Editor’s Note: A long and not always smooth history

Jason Cowley recalls his first lunch with Peter Wilby, a warning from Tony Howard and champagne with Norman Mackenzie . . . who describes how dreadful Dick Crossman was, and how great Kingsley Martin.

Melvyn Bragg has described how he discovered the New Statesman in the library of his grammar school in Wigton, Cumbria, and how it opened for him a window on the “Great World”. My father, the son of a bus driver from east London, must have felt something similar when he first began buying the NS in the 1950s, more for the poetry and the book and music reviews than for the politics. He was still buying it but not as regularly in the mid-1970s, which was when, as a child, I first became aware of its presence in the house. By the early 1980s, however, he had given up on the NS, as many others had, and it would be many years before I was reacquainted with it.

Stranger in paradise

The first piece I published in the NS was in the summer of 1997 when I was working as a staff feature writer on the Times while moonlighting as a Booker Prize judge. Peter Wilby, who was then the NS literary editor, having recently been sacked as editor of the Independent on Sunday, had read and liked a couple of articles I’d written – probably cocky denunciations of the contemporary English novel – and he invited me for lunch. He took me to his “local”, Gran Paradiso in Victoria, an eccentric and rather run-down Italian restaurant, popular with Conservative MPs of a certain vintage. During that first visit we saw Norman Lamont huddled at a corner table – or was it Michael Mates? The details were in the eyebrows.

Peter enthusiastically drank the house white throughout the lunch. He spoke in a low, deep mumble and I wasn’t sure if he could hear what I was saying. At one point he took from his well-worn wallet a letter he’d received from the proprietor of the Indepe­dent on Sunday after his sacking and asked me to read it. It was a letter of praise and of regret, something private, and I was surprised he was sharing it with me. At the end of the lunch, he stood up abruptly, barked-shouted the words, “Very good,” opened his arms like an umpire signalling a wide and prompt­ly knocked over an artificial tree.

A week or so later, I filed the piece he had commissioned at the required length and on time. A few days after this, I received a faxed proof (the Times did not have email until 1998). Peter’s judicious editing had immeasurably improved what I’d too hastily written. I was impressed. It was the beginning of a long association.

Adventure’s end

The first issue of the NS was published on 12 April 1913. It was founded by Beatrice and Sidney Webb with £5,000-worth of donations from friends, including £1,000 from George Bernard Shaw. Beatrice was pessi­mistic about the prospects of her weekly review of politics and the arts. “If I were forced to wager, I should not back our success,” she wrote in a diary entry.

The Webbs felt the need for their own magazine to promote their top-down, “scientific” Fabian transformation of society for which they campaigned so ardently. But very quickly the NS slipped free of its moorings. In 1922, Sidney Webb resigned as NS chairman, unhappy that the paper he had helped to create had become too liberal in its disparagement of the Labour Party. “A melancholy ending to our one journalistic adventure,” Beatrice wrote in her diary.

An absent friend

When I became NS editor in the autumn of 2008, I received a handwritten note from Tony Howard, who had edited “the paper”, as he always called it, from 1972-78. I’d got to know him when we were colleagues on the Times (he was obituaries editor, his last job before retirement). “I am glad it is you,” he wrote with his usual kindness. “It will be very hard. But you must hang on until the centenary.”

I was mildly alarmed by his choice of the phrasal verb “hang on”, with its implied subtext of struggle and difficulty – I knew how many previous NS editors had resigned in despair or been sacked – and I had no idea that the paper was approaching its centenary. It seemed a long way off to me then and not something I should be concerned with. And now here I am writing these notes. I’m only sorry that Tony, who died suddenly in 2010, is not here to celebrate with us.

Homeward bound

One person who is still with us is Norman Mackenzie, who joined the NS as assistant editor in 1943 after being recommended to the editor Kingsley Martin by Harold Laski of the LSE. Norman, who is 91, had been forced to leave the RAF because of ill health and, as he writes on page 104, his interview took place at Martin’s cottage in the north Essex village of Little Easton, near Dunmow. It went well. Norman remained on the paper until 1962, when the then editor, John Freeman, called him the “rock on which the best of the NS has been founded”. He went on to have a distinguished career as an academic at Sussex University, where he founded, with others, the Open University and wrote many books. His political journey took him from the Independent Labour Party and the Communist Party to Labour and then the Social Democratic Party.

Last year, Norman was given only two months to live and yet, although in poor health, he remains resilient and lucid. I met him for the first time last autumn when the historian Hugh Purcell and I visited him at the home he shares with his wife, Gillian, in Lewes, Sussex. I returned to see him again in February, only to find that he’d broken his hip in a fall and was confined to bed.

Although it was late morning we opened a bottle of champagne and sat beside Norman as he talked without sentimentality and with great wit and epigrammatic flair about his days on the NS – about Martin (“He was the epitome of his readers, instinctively understood them and was never a bore”), George Orwell (“He was a difficult man; no one was close to George”), J B Priestley, the cartoonist Vicky, C H Rolph, Asa Briggs (“The only man I know who was ever a snob about himself”), Richard Crossman (“He was an awful New Statesman editor, the sort of man who would review his own books”), Arthur Koestler (“a clever shit”) and others.

“Here’s to the next 50 years,” he said, raising his glass and looking at me. “You might even make it.”

Asked by Hugh if he knew the spy George Blake, Norman said: “One does have standards, my dear.” Of Dorothy Woodman, Martin’s partner, he said: “There was some­thing not quite right with her. I got on with her badly very well, if you see what I mean.”

Norman stopped reading the NS when it became preoccupied with what he called the “silly left”. He started reading it again last year. “It’s like coming back to the place after 30 years away to find someone has been polishing the doorknobs.” It’s wonderful to have the chance to publish him in this issue.

Fond farewell

As I left Norman’s house at the end of that first visit, he accompanied me to the door. “It’s terrible being 90,” he said. I knew that his wife was religious and I asked if he, too, was a believer. “No, it’s a load of nonsense,” he said. “But I’m not afraid. I just hope there isn’t too much pain at the end.” We shook hands and I left him there, a tall, slightly stooped figure, standing in the doorway as he peered out at the rain, his arm raised in a formal gesture of farewell.

In sickness and in health

Norman is approaching the end of his life and is a last, cherished link to the old world of Kingsley Martin’s New Statesman and Orwell’s London. When he’s gone, there will be no one left to recall what it was like to work at the Great Turnstile offices during the Second World War, when the NS became a dominant publication in the culture, capturing the mood and articulating the hopes and aspirations of a generation.

During the 30 years of Martin’s editorship, the circulation, helped by mergers with the Nation (in 1931) and the Week-end Review (in 1933), rose from 12,000 to more than 80,000 (it rose from 24,000 to 70,000 during the war years alone). Between 1970, when Richard Crossman became editor, and 1986 the circulation fell by as much as 55,000, and this at a time when Chris­topher Hitchens and Martin Amis were on the staff.

Many blame Crossman – who once disgracefully and successfully sued the Spec­tator for reporting what in fact was the truth about him, as he revealed in his post­humously published diaries – for turning the paper into the house journal of the Labour Party. Others blame him as well as those who followed for not modernising the design and content and for failing to channel the radicalism and upheavals of the late 1960s.

There are others who blame Bruce Page, editor from 1978-82, for making the NS too grimly “Spartist”, for destroying its sense of humour and literary heritage and for trying to turn it into a paper of investigative journalism but without the appropriate resources and staff. Paul Johnson, who edited the NS from 1965-70, certainly blames Page for “squandering the reserves”, as he put it to me when I had tea with him and his charming wife, Marigold, at their house in west London. Perhaps the truth of the matter is that no one is to blame, though Crossman does seem to have been an appalling editor (Anthony Thwaite calls him “an opinionated bully”). Each editor no doubt did what he thought was right in the circumstances and at a time of increasing competition – from expanding, multi-section newspapers, from new magazines – and increasingly widespread disenchantment with the left.

The political culture had changed, too. Johnson’s abrupt right turn is a parable of a generation for whom the god of socialism failed. By the time Anthony Barnett, who would later set up openDemocracy, applied for the editorship in 1986, the NS was in a critical condition. “The New Statesman is confronted by a crisis of survival,” he began his appli­cation, a copy of which he recently sent me. “In almost all respects the paper is close to bankruptcy.”

It was an enterprising application and one wonders what might have happened if he’d won the editorship and torn the NS away from Labour interests, as was his intention. Yet as I read his application, with its favourable references to Marxism Today, New Socialist and City Limits (all held up as examples of vibrant publications from which the NS should learn) as well as Punch, one thing struck me: none of these titles exists today and the NS does.

And now, more than 25 years later, the “magazine”, as we now call it, is off life support and returning to robust health, bolstered by an ever-growing website and a new generation of digital and Kindle subscribers who are helping to nudge the cir­culation towards 30,000. In March, newstatesman.com had another record month of web traffic: 1.4 million unique visitors to the site. Could it be that, even as many newspapers grapple with ruinous losses and falling circulation, a small, politically engaged magazine and website such as the NS, which controls its costs and is com­mitted to publishing the best long-form journalism and cultural criticism as well as spiky blogs, can not only survive in the new digital era but actually thrive?

Journey through the past

One recent afternoon, I drove out to Little Easton, the village where Martin used to live and where I’ve played cricket matches over the years. In his memoir Editor, he writes fondly of his cottage and garden: he only reluctantly sold up and left ten years after the end of the war when the “village became lethal to cats” because of increased traffic. New houses were being built and the character of the surrounding countryside was being changed by the coming of the new town of Harlow, where I grew up and which, for Martin, “had the effect of crowding the roads and all approaches to it”.

I wasn’t sure why I’d driven out to Little Easton or what, if anything, I hoped to find there – some ghost traces of long ago, perhaps, when Martin, that passionately committed nonconformist son of a Unitarian minister, used to live there and his friends from London would come to stay. I began thinking again about the war years, when he, the literary editor Raymond Mortimer and Norman Mackenzie were working together at Great Turnstile to get the Statesman out in spite of a shortage of paper and with London being plunged nightly into blackouts.

As Edgar says at the end of Lear, “The oldest hath borne most.” Those of us who came after them, the generation of the welfare state and full employment, will surely never see so much nor feel as Kingsley Martin did when, in the first issue of the NS after war had been declared, he wrote: “We have watched the degradation of standards in Europe, the growth of barbarism and the systematic use of cruelty as a political weapon.” In the depths of our own Great Recession, we sometimes too easily forget how fortunate we are in western Europe to live in peace and relative prosperity. I hope you enjoy the issue and continue to read the New Statesman in the years ahead, whether online or on paper.

The New Statesman centenary issue. Photo: New Statesman.

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 12 April 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Centenary Special Issue

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If the SNP truly want another referendum, the clock is ticking

At party conference in Glasgow, I heard Scotland’s governing party demand a future distinctly different from the one being sketched out in Westminster. 

Nicola Sturgeon described Glasgow as the “dear green city” in her opening address to the SNP party conference, which may surprise anyone raised on a diet of Ken Loach films. In fact, if you’re a fan of faded grandeur and nostalgic parks, there are few places to beat it. My morning walk to conference took me past chipped sandstone tenements, over a bridge across the mysterious, twisting River Kelvin, and through a long avenue of autumnal trees in Kelvingrove Park. In the evenings, the skyline bristled with Victorian Gothic university buildings and church spires, and the hipster bars turned on their lights.

In between these two walks, I heard Scotland’s governing party demand a future distinctly different from the one being sketched out in Westminster. Glasgow’s claim to being the UK’s second city expired long ago but I wonder if, post-Brexit, there might be a case for reviving it.



Scottish politics may never have looked more interesting, but at least one Glasgow taxi driver is already over it. All he hears in the back of his cab is “politics, fitba and religion”, he complained when he picked me up from the station. The message didn’t seem to have reached SNP delegates at the conference centre on the Clyde, who cheered any mention of another referendum.

The First Minister, though, seems to have sensed the nation’s weariness. Support for independence has fallen from 47 per cent in June (Survation) to 39 per cent in October (BMG Research). Sturgeon made headlines with the announcement of a draft referendum bill, but read her speeches carefully and nothing is off the table. SNP politicians made the same demands again and again – devolved control of immigration and access to the single market. None ruled out these happening while remaining in the UK.

If Sturgeon does want a soft Brexit deal, though, she must secure it fast. Most experts agree that it would be far easier for an independent Scotland to inherit Britain’s EU membership than for it to reapply. Once Article 50 is triggered, the SNP will be in a race against the clock.


The hare and the tortoise

If anyone is still in doubt about the SNP’s position, look who won the deputy leadership race. Angus Robertson, the gradualist leader of the party in the Commons, saw off a referendum-minded challenger, Tommy Sheppard, with 52.5 per cent of the vote.

Conference would be nothing without an independence rally, and on the final day supporters gathered for one outside. A stall sold “Indyref 2” T-shirts but the grass-roots members I spoke to were patient, at least for now. William Prowse, resplendent in a kilt and a waistcoat covered in pro-indy
badges, remains supportive of Sturgeon. “The reason she has not called an Indy 2 vote
is we need to have the right numbers,” he told me. “She’s playing the right game.”

Jordi McArthur, a member for 30 years, stood nearby waving a flagpole with the Scottish, Welsh and Catalan flags side by side. “We’re happy to wait until we know what is happening with Brexit,” he said. “But at the same time, we want a referendum. It won’t be Nicola’s choice. It will be the grass roots’ choice.”


No Gerrymandering

Party leaders may come and go, but SNP members can rely on one thing at conference – the stage invasions of the pensioner Gerry Fisher. A legendary dissenter, Fisher refused this year to play along with the party’s embrace of the EU. Clutching the
lectern stubbornly, he told members: “Don’t tell me that you can be independent and a member of the EU. It’s factually rubbish.” In the press room, where conference proceedings were shown unrelentingly on a big screen, hacks stopped what they were doing to cheer him on.


Back to black

No SNP conference would be complete without a glimpse of Mhairi Black, the straight-talking slayer of Douglas Alexander and Westminster’s Baby of the House. She is a celebrity among my millennial friends – a video of her maiden Commons speech has been watched more than 700,000 times – and her relative silence in recent months is making them anxious.

I was determined to track her down, so I set my alarm for an unearthly hour and joined a queue of middle-aged women at an early-morning fringe event. The SNP has taken up the cause of the Waspi (Women Against State Pension Inequality) campaign, run by a group of women born in the 1950s whose retirement age has been delayed and are demanding compensation. Black, who is 22, has become their most ­articulate spokeswoman.

The event started but her chair remained unfilled. When she did arrive, halfway through the session, it was straight from the airport. She gave a rip-roaring speech that momentarily convinced even Waspi sceptics like me, and then dashed off to her next appointment.


Family stories

Woven through the SNP conference was an argument about the benefits of immigration (currently controlled by Westminster). This culminated in an appearance by the Brain family, whose attempt to resist deportation back to Australia has made them a national cause célèbre. (Their young son has learned to speak Gaelic.) Yet for me, the most emotional moment of the conference was when another family, the Chhokars, stepped on stage. Surjit Singh Chhokar was murdered in 1998, but it took 17 years of campaigning and a change in double jeopardy laws before his killer could be brought to justice.

As Aamer Anwar, the family’s solicitor, told the story of “Scotland’s Stephen Lawrence”, Chhokar’s mother and sister stood listening silently, still stricken with grief. After he finished, the delegates gave the family a standing ovation.

Julia Rampen is the editor of The Staggers, the New Statesman’s politics blog

Julia Rampen is the editor of The Staggers, The New Statesman's online rolling politics blog. She was previously deputy editor at Mirror Money Online and has worked as a financial journalist for several trade magazines. 

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood