The interior of the Old Bailey criminal court in London in May 1910. (Photo: Topical Press Agency/Getty Images)
Show Hide image

The decline of the British trial

Once, UK courts were full of reporters and members of the public. Now, with the exception of rare spectacles, the press and public benches are usually empty – and we are all poorer for it.

“What thrill at the theatre or cinema compares with the excitement of attending a criminal trial, of beholding in the flesh the man or woman who may be guilty of some secret or bloody deed, and watching, half fearful, half shrinking, the great game played by judge and counsel with the accused’s life as stake?” So wrote Harry Hodge in his introduction to the first edition of Penguin’s Famous Trials series, launched in 1941 at the height of the Second World War.

The trials Hodge chose to introduce the series were of notorious cases from the preceding several decades: Madeleine Smith, the 21-year-old Scottish beauty charged in 1857 at the high court in Edinburgh with poisoning her lover; Dr Crippen, accused in 1910 of murdering his wife and fleeing the country with his lover, Ethel Le Neve, disguised as a boy. “All Great Britain was agitated over the trial,” wrote Hodge of the Smith case, which ended in the Scots law verdict of “not proven”.

By the time of the fifth edition of the series, in 1955, with the price now raised from a florin to half a crown, Hodge’s son James, the new editor, wrote that “the real murders described in this book are even more horrifying that those usually found between Penguin green covers”. They included that of Neville Heath, the sadistic killer of two young women in the immediate postwar period, and of George Lamson, a doctor who was hanged for poisoning a relative with a slice of Dundee cake to secure his share of an inheritance. “Factual and unbiased accounts of criminal trials broaden our outlook and give us fleeting glimpses of other modes of life,” wrote Hodge junior.

Heath’s trial in 1946 was such a hot ticket that people queued all night under blankets outside the Old Bailey in London for admission to the 30 seats in the public gallery, as if it were Wimbledon.

In some ways, the opening days last month of the Old Bailey trial of Rebekah Brooks, Andy Coulson and others, all pleading not guilty to charges related to the News of the World phone-hacking affair, were just like old times: the crowds, the queues, the bustle and excitement. Seventy journalists, representing all the British press, not to mention Al Jazeera, El Confidencial, and the Wall Street Journal, were on hand to report. Curious onlookers hung around in the street outside, gazing at all the frantic activity. But this was very much a throwback to another era.

When I first started covering criminal trials in the early 1970s, long queues were still common for high-profile murder cases. The public gallery would be full, people craning their necks to see the accused brought up from the cells. Today many murder trials take place without a single person in the press box or a single member of the public in the gallery.

So, whatever happened to British trials and why do they often pass us by unnoticed, except for the opening day’s prosecution case and the jury’s verdict?

One reason is that before daytime television the warm, centrally heated public galleries of courts provided the enthralling – and free – entertainment of which Harry Hodge wrote so enthusiastically. What could be a more absorbing way of spending a day than seeing the accused in a murder or kidnap case being cross-examined by a scathing QC (or, previously, KC) or sentenced by an unforgiving judge? But now, with a hundred television channels offering entertainment that blurs the lines between real and fictional crime, why bother to leave the house?

The other major reason for the decline of trials in the public consciousness is that the press no longer stimulates interest in them by sustained coverage. When there were three London evening papers with a total circulation of more than two million, trials accounted for a significant section of the news in the capital. A major murder case would lead to increased circulation.

An important factor in the interest in a murder trial was that cases could end with the judge donning his black cap and proclaiming that the accused be taken from this place and hanged by the neck until he was dead. The former editor of the Evening News Lou Kirby once told me that the abolition of hanging in 1965 significantly decreased interest in such trials. But even after Albert Pierrepoint had hung up his noose, with its 450 notches in it, there was still a healthy interest in and coverage of murder trials in the national press.

When Rosemary West stood trial in Winchester in 1995, charged with the murders of ten young women, every national paper had a reporter in court every day. Such was the demand for press seats that we were informed by court officials at the start of the trial that if we failed to turn up for a single session, we would forfeit our seat for the entire trial. The Times had two full-time reporters there and some papers regularly sent in their “colour” writers so that they could stare at West for a moment or two and tell their readers that they had “locked eyes with the face of evil”. There were no fewer than five authors – Gordon Burn, Andrew O’Hagan, Howard Sounes, Brian Masters and Geoffrey Wansell – also present. An overspill court had to be provided to hear the opening address from a smart, up-and-coming prosecuting counsel called Brian Leveson.

But the days when criminal trials were reported in detail have ended. Forty years ago, there were seven Press Association reporters at the Old Bailey, while the Mail, Express, Times and Telegraph all had staffers there. Now there are only two PA staffers and no national paper still has a dedicated reporter there, the last incumbent being the Telegraph’s admirable Sue Clough. Like much of the press, they have switched their attention to greater coverage of celebrities – a mere tweet being enough to justify a story and an accompanying photograph – without the bother of time-consuming staff absence from the office. Few papers can still afford to dedicate a reporter to cover court cases in anything more than a sketchy fashion and too often the court report you read will have been written by a hard-pressed but uncredited agency reporter. Much of the detail, in which the devil operated, has been lost.

“The glory days are certainly over,” said one veteran reporter in the press room in the bowels of the Old Bailey in late September, when I visited the court. A significant murder trial with nine defendants in the dock was kicking off, the jury sworn, but there was little interest from the national media. Experienced court reporters shake their heads sadly and regret the drift.

“Newspapers and broadcasters are so driven by focus groups and marketing surveys that they have lost sight of what news actually is,” says Guy Toyn, director of Court News, Britain’s only specialist court agency. “When we publish material on our website, we often get responses like, ‘Why haven’t we seen this in a national newspaper?’ The fact is people are still absolutely fascinated by the dark and surreal side of life that is only ever revealed in court stories . . . For a regional newspaper, it is easier and cheaper for them to rewrite a company press release than actually dig out a great story – or to pay someone to do it for them.”

Local newspapers, also now a dying breed throughout Britain, relied on the courts as a staple of their coverage, a role noted approvingly by the judiciary. As Lord Denning wrote in The Road to Justice in 1955, “a newspaper reporter is in every court. He sits through the dullest cases in the court of appeal and the most trivial cases before the magistrates. He says nothing but he writes a lot. He is, I verily believe, the watchdog of justice.” No more.

Currently more than 1.5 million cases make their way through the 330 magistrates courts of England and Wales every year and around 130,000 cases through the 91 crown courts. Who notices? In Scotland, there are attempts to cut the number of courts to save money, which has met resistance; Sheriff Kevin Drummond told the Scottish Parliament’s justice committee: “I do not care whether the court is conducted in the back of a large furniture van; it should go to rural locations.” Quite right.

This is an international issue, too. Ed Vulliamy, in his haunting book about the aftermath of the Balkan conflict, The War is Dead, Long Live the War, noted that, when the stories of the appalling atrocities visited on the Bosnians were rehearsed in front of the International Criminal Tribunal in the Hague, “the public and press galleries were often empty”.

It was the Scottish lawyer William Roughead, who recognised the importance of the trial in society and pioneered its coverage. Joyce Carol Oates has acknowledged this in the New York Review of Books: “Roughead’s influence was enormous and, since his time, ‘true crime’ has become a crowded, flourishing field, though few writers of distinction have been drawn to it . . . his accounts of murder cases and trials have the advantage of being concise and pointed, like folk tales.”

So, perhaps it should be no surprise that Scotland has pioneered the televising of trials. This summer, the Scottish courts authorised the televising of a murder trial, shown on Channel 4. The retrial of Nat Fraser, for the 1998 murder of his wife, Arlene, was filmed with the (eventual) permission of the participants over a period of six weeks at the High Court in Edinburgh.

England and Wales followed suit this October and the filming of legal arguments and the final judgments at the Court of Appeal are now allowed. “Justice must be seen to be done,” said the then courts minister, Helen Grant, announcing the move. The next step will be the filming of the sentencing process in crown courts, although “victims, witnesses, offenders and jurors will . . . not be part of broadcasts.”

The media organisations that use filmed court proceedings will supposedly cover the costs. This will not solve anything. As Helena Kennedy QC has written: “Voyeurism and money is behind this agenda and the justice system will not be the beneficiary.”

Nick Davies, the reporter who put in heroic work on the phone-hacking scandal, has written in the Guardian that criminal and civil courts “are probably the most productive single sources of stories in this country”. He is right. A morning in a magistrate’s court will tell you more about the state of the nation in terms of education, class, family, employment, immigration, consumerism, honesty, addiction to drink and drugs, sexual politics, housing, health and alienation than a dozen think-tank reports.

During the Olympics last year, I reported for the Guardian from the special court set up to deal with offenders arrested in connection with the Games. The court became a microcosm of world attitudes to the whole business of the Olympics and sport but it was almost empty of press or public. One case I covered was that of a Lithuanian man arrested for making Nazi salutes and monkey noises during his country’s basketball game with Nigeria; his puzzled defence was that this was perfectly normal behaviour where he came from and no one had ever complained before.

I also reported from Edinburgh’s Sheriff Court during the Festival there last year. What emerged was a portrait of a society where drink and drugs were the almost inevitable lubricant of social and criminal life. “No drink was involved,” said the prosecutor in one case, adding “unusually for this court”. Again I was alone in the press gallery in three different courts, where once would have been reporters from the Evening News and the (now defunct) Evening Dispatch.

Not for nothing has the trial formed such a key part of our film and television lives, from films such as Witness for the Prosecution back in 1957 to those 250 episodes of Crown Court that ran between 1972 and 1985. Neither is it a coincidence that so many of our most eloquent politicians come from a background in the courts, where an ability to charm and convince are important.

The late Labour leader John Smith, who had been an admired criminal advocate, was once said – and I hope this story is true because I have told it a few times – to have gone below court to express his regret to a client who, despite Smith’s best efforts, had been convicted. “Don’t worry,” said the defendant, albeit in dialect, “you were so good, I almost believed you myself.”

I am always amazed when someone says that they have never attended a trial. When friends come to London from abroad, I often encourage them to visit the Old Bailey or the Royal Courts of Justice, which seem just as vital to an understanding of the country as Tate Modern or Hyde Park. Does it matter? Yes, it does. Partly for the old reason (see above) that “justice not only has to be done, it has to be seen to be done” – or, as J B Morton wickedly added, “has to be seen to be believed”. But also because trials are essential to our understanding of how our society operates.

In the oft-quoted words of Lord Atkinson, in his judgment in Scott v Scott, in 1913, “the hearing of a case in public may be, and often is, no doubt, painful, humiliating, or deterrent both to parties and witnesses . . . but all this is tolerated and endured because it is felt that in the public trial is to be found, on the whole, the best security for the pure, impartial and efficient administration of justice, the best means of winning for it public confidence and respect”.

To win that respect, the criminal justice system has to smarten up its act. There are far too many interruptions for legal arguments that could have been dealt with by email prior to the trial; far too many delays because a defendant has been brought late to court by whatever lackadaisical private security company has the job that week; far too many sighing judges because barristers or advocates arrive in court unbriefed.

Next year will be the 100th anniversary of the writing of Franz Kafka’s great novel The Trial, (although it was not published for a further decade). How fitting for the memory of Josef K if we were once again to take seriously the trial as a legal process that directly or indirectly affects the lives of millions of us, costs us billions of pounds a year, both in terms of its actual processes and its consequences behind the bars of our jails, but that now receives far too little attention. Time to halt the decline of the British trial.

Duncan Campbell is a former crime correspondent for the Guardian

Show Hide image

The English Revolt

Brexit, Euroscepticism and the future of the United Kingdom.

English voters have led – some would say forced – the United Kingdom towards exit from the European Union. Was this an English revolt, the result of an ­upsurge over decades of a more assertive, perhaps resentful, sense of English identity? At one level, clearly so. Surveys indicate that individuals who most often describe themselves as “English”, and regions where this is common, were more inclined to vote Leave on 23 June. Some of these are poorer regions where marginalised people think that their voices are more likely to be heard in a national democracy than in an international trading bloc, and for whom patriotism is a source of self-respect. But it would only make sense to regard Leave as essentially an English reaction if discontent with the EU were confined to England, or specifically linked with feelings of Englishness.

In fact, negative opinions about the EU, and especially about its economic policy, are now more widespread in other countries than they are in England. Polls by the Pew Research Centre last month showed that disapproval of the EU was as high in Germany and the Netherlands as in Britain, and higher in France, Greece and Spain. Though aggravated by the 2007-2008 crash and enforced policies of austerity, a decline in support was clear earlier. France’s referendum of May 2005 gave a 55 per cent No to the proposed EU constitution after thorough debate, and a now familiar pattern emerged: enthusiastic Europeanism was confined to the wealthiest suburbs and quarters of Paris, and the only professional groups that strongly voted Yes were big business, the liberal professions and academics.

Going far beyond the atavistic and incoherent English revolt that some think they discern, our referendum result is partly a consequence of transnational political phenomena across the democratic world: the disaffection of citizens from conventional politics, shown by falling turnouts for elections, shrinking party membership and the rise of new, sometimes extreme political movements; as well as the simultaneous detachment of a professional political class from civil society, and its consequent retreat into a closed world of institutions.

The EU embodies these phenomena in uniquely acute form. In several cases its central bodies have opposed – or, if one prefers, have been forced to deny – democratically expressed wishes. In Greece and Italy, the EU has enforced changes of government and policy, and in Denmark, Ireland and the Netherlands it has pressed countries to ignore or reverse popular referendums. Its own representative body, the European Parliament, has gained neither power nor legitimacy. Crucial decisions are taken in secret, making the EU a hiding place for beleaguered politicians as well as a source of lavish financial reward for insiders. In the words of the historian John Gillingham, Europe is now being governed by neither its peoples nor its ideals, but by a bank board. This is not the “superstate” of Eurosceptic mythology. Though it drains power and legitimacy away from national governments, it is incapable of exercising power effectively itself, whether to cope with short-term emergencies such as an inflow of refugees, or to solve chronic failings such as the creation of mass unemployment in southern Europe. The result is paralysis, the inability either to extricate itself from failing institutions or to make them work.

If popular discontent with the EU continues to increase (and it is hard to see how it could not) sooner or later there will be some unmanageable political or social crisis. The response of too many supporters of the EU is to screw the lid down tighter, including now by promising to make life difficult for the United Kingdom, pour décourager les autres. This is the organisation – unpopular, unaccountable, secretive, often corrupt, and economically failing – from which our decision to depart apparently causes people to weep in the streets.

***

Why this decision? Why in Britain? The simplest and perhaps the best answer is that we have had a referendum. If France, Greece, Italy and some other countries had been given the same choice, they might well have made the same decision. But of course they have not been and will not be given such a choice, barring severe political crisis. This is most obviously because countries that have adopted the euro – even those such as Greece, for which the IMF has predicted high unemployment at least until the 2040s – have no clear way out.

I make this obvious point to emphasise that the immediate explanation of what has happened lies not only and not mainly in different feelings about the EU in Britain, but in different political opportunities and levels of fear. The contrasting votes in Scotland and Northern Ireland have particular explanations. Scottish nationalists – like their counterparts in Catalonia – see the EU as an indispensable support for independence. Northern Ireland sees the matter primarily as one affecting its own, still tense domestic politics and its relations with the Republic. In a European perspective, Scotland and Northern Ireland are the outliers, not England and Wales. Indeed, Scotland’s vote makes it stand out as one of the most pro-EU countries in Europe. If ever there is another referendum to see whether Scots prefer the EU to the UK, it will show whether this level of support for the EU is solid.

If England is exceptional, it is not in its disaffection from the EU, nor in the political divisions the referendum vote has exposed (if France, for instance, had such a vote, one could expect blood in the streets). Rather, its exceptional characteristic is its long-standing and settled scepticism about the European project in principle, greater than in any other EU country. Every ­member has a specific history that shapes its attitude to the theoretical idea of European integration. As John Gillingham, one of the most perceptive historians of the EU, describes its beginnings: “to the French [supranationalism was] a flag of convenience, to the Italians it was preferable (by definition) to government by Rome, to the Germans a welcome escape route, and to the Benelux nations a better choice than being dominated by powerful neighbours”.

Subsequently, for the eastern European states, it was a decisive step away from communist dictatorship, and for southern Europe a line drawn under a traumatic history of civil conflict. There is also a widespread belief, powerful though fanciful, that the EU prevents war between the European states. All these are important reasons why there remains considerable support for unification as an aspiration. But all these reasons are weaker, and some of them non-existent, in Britain, and especially in England. The simple reason for this is that Britain’s experience of the 20th century was far less traumatic. Moreover, during that time loyalty to the nation was not tarnished with fascism, but was rather the buttress of freedom and democracy. Conversely, the vision of a European “superstate” is seen less as a guarantee of peace and freedom, and rather as the latest in a five-century succession of would-be continental hegemons.

Given all this, an obvious question is why the United Kingdom ever joined in the European project in the first place. The answer helps to explain the country’s subsequent lack of enthusiasm. Its first response to the creation of the European Economic Community in 1957 was not to join, but to agree to establish a separate European Free Trade Association (Efta) in 1959 with Austria, Denmark, Norway, Portugal, Sweden and Switzerland; over the next three decades the seven founder members were joined by Finland, Iceland and Liechtenstein. This worked efficiently, cheaply and amicably, and, in time, Efta and the EEC would doubtless have created trading arrangements and systems of co-operation. But then the historic mistake was made. Efta was considered too small to provide the diplomatic clout craved by Whitehall at a time of severe post-imperial jitters. A cabinet committee warned in 1960 that “if we try to remain aloof from [the EEC] – bearing in mind that this will be happening simultaneously with the contraction of our overseas possessions – we shall run the risk of losing political influence and of ceasing to be able to exercise any real claim to be a world Power”.

Besides, Washington disliked Efta as a barrier to its aim of a federal Europe, and the Americans put heavy pressure on London to apply to accede to the Treaty of Rome, which it duly did in August 1961. “It is only full membership, with the possibility of controlling and dominating Europe,” wrote an optimistic British cabinet official, “that is really attractive.”

As the former US secretary of state Dean Acheson (one of the early backers of European integration) put it, in a now celebrated comment in December 1962: “Great Britain has lost an empire, and has not yet found a role. The attempt to play a separate power role . . . apart from Europe . . . based on a ‘special relationship’ with the United States [or] on being the head of a ‘Commonwealth’ . . . – this role is about played out.”

Acheson’s words long haunted British policymakers; perhaps they still do. And yet Britain remains one of the half-dozen strongest and most assertive states anywhere in the world, just as it has been for the past three centuries.

To fear of diplomatic marginalisation was added fear of economic decline. A government report in 1953 warned of “relegation of the UK to the second division”. Over the next 30 years there was a chorus of dismay about “the sick man of Europe”. Belief that EEC membership at any price was the only cure for Britain’s perceived economic ills became the orthodoxy in official circles: Britain was “the sinking Titanic”, and “Europe” the lifeboat.

So, on 1 January 1973 Britain formally entered the EEC with Denmark and Ireland. Other Efta members remained outside the Community – Switzerland and Norway for good. Harold Wilson’s 1975 referendum on whether to stay in the EEC in effect turned on Europe’s superior economic performance – which, though no one realised it at the time, had just ended.

This memory of apparent British economic weakness half a century ago still seems to weigh with older Remainers. Yet it was based on a fundamental misconception: that European growth rates were permanently higher than in a supposedly outdated and declining Britain. In reality, faster growth on the mainland in the 1950s and 1960s was due to one-off structural modernisation: the large agricultural workforce shifted into more productive industrial employment. From the mid-1940s to the early 1970s this gave several European countries “windfall growth” at a higher rate than was possible in Britain, which since the 19th century had had no large agricultural sector to convert. By the early 1970s, once that catching up was finished, European growth rates became the same as, or slightly lower than, Britain’s. When measured over the whole half-century from 1950 to 2000, Britain’s economic performance was no different from the ­European norm. By the mid-1980s, growth was faster than in France and Germany, and today Britain’s economic fundamentals remain strong.

Slower European growth lessened the perceived attractiveness of EU integration. In 1992, on Black Wednesday (16 September), hesitant participation in the European Exchange Rate Mechanism led to forced devaluations in Finland, Sweden, Italy, Spain and, finally, Britain. This was a huge political shock, though an economic boost.

Black Wednesday subsequently made it politically difficult for Britain to join the eurozone – allowing us a narrow escape, attributable more to circumstance than to policy, as vocal political and economic lobbies urged joining.

Moreover, Britain’s trade with the rest of the EU was declining as a proportion of its global activity: as Gordon Brown observed in 2005, 80 per cent of the UK’s potential trade lay outside the EU. The EU’s single market proved not very effective at increasing trade between its members even before the crash of 2007-2008, and prolonged austerity thereafter made it stagnant. Consequently, in the 2016 referendum campaign, more emphasis was placed on the dangers of leaving the single market than on the precise benefits of being in it.

But the days when Britain seemed the Titanic and Europe the lifeboat were long gone. On the contrary, Britain, with its fluid and largely unregulated labour market, had become the employer of last resort for the depressed countries of the eurozone. The sustained importation of workers since the 1990s had become, for a large part of Britain’s working class, the thing that most obviously outweighed whatever legal or economic advantages the EU might theoretically offer.

***

What galvanised the vote for Brexit, I think, was a core attachment to national democracy: the only sort of democracy that exists in Europe. That is what “getting our country back” essentially means. Granted, the slogan covers a multitude of concerns and wishes, some of them irreconcilable; but that is what pluralist democracy involves. Britain has long been the country most ­resistant to ceding greater powers to the EU: opinion polls in the lead-up to the referendum showed that only 6 per cent of people in the UK (compared to 34 per cent in France, for instance, and 26 per cent in Germany) favoured increased centralisation – a measure of the feebleness of Euro-federalism in Britain.

In contrast, two-thirds wanted powers returned from the EU to the British government, with a majority even among the relatively Europhile young. This suggests a much greater opposition to EU centralisation than shown by the 52 per cent vote for Brexit. The difference may be accounted for by the huge pressure put on the electorate during the campaign. Indeed, arithmetic suggests that half even of Remain voters oppose greater powers being given to the EU. Yet its supporters regard an increase of EU control over economic and financial decisions – the basics of politics – as indispensable if the EU is to survive, because of the strains inherent in the eurozone system. This stark contradiction between the decentralisation that many of the peoples of Europe – and above all the British – want to see and the greater centralisation that the EU as an institution needs is wilfully ignored by Remain supporters. Those who deplore the British electorate’s excessive attachment to self-government as some sort of impertinence should be clear (not least with themselves) about whether they believe that the age of democracy in Europe is over, and that great decisions should be left to professional politicians, bureaucracies and large corporations.

Some have dismissed the Leave vote as an incoherent and anarchic protest against “the establishment”, or as a xenophobic reaction against immigrants. Some of the media in Britain and abroad have been doing their best to propagate this view. Yet xenophobia has not been a significant feature of British politics since the 1960s, and certainly far less so than in many obedient EU member states, including France, Germany, Greece and the Netherlands. As for the anti-establishment “revolt”, this emerged when parts of the establishment began to put organised pressure on the electorate to vote Remain. Would-be opinion-formers have hardly covered themselves in glory in recent weeks. They have been out of touch and out of sympathy with opinion in the country, unwilling or unable to engage in reasoned debate, and resorting to collective proclamations of institutional authority which proved embarrassingly ineffective.

Worst of all, their main argument – whether they were artists, actors, film-makers, university vice-chancellors or prestigious learned societies – was one of unabashed self interest: the EU is our milch-cow, and hence you must feed it. This was a lamentable trahison des clercs. The reaction to the referendum result by some Remain partisans has been a monumental fit of pique that includes talking up economic crisis (which, as Keynes showed, is often self-fulfilling) and smearing 17 million Leave voters as xenophobes. This is both irresponsible and futile, and paves the way to political marginalisation.

The Queen’s call for “deeper, cooler consideration” is much needed. I recall Victor Hugo’s crushing invective against French elitists who rejected the verdict of democracy, when in 1850 he scorned “your ignorance of the country today, the antipathy that you feel for it and that it feels for you”.

This antipathy has reduced English politics to a temporary shambles. It is too early to say whether there will be some realignment of the fragments: One-Nation Toryism, Conservative neoliberalism, “new” and “old” Labour, the hibernating Liberal Democrats and Greens, the various nationalists and, of course, the unpredictable Ukip. When in the past there were similar crises – such as Labour’s rift over the national government in 1931, the Liberals’ split over Irish home rule in 1886, or the Tory fragmentation over the repeal of the Corn Laws in 1846 – the political balance was permanently changed.

***

Many Europeans fear that a breakdown of the EU could slide into a return to the horrors of the mid-20th century. Most people in Britain do not. The fundamental feature of the referendum campaign was that the majority was not frightened out of voting for Leave, either by political or by economic warnings. This is testimony to a significant change since the last referendum in 1975: most people no longer see Britain as a declining country dependent on the EU.

A Eurobarometer poll in 2013 showed that Britain was the only EU member state in which most citizens felt that they could face the future better outside the Union. Last month’s referendum reflected this view, which was not reversed by reiterated predictions of doom.

In retrospect, joining the Common Market in 1973 has proved an immense historic error. It is surely evident that we would not have been applying to join the EU in 2016 had we, like Norway or Switzerland, remained outside it. Yet the political and possibly economic costs of leaving it now are considerable. Even though discontent with the EU across much of Europe has recently overtaken sentiment in Britain, Britain is unique, in that, ever since the 1970s, its public has been consistently far less ­favourable to the idea of European integration than the electorate in any other country. Hence the various “opt-outs” and the critically important decision to remain outside the euro.

Now, by a great historic irony, we are heading towards the sort of associate status with the EU that we had in the late 1960s as the leading member of Efta, and which we could have kept. Instead, this country was led by its political elite, for reasons of prestige and because of exaggerated fears of national decline and marginalisation, into a vain attempt to be “at the heart of Europe”. It has been a dangerous illusion, born of the postwar declinist obsession, that Britain must “punch above its weight” both by following in the footsteps of the United States and by attaching itself to the EU.

For some, money, blood and control over our own policy were sacrifices worth making for a “seat at the top table”. This dual strategy has collapsed. In future we shall have to decide what is the appropriate and desirable role for Britain to play in the world, and we shall have to decide it for ourselves.

Robert Tombs is Professor of French History at Cambridge University. His most recent book is “The English and Their History” (Penguin)

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