A wig for WikiLeaks, the political party for men and Michael Gove’s curves

Helen Lewis's "First Thoughts" column.

On Christmas Day, a two-and-a-half-year-old girl died in Vadodara, a city in the Indian prov - ince of Gujarat. She was found in a “thorny bush”, the Hindustan Times reported, where she had allegedly been left by her maternal uncle. He is accused of throwing her away, like rubbish, after he had raped her.

The man is now in custody, awaiting trial on murder charges.

It is unlikely we will ever know the name of that little girl, just as we don’t know the name of “Damini”, who was raped by six men on a Delhi bus and assaulted with an iron bar that tore her intestines. What they have in common is that they lived in a society where rape is accepted and excused, and where the victims are given the responsibility for its prevention. There are “ladies’ special” trains in India because of endemic groping. A woman who was stripped and pawed in the street by a gang of 18 men for 45 minutes in July – as passers-by filmed on phones but did nothing to help –was repeatedly decried as “drunk” and possibly a prostitute, according to the media reports that followed.

Every time I read about a woman who was raped “because” she was intoxicated, or wearing a short skirt, or led him on, I think about victims like that two-and-a-half-year-old girl. What did she do that caused her to be raped?

Thinking’s not straight on schools

It’s a testament to the power of Mail Online that when I saw a headline about “Michael Gove” and “curves”, I immediately assumed that he had been “flaunting his bikini body” or “posing up a storm” somewhere sunny over Christmas.

But no. It was instead the news that a rebellion is brewing over the Education Secretary’s plan to cut budgets by making school buildings 15 per cent smaller, banning curves and glass walls and insisting ceilings be kept bare. This is despite a Salford University study showing that a better-designed school can improve test results, while the Royal Institute of British Architects has noted that “the designs for secondary schools include narrow corridors and concealed stairs that are difficult to supervise”.

On an unrelated note, Portcullis House – the building where many MPs spend much of their parliamentary time – has bronze cladding worth £30m and has long rented 12 decorative fig trees for £32,500 a year.

Downtrodden men

Attention, all you downtrodden men! There is now a party just for you, to offset the terrible, all-encompassing female dominance of the ruling coalition (subs please check). Quentin Letts wrote about it in his Daily Mail column on 28 December, naming its leader as Mike Buchanan, a 55-year-old who plans to stand against Harriet Harman at the next election.

Buchanan, Letts solemnly informs us, “is not some fruitcake of the Monster Raving Loony Party ilk. A bookish fellow from Bath, full of statistics, he has recently given evidence to a parliamentary select committee.”

A quick visit to Google shows Buchanan to be the author of Feminism: the Ugly Truth, the first chapter of which is available to read for free on Amazon’s website. It contains unimprovable statements such as “it would be dishonest to deny the evidence before us – that feminists are generally less attractive than normal women” and “my theory is that many feminists are profoundly stupid as well as hateful, a theory which could readily be tested by arresting a number of them and forcing them – with the threat of denying them access to chocolate – to undertake IQ tests”.

Nope, definitely not a fruitcake. Still, ten points to the commenter who wrote underneath the article: “I was shocked to learn that over 50 per cent of people in Britain are now WOMEN. No doubt BRUSSELS is behind all this!!!!!”

One toe in the grave?

This is the year I turn 30, and it’s clear that crotchety middle age is already upon me. As I watched the New Year’s Eve fireworks in front of the London Eye on TV, the following thoughts went through my mind. 1) Wow! These are impressive. 2) [At 11 minutes in] Getting a bit bored now. Turns out there’s not much you can do with fireworks except make them go “bang”. 3) Hang on, how much did these cost? (Answer: at least £250,000.)

Bah humbug to you all.

Dream leaks

Steven Spielberg’s DreamWorks has bought the rights to two books about the WikiLeaks saga, and pre-production has started on the resulting film. It will star Benedict Cumberbatch as Julian Assange (I assume he will be wearing Javier Bardem’s wig from Skyfall) and reports suggest that Dan “Downton” Stevens has been cast as the Guardian deputy editor Ian Katz.

I hear on the grapevine that a “big name” has been secured to play the reporter Nick Davies (Russell Crowe? Or – heaven forbid – Tom Cruise?) but I think we’re all holding out for Alan Rusbridger to be played by Daniel Radcliffe in age make-up.

Infernal Liberals

A final festive thought: my life has been improved immeasurably by learning that the Liberal Democrats’ director of communications is called Tim Snowball. Happy New Year.

Michael Gove, celebrating his curves. Photograph: Getty Images

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.

This article first appeared in the 07 January 2013 issue of the New Statesman, 2013: the year the cuts finally bite

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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism