followed. Crossman himself had gone to the root of the matter years earlier, when he wrote in his back-bench diaries in 1956: "When the Tories are in trouble they bunch together and cogger up. When we get into trouble, we start blaming each other and rushing to the press to tell them all the terrible things that somebody else has done."

Tory coggering had rather fallen out of fashion by the time of the Major government - or rather, when they did cogger up, someone was usually left dead on the Westminster marble afterwards. Under post-Crossman glasnost, we know a lot about how much the Tories came to loathe one another, as their European battle raged on. The Lawson and Howe resignations, then Margaret Thatcher's own bitterness at her removal ("treachery . . . treachery with a smile on its face") had set the scene for John Major and the "bastards". And, at the height of the battle, the hatreds were deep and real. I recall walking with Norman Lamont down Whitehall after his resignation; Tristan Garel-Jones, spotting us, immediately crossed four lanes of moving traffic to seize Lamont by the arm and warn him in bloodthirstily unrepeatable terms what he would do to him if he went public against Major. There are scores of similar stories still knocking around. These are vendettas that will probably last for a generation. Purely from a journalistic point of view, I do hope so.

But this should be of little comfort to the present cabinet. For one thing, the Tory feuds were mostly about policy, very important policy, and were perhaps unavoidable given the difficult choices facing the Thatcher and Major governments over Britain's destiny. Second, those governments were destroyed by them. Third, in the political mythology, Tories are supposed to be nasty - but efficient. They don't go on about fraternity and comradeship, do they? So again, why are Labour people so nasty to one another? Is it that lefties are simply disagreeable? That they are either cold, intellectual renegades from the upper middle classes, driven by dislike of their own backgrounds; or working-class politicians who despise the middle-class people they have to mix with?

Could be: academia, trade unionism and left-wing activism are all poor training-grounds for niceness and mutual respect. Academia is famously poisonous and rivalry-ridden. The clash between factions in the unions produced a culture of leak and counter-leak that was brought into government again in 1997. And the climate of oppositionism around the left in the late 1970s and early 1980s was particularly grim.

There is a hilarious and uncomfortable account of those times, Things Can Only Get Better: eighteen miserable years in the life of a Labour supporter (Doubleday, 1998) by the comedy writer John O'Farrell, which rings bells with many of us who were there.

"The media coined phrases like 'Hard Left' or 'Militant Left' but 'Very, Very Boring Left' would have been more accurate," writes O'Farrell. "It wasn't the left-wing-ness in itself that was the problem, it was the excessively bad-tempered and humourless way in which the left argued its corner. . . We had somehow got it into our heads that a period in opposition meant that we were now opposed to everything."

Some of the things O'Farrell decided were right wing were "flowers, fish knives, ladies' hats, power steering, Wellington boots, the county of Surrey, Donald Duck, conservatories, and any girl's name that ended in the letter 'a' . . . One of the people that I lived with in Exeter decided that smiling was right wing. He pretended to be miserable as a sort of political statement throughout the early 1980s."

I remember people like that. And, let's be honest, there have been humourless, life- hating lefties since the Levellers began hawking Socialist Peasant around Middlesex; and certainly since Robespierre gave purity a bad name. It is the psychological profile described by George Orwell: "The typical socialist is a prim little man with a white-collar job, usually a secret teetotaller and often with vegetarian leanings."

There's nothing wrong with a bit of puritanism, particularly in January, but it is connected to a left moral fundamentalism that can easily turn nasty. O'Farrell again: "We all believed, or rather we knew, that socialism would solve everything and that any particular individual who happened to be to the right of us was responsible for all the world's problems and therefore we hated them. As far as I can remember, just about everyone I knew on the left was like this. Angry, negative and totally un-self-aware. And Tony Benn gave the British left its chance to vent its ugly spleen in public. At regular intervals the news would feature Benn supporters booing Denis Healey, pelting him with missiles and picketing his meetings. They seemed to hate him more than they hated Margaret Thatcher."

It wouldn't be hard to see how a party whose left-wing members had marinated themselves in self-righteous hatred (remember Nye Bevan's 1948 proclamation of his "deep and burning hatred of the Tories . . . they are lower than vermin") might carry this right to the top. But there are a couple of problems with the thesis that Labour, despite the generosity of its vision, is somehow nasty by nature. First, most of the people feuding in cabinet had nothing to do with that era of ultra-leftism. Brown, Cook, Prescott - they hated it at the time as much as O'Farrell hates it in retrospect. Second, if it were true, then the Labour right would be conspicuously nicer than the Labour left, and that also isn't so. Denis Healey had a brilliant line in invective. Think of his famous remark about David Owen: that when he was born, the good fairy had given him everything - good looks, brilliant intelligence, luck. "Unfortunately, the bad fairy made him a shit." Nor would it be entirely true to say that, for instance, dear Gerald Kaufman was a kindly old soul. Or that Mandelson himself pursued a "speak no evil" policy.

No, I think the real answer is a mixture of all this, and something else, which is simply that Labour has spent too long in opposition. Out of power, the big egos kept themselves warm by dreaming of top jobs. But these are, by definition, very limited indeed. The same was true of the early Wilson years and of the Attlee government. What has changed is that the constant competition among desperate souls, for a handful of slippery perches, now takes place in front of a media that is itself more desperately competitive, and that exaggerates the smallest differences. This produces a bitchy climate that few ministers can resist. Since Tony Blair, who doesn't seem to have a malicious bone in his body, is one of the few who can resist, perhaps he can use recent events to draw a line under the warfare. Enough people have gone. Enough others have been frightened. Perhaps this really is grow-up time.

Everyone I've been talking to tells me so. They know that, in the long term, this behaviour is deadly. On the other hand, I can't help thinking that at the back of their minds there is a piece of advice that rings louder still. It's Stalin: "There is really nothing more delightful than carefully plotting a trap into which your enemy in the party is bound to fall, and then going to bed." Ho, ho, comrade, ho, ho.

Andrew Marr writes for the "Express" and the "Observer"

Andrew Marr is a broadcaster and journalist. Formerly the BBC’s Political Editor, he presents the Andrew Marr Show on BBC1 on Sundays and Start the Week on Monday mornings on Radio 4.

This article first appeared in the 08 January 1999 issue of the New Statesman, Stuff the millennium

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Why the elites always rule

Since an Italian sociologist coined the word “elite” in 1902, it has become a term of abuse. But history is the story of one elite replacing another – as the votes for Trump and Brexit have shown.

Donald Trump’s successful presidential campaign was based on the rejection of the “establishment”. Theresa May condemned the rootless “international elites” in her leader’s speech at last October’s Conservative party conference. On the European continent, increasingly popular right-wing parties such as Marine Le Pen’s Front National and the German Alternative für Deutschland, as well as Poland’s ruling Law and Justice party, delight in denouncing the “Eurocratic” elites. But where does the term “elite” come from, and what does it mean?

It was Vilfredo Pareto who, in 1902, gave the term the meaning that it has today. We mostly think of Pareto as the economist who came up with ideas such as “Pareto efficiency” and the “Pareto principle”. The latter – sometimes known as the “power law”, or the “80/20 rule” – stipulates that 80 per cent of the land always ends up belonging to 20 per cent of the population. Pareto deduced this by studying land distribution in Italy at the turn of the 20th century. He also found that 20 per cent of the pea pods in his garden produced 80 per cent of the peas. Pareto, however, was not only an economist. In later life, he turned his hand to sociology, and it was in this field that he developed his theory of the “circulation of elites”.

The term élite, used in its current socio­logical sense, first appeared in his 1902 book Les systèmes socialistes (“socialist systems”). Its aim was to analyse Marxism as a new form of “secular” religion. And it was the French word élite that he used: naturally, one might say, for a book written in French. Pareto, who was bilingual, wrote in French and Italian. He was born in Paris in 1848 to a French mother and an Italian father; his father was a Genoese marquis who had accompanied the political activist Giuseppe Mazzini into exile. In honour of the revolution that was taking place in Germany at the time, Pareto was at first named Fritz Wilfried. This was latinised into Vilfredo Federico on the family’s return to Italy in 1858.

When Pareto wrote his masterpiece – the 3,000-page Trattato di sociologia ­generale (“treatise on general sociology”) – in 1916, he retained the French word élite even though the work was in Italian. Previously, he had used “aristocracy”, but that didn’t seem to fit the democratic regime that had come into existence after Italian unification. Nor did he want to use his rival Gaetano Mosca’s term “ruling class”; the two had bitter arguments about who first came up with the idea of a ruling minority.

Pareto wanted to capture the idea that a minority will always rule without recourse to outdated notions of heredity or Marxist concepts of class. So he settled on élite, an old French word that has its origins in the Latin eligere, meaning “to select” (the best).

In the Trattato, he offered his definition of an elite. His idea was to rank everyone on a scale of one to ten and that those with the highest marks in their field would be considered the elite. Pareto was willing to judge lawyers, politicians, swindlers, courtesans or chess players. This ranking was to be morally neutral: beyond “good and evil”, to use the language of the time. So one could identify the best thief, whether that was considered a worthy profession or not.

Napoleon was his prime example: whether he was a good or a bad man was irrelevant, as were the policies he might have pursued. Napoleon had undeniable political qualities that, according to Pareto, marked him out as one of the elite. Napoleon is important
because Pareto made a distinction within the elite – everyone with the highest indices within their branch of activity was a member of an elite – separating out the governing from the non-governing elite. The former was what interested him most.

This is not to suggest that the non-governing elite and the non-elite were of no interest to him, but they had a specific and limited role to play, which was the replenishment of the governing elite. For Pareto, this group was the key to understanding society as a whole – for whatever values this elite incarnated would be reflected in society. But he believed that there was an inevitable “physiological” law that stipulated the continuous decline of the elite, thereby making way for a new elite. As he put it in one of his most memorable phrases, “History is the graveyard of elites.”

***

Pareto’s thesis was that elites always rule. There is always the domination of the minority over the majority. And history is just the story of one elite replacing another. This is what he called the “circulation of elites”. When the current elite starts to decline, it is challenged and makes way for another. Pareto thought that this came about in two ways: either through assimilation, the new elite merging with elements of the old, or through revolution, the new elite wiping out the old. He used the metaphor of a river to make his point. Most of the time, the river flows continuously, smoothly incorporating its tributaries, but sometimes, after a storm, it floods and breaks its banks.

Drawing on his Italian predecessor Machiavelli, Pareto identified two types of elite rulers. The first, whom he called the “foxes”, are those who dominate mainly through combinazioni (“combination”): deceit, cunning, manipulation and co-optation. Their rule is characterised by decentralisation, plurality and scepticism, and they are uneasy with the use of force. “Lions”, on the other hand, are more conservative. They emphasise unity, homogeneity, established ways, the established faith, and rule through small, centralised and hierarchical bureaucracies, and they are far more at ease with the use of force than the devious foxes. History is the slow swing of the pendulum from one type of elite to the other, from foxes to lions and back again.

The relevance of Pareto’s theories to the world today is clear. After a period of foxes in power, the lions are back with renewed vigour. Donald Trump, as his behaviour during the US presidential campaign confirmed, is perfectly at ease with the use of intimidation and violence. He claimed that he wants to have a wall built between the United States and Mexico. His mooted economic policies are largely based on protectionism and tariffs. Regardless of his dubious personal ethics – a classic separation between the elite and the people – he stands for the traditional (white) American way of life and religion.

This is in stark contrast to the Obama administration and the Cameron government, both of which, compared to what has come since the votes for Trump and Brexit, were relatively open and liberal. Pareto’s schema goes beyond the left/right divide; the whole point of his Systèmes socialistes was to demonstrate that Marxism, as a secular religion, signalled a return to faith, and thus the return of the lions in politics.

In today’s context, the foxes are the forces of globalisation and liberalism – in the positive sense of developing an open, inter­connected and tolerant world; and in the negative sense of neoliberalism and the dehumanising extension of an economic calculus to all aspects of human life. The lions represent the reaction, centring themselves in the community, to which they may be more attentive, but bringing increased xenophobia, intolerance and conservatism. For Pareto, the lions and foxes are two different types of rule, both with strengths and weaknesses. Yet the elite is always composed of the two elements. The question is: which one dominates at any given time?

What we know of Theresa May’s government suggests that she runs a tight ship. She has a close – and closed – group of confidants, and she keeps a firm grip on the people under her. She is willing to dispense with parliament in her negotiation of Brexit, deeming it within the royal prerogative. Nobody yet knows her plan.

The European Union is a quintessentially foxlike project, based on negotiation, compromise and combination. Its rejection is a victory of the lions over the foxes. The lions are gaining prominence across the Western world, not just in Trumpland and Brexit Britain. Far-right movements have risen by rejecting the EU. It should come as no surprise that many of these movements (including Trump in the US) admire Vladimir Putin, at least for his strongman style.

Asia hasn’t been spared this movement, either. After years of tentative openness in China, at least with the economy, Xi Jinping has declared himself the “core” leader, in the mould of the previous strongmen Mao Zedong and Deng Xiaoping. Japan’s prime minister, Shinzo Abe, has also hardened his stance, and he was the first world leader to meet with President-Elect Donald Trump. Narendra Modi in India and Rodrigo Duterte in the Philippines are in the same mould, the latter coming to power on the back of promising to kill criminals and drug dealers. After the failed coup against him in July, Recep Tayyip Erdogan has also been cracking down on Turkey.

***


In Les systèmes socialistes, Pareto elaborated on how a new elite replaces the old. A, the old elite, would be challenged by B, the new, in alliance with C, the people. B would win the support of C by making promises that, once in power, it wouldn’t keep. If that sounds like the behaviour of most politicians, that is because it probably is. But what Pareto was pointing out was how, in its struggle for power, the new elite politicised groups that were not political before.

What we know of Trump supporters and Brexiteers is that many feel disenfranchised: the turnout in the EU referendum could not have been greater than in the 2015 general election otherwise, and significant numbers of those who voted for Trump had never voted before. There is no reason to think that they, too, won’t be betrayed by the new leaders they helped to bring to power.

In the last years of his life, Pareto offered a commentary on Italy in the 1920s. He denounced the state’s inability to enforce its decisions and the way that Italians spent their time flaunting their ability to break the law and get away with it. He coined the phrase “demagogic plutocracy” to characterise the period, in which the rich ruled behind a façade of democratic politics. He thought this particularly insidious for two reasons: those in power were more interested in siphoning off wealth for their personal ends than encouraging the production of new wealth, and consequently undermined national prosperity (remember Pareto’s training as an economist); and, as the demagogic elites govern through deceit and cunning, they are able to mask their rule for longer periods.

Much has been made of Trump’s “populism”, but the term “demagogic plutocrat” seems particularly apt for him, too: he is a wealthy man who will advance the interests of his small clique to the detriment of the well-being of the nation, all behind the smokescreen of democratic politics.

There are other ways in which Pareto can help us understand our predicament. After all, he coined the 80/20 rule, of which we hear an intensified echo in the idea of “the One Per Cent”. Trump is a fully paid-up member of the One Per Cent, a group that he claims to be defending the 99 Per Cent from (or, perhaps, he is an unpaid-up member, given that what unites the One Per Cent is its reluctance to pay taxes). When we perceive the natural inequality of the distribution of resources as expressed through Pareto’s “power law”, we are intellectually empowered to try to do something about it.

Those writings on 1920s Italy landed Pareto in trouble, as his theory of the circulation of elites predicted that a “demagogic plutocracy”, dominated by foxes, would necessarily make way for a “military plutocracy”, this time led by lions willing to restore the power of the state. In this, he was often considered a defender of Mussolini, and Il Duce certainly tried to make the best of that possibility by making Pareto a senator. Yet there is a difference between prediction and endorsement, and Pareto, who died in 1923, had already been living as a recluse in Céligny in Switzerland for some time – earning him the nickname “the hermit of Céligny” – with only his cats for company, far removed from day-to-day Italian politics. He remained a liberal to his death, content to stay above the fray.

Like all good liberals, Pareto admired Britain above all. As an economist, he had vehemently defended its system of free trade in the face of outraged opposition in Italy. He also advocated British pluralism and tolerance. Liberalism is important here: in proposing to set up new trade barriers and restrict freedom of movement, exacerbated by their more or less blatant xenophobia, Trump and Brexit challenge the values at the heart of the liberal world.

***


What was crucial for Pareto was that new elites would rise and challenge the old. It was through the “circulation of elites” that history moved. Yet the fear today is that history has come to a standstill, that elites have ­become fossilised. Electors are fed up with choosing between the same old candidates, who seem to be proposing the same old thing. No wonder people are willing to try something new.

This fear of the immobility of elites has been expressed before. In 1956, the American sociologist C Wright Mills published The Power Elite. The book has not been out of print since. It is thanks to him that the term was anglicised and took on the pejorative sense it has today. For Mills, Cold War America had come to be dominated by a unified political, commercial and military elite. With the 20th century came the growth of nationwide US corporations, replacing the older, more self-sufficient farmers of the 19th century.

This made it increasingly difficult to ­distinguish between the interests of large US companies and those of the nation as a whole. “What’s good for General Motors,” as the phrase went, “is good for America.” As a result, political and commercial interests were becoming ever more intertwined. One had only to add the Cold War to the mix to see how the military would join such a nexus.

Mills theorised what President Dwight D Eisenhower denounced in his January 1961 farewell speech as the “military-industrial complex” (Eisenhower had wanted to add the word “congressional”, but that was thought to be too risky and was struck out of the speech). For Mills, the circulation of elites – a new elite rising to challenge the old – had come to an end. If there was any circulation at all, it was the ease with which this new power elite moved from one part of the elite to the other: the “revolving door”.

The Cold War is over but there is a similar sense of immobility at present concerning the political elite. Must one be the child or wife of a past US president to run for that office? After Hillary Clinton, will Chelsea run, too? Must one have gone to Eton, or at least Oxford or Cambridge, to reach the cabinet? In France is it Sciences Po and Éna?

The vote for Brexit, Trump and the rise of the far right are, beyond doubt, reactions to this sentiment. And they bear out Pareto’s theses: the new elites have aligned themselves with the people to challenge the old elites. The lions are challenging the foxes. Needless to say, the lions, too, are prototypically elites. Trump is a plutocrat. Boris Johnson, the co-leader of the Leave campaign, is as “establishment” as they come (he is an Old Etonian and an Oxford graduate). Nigel Farage is a public-school-educated, multimillionaire ex-stockbroker. Marine Le Pen is the daughter of Jean-Marie Le Pen. Putin is ex-KGB.

Pareto placed his hopes for the continuing circulation of elites in technological, economic and social developments. He believed that these transformations would give rise to new elites that would challenge the old political ruling class.

We are now living through one of the biggest ever technological revolutions, brought about by the internet. Some have argued that social media tipped the vote in favour of Brexit. Arron Banks’s Leave.EU website relentlessly targeted disgruntled blue-collar workers through social media, using simple, sometimes grotesque anti-immigration messages (as a recent profile of Banks in the New Statesman made clear) that mimicked the strategies of the US hard right.

Trump’s most vocal supporters include the conspiracy theorist Alex Jones, who has found the internet a valuable tool for propagating his ideas. In Poland, Jarosław Kaczynski, the leader of the Law and Justice party, claims that the Russian plane crash in 2010 that killed his twin brother (then the country’s president) was a political assassination, and has accused the Polish prime minister of the time, Donald Tusk, now the president of the European Council, of being “at least morally” responsible. (The official explanation is that the poorly trained pilots crashed the plane in heavy fog.)

It need not be like this. Silicon Valley is a world unto itself, but when some of its members – a new technological elite – start to play a more active role in politics, that might become a catalyst for change. In the UK, it has been the legal, financial and technological sectors that so far have led the pushback against a “hard” Brexit. And we should not forget how the social movements that grew out of Occupy have already been changing the nature of politics in many southern European countries.

The pendulum is swinging back to the lions. In some respects, this might be welcome, because globalisation has left too many behind and they need to be helped. However, Pareto’s lesson was one of moderation. Both lions and foxes have their strengths and weaknesses, and political elites are a combination of the two, with one element dominating temporarily. Pareto, as he did in Italy in the 1920s, would have predicted a return of the lions. But as a liberal, he would have cautioned against xenophobia, protectionism and violence.

If the lions can serve as correctives to the excesses of globalisation, their return is salutary. Yet the circulation of elites is a process more often of amalgamation than replacement. The challenge to liberal politics is to articulate a balance between the values of an open, welcoming society and of one that takes care of its most vulnerable members. Now, as ever, the task is to find the balance between the lions and the foxes. l

Hugo Drochon is the author of “Nietzsche’s Great Politics” (Princeton University Press)

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge