We can't all be orators like Cicero, you know. Image: Getty
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Bitter experience has taught me never to wing it when giving a speech . . . so I decide to wing it

This is my default way of dealing with things. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

It is 8.30am. Never good. An out-of-town number, no name attached; it could go either way but probably not the way I’d like. The voice on the other end, businesslike but with a charmlessness that borders on menace, asks me, without so much as a query about my health, let alone an apology for calling me so early, to confirm my name and address – and it presumably has a load of other questions.

“Hang on a moment,” I say. “Before I tell you who I am, would you mind telling me who you are?” He names a company unfamiliar to me.

“I’m afraid I am none the wiser. Could you tell me the nature of your business?” I ask, although I am beginning to have a shrewd idea what this might be about. He repeats the name, slightly less charmingly than before, and adds that this company has already sent me many letters, none of which I have acknowledged.

“In that case,” I say, “we are at an impasse.” I haven’t seen any of these letters and tell him so. “I refuse to deal with someone of whom I have no knowledge and you refuse to identify yourself and tell me what your company does. We are stalled.” Then, with a voice that makes me think of a bailiff in a bad mood – a bailiff, moreover, who has gone down to the kitchen in the dark with the idea of getting a snack to cheer himself up but has instead trodden on an upturned drawing pin with his bare feet – he suggests I look
his company up.

We hang up on mutually suspicious terms. I think I know roughly what I will find if I look up his company name, because I did not come down in the last shower, but at the moment my mind is on higher things – I have to go to Birmingham City University shortly to talk for about an hour and a half on what constitutes my income stream, apart from the column you are holding in your hands at this moment. That is, book reviewing.

I have written before about my lack of delight and competence in addressing an audience. I begin to sweat uncontrollably – a ludicrous phrase as one can’t tweak one’s sweating rate once it starts, but in my case it gets visibly out of control and this makes me lose the thread of what I’m saying, which makes me sweat, and so on.

I was asked to do this in October by the writer Ian Marchant, whom I have never met but whose books I have praised and which bespeak a geniality and world-view that would be a pleasure to encounter in person; there’s a couple of long ’uns in it for me, plus travel expenses, and crucially it was five months away, which is like never.

Around this time last month, I woke up in the night with a jolt and remembered this gig, then decided that the date had probably been and gone, that everyone had forgotten about it and that it had all blown over. This is my default way of dealing with things. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. A couple of days later, I got an email from an ac.uk address, asking me if I was still on. I sighed inwardly and said yes.

Why do I do this? Long ago, I realised that to fill up 40 minutes with continuous scripted speech would involve writing somewhere between 4,500 and 5,000 words, which rather takes the gloss off the money I’ll be earning, and bitter experience has taught me that it is unwise to go into the room with half a page of notes and a vague hope that one will be able to wing it.

So I decided I would spin things out by reading George Orwell’s horribly timeless but very funny piece “Confessions of a Book Reviewer” (“In a cold but stuffy bed-sitting room littered with cigarette ends and half-empty cups of tea, a man in a moth-eaten dressing grown sits at a rickety table,” and so on) and then . . . well, wing it.

In the end it was pretty much as I expected. I was feeling sick all the way up (“If he has recently had a lucky streak he will be suffering from a hangover”) and toyed with the idea of pulling the communication cord; instead I wrote a couple of pages of notes in a crabbed hand.

This turns out to be illegible and I sweat like a pig while talking but calm down and do much better when answering questions from the keen and intelligent audience. One good thing has come out of it all: on the train back, I realise that I’ve completely forgotten the name of the company that called this morning. But I have a horrible feeling it’ll be calling again.

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 19 March 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Russia's Revenge

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The struggles of Huma Abedin

On the behind-the-scenes story of Hillary Clinton’s closest aide.

In a dreary campaign, it was a moment that shone: Hillary Clinton, on the road to the caucus in Iowa, stopping at a Mexican fast-food restaurant to eat and somehow passing unrecognised. Americans of all political persuasions gleefully speculated over what her order – a chicken burrito bowl with guacamole – revealed about her frame of mind, while supporters gloated that the grainy security-camera footage seemed to show Clinton with her wallet out, paying for her own lunch. Here was not the former first lady, senator and secretary of state, known to people all over the world. This was someone’s unassuming grandmother, getting some food with her colleagues.

It might be unheard of for Clinton to go unrecognised but, for the woman next to her at the till, blending into the background is part of the job. Huma Abedin, often referred to as Clinton’s “shadow” by the US media, is now the vice-chair of her presidential campaign. She was Clinton’s deputy chief of staff at the state department and has been a personal aide since the late 1990s.

Abedin first met Clinton in 1996 when she was 19 and an intern at the White House, assigned to the first lady’s office. She was born in Michigan in 1976 to an Indian father and a Pakistani mother. When Abedin was two, they moved from the US to Saudi Arabia. She returned when she was 18 to study at George Washington University in Washington, DC. Her father was an Islamic scholar who specialised in interfaith reconciliation – he died when she was 17 – and her mother is a professor of sociology.

While the role of “political body woman” may once have been a kind of modern maid, there to provide a close physical presence and to juggle the luggage and logistics, this is no longer the case. During almost 20 years at Clinton’s side, Abedin has advised her boss on everything from how to set up a fax machine – “Just pick up the phone and hang it up. And leave it hung up” – to policy on the Middle East. When thousands of Clinton’s emails were made public (because she had used a private, rather than a government, server for official communication), we glimpsed just how close they are. In an email from 2009, Clinton tells her aide: “Just knock on the door to the bedroom if it’s closed.”

Abedin shares something else with Clinton, outside of their professional ties. They are both political wives who have weathered their husbands’ scandals. In what felt like a Lewinsky affair for the digital age, in 2011, Abedin’s congressman husband, Anthony Weiner, resigned from office after it emerged that he had shared pictures of his genitals with strangers on social media. A second similar scandal then destroyed his attempt to be elected mayor of New York in 2013. In an ironic twist, it was Bill Clinton who officiated at Abedin’s and Weiner’s wedding in 2010. At the time, Hillary is reported to have said: “I have one daughter. But if I had a second daughter, it would [be] Huma.” Like her boss, Abedin stood by her husband and now Weiner is a house husband, caring for their four-year-old son, Jordan, while his wife is on the road.

Ellie Foreman-Peck

A documentary filmed during Weiner’s abortive mayoral campaign has just been released in the US. Weiner shows Abedin at her husband’s side, curtailing his more chaotic tendencies, always flawless with her red lipstick in place. Speaking to the New York Observer in 2007, three years before their marriage, Weiner said of his future wife: “This notion that Senator Clinton is a cool customer – I mean, I don’t dispute it, but the coolest customer in that whole operation is Huma . . . In fact, I think there’s some dispute as to whether Huma’s actually human.” In the film, watching her preternatural calm under extraordinary pressure, you can see what he means.

In recent months, Abedin’s role has changed. She is still to be found at Clinton’s side – as the burrito photo showed – but she is gradually taking a more visible role in the organisation overall, as they pivot away from the primaries to focus on the national race. She meets with potential donors and endorsers on Clinton’s behalf and sets strategy. When a running mate is chosen, you can be sure that Abedin will have had her say on who it is. There’s a grim symmetry to the way politics looks in the US now: on one side, the Republican candidate Donald Trump is calling for a ban on Muslims entering the country; on the other, the presumptive Democratic nominee Hillary Clinton relies ever more on her long-time Muslim-American staffer.

Years before Trump, notable Republicans were trying to make unpleasant capital out of Abedin’s background. In 2012, Tea Party supporters alleged that she was linked to the Muslim Brotherhood and its attempt to gain access “to top Obama officials”. In her rare interviews, Abedin has spoken of how hurtful these baseless statements were to her family – her mother still lives in Saudi Arabia. Later, the senator and former Republican presidential candidate John McCain spoke up for her, saying that Abedin represented “what is best about America”.

Whether senior figures in his party would do the same now remains to be seen.

Caroline Crampton is web editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad