Show Hide image

The bugger, bugged

After a chance meeting with a former News of the World executive who told him his phone had been hacked, Hugh Grant couldn’t resist going back to him – with a hidden tape recorder – to find out if there was more to the story. . .

When I broke down in my midlife crisis car in remotest Kent just before Christmas, a battered white van pulled up on the far carriageway. To help, I thought. But when the driver got out he started taking pictures with a long-lens camera. He came closer to get better shots and I swore at him. Then he offered me a lift the last few miles to my destination. I suspected his motives and swore at him some more. (I'm not entirely sympathetic towards paparazzi.) Then I realised I couldn't get a taxi and was late. So I had to accept the lift.

He turned out to be an ex-News of the World investigative journalist and paparazzo, now running a pub in Dover. He still kept his camera in the car's glove box for just this kind of happy accident.

More than that, he was Paul McMullan, one of two ex-NoW hacks who had blown the whistle (in the Guardian and on Channel 4's Dispatches) on the full extent of phone-hacking at the paper, particularly under its former editor Andy Coulson. This was interesting, as I had been a victim - a fact he confirmed as we drove along. He also had an unusual defence of the practice: that phone-hacking was a price you had to pay for living in a free society. I asked how that worked exactly, but we ran out of time, and next thing we had arrived and he was asking me if I would pose for a photo with him, "not for publication, just for the wall of the pub".

I agreed and the picture duly appeared in the Mail on Sunday that weekend with his creative version of the encounter. He had asked me to drop into his pub some time. So when, some months later, Jemima asked me to write a piece for this paper, it occurred to me it might be interesting to take him up on his invitation.

I wanted to hear more about phone-hacking and the whole business of tabloid journalism. It occurred to me just to interview him straight, as he has, after all, been a whistleblower. But then I thought I might possibly get more, and it might be more fun, if I secretly taped him, The bugger bugged, as it were. Here are some excerpts from our conversation.

Me So, how's the whistleblowing going?
Him I'm trying to get a book published. I sent it off to a publisher who immediately accepted it and then it got legal and they said, "This is never going to get published."
Me Why? Because it accuses too many people of crime?
Him Yes, as I said to the parliamentary commission, Coulson knew all about it and regularly ordered it . . . He [Coulson] rose quickly to the top; he wanted to cover his tracks all the time. So he wouldn't just write a story about a celeb who'd done something. He'd want to make sure they could never sue, so he wanted us to hear the celeb like you on tape saying, "Hello, darling, we had lovely sex last night." So that's on tape - OK, we've got that and so we can publish . . . Historically, the way it went was, in the early days of mobiles, we all had analogue mobiles and that was an absolute joy. You know, you just . . . sat outside Buckingham Palace with a £59 scanner you bought at Argos and get Prince Charles and everything he said.
Me Is that how the Squidgy tapes [of Diana's phone conversations] came out? Which was put down to radio hams, but was in fact . . .
Him Paps in the back of a van, yes . . . I mean, politicians were dropping like flies in the Nineties because it was so easy to get stuff on them. And, obviously, less easy to justify is celebrities. But yes.
Me And . . . it wasn't just the News of the World. It was , you know - the Mail?
Him Oh absolutely, yeah. When I went freelance in 2004 the biggest payers - you'd have thought it would be the NoW, but actually it was the Daily Mail. If I take a good picture, the first person I go to is - such as in your case - the Mail on Sunday. Did you see that story? The picture of you, breaking down . . . I ought to thank you for that. I got £3,000. Whooo!
Me But would they [the Mail] buy a phone-hacked story?
Him For about four or five years they've absolutely been cleaner than clean. And before that they weren't. They were as dirty as anyone . . . They had the most money.
Me So everyone knew? I mean, would Rebekah Wade have known all this stuff was going on?
Him Good question. You're not taping, are you?
Me [slightly shrill voice] No.
Him Well, yeah. Clearly she . . . took over the job of [a journalist] who had a scanner who was trying to sell it to members of his own department. But it wasn't a big crime. [NB: Rebekah Brooks has always denied any knowledge of phone-hacking. The current police investigation is into events that took place after her editorship of the News of the World.]
It started off as fun - you know, it wasn't against the law, so why wouldn't you? And it was only because the MPs who were fiddling their expenses and being generally corrupt kept getting caught so much they changed the law in 2001 to make it illegal to buy and sell a digital scanner. So all we were left with was - you know - finding a blag to get your mobile [records] out of someone at Vodafone. Or, when someone's got it, other people swap things for it.
Me So they all knew? Wade probably knew all about it all?
Him [...] Cameron must have known - that's the bigger scandal. He had to jump into bed with Murdoch as everyone had, starting with Thatcher in the Seventies . . . Tony Blair . . . [tape is hard to hear here] Maggie openly courted Murdoch, saying, you know, "Please support me." So when Cameron, when it came his turn to go to Murdoch via Rebekah Wade . . . Cameron went horse riding regularly with Rebekah. I know, because as well as doorstepping celebrities, I've also doorstepped my ex-boss by hiding in the bushes, waiting for her to come past with Cameron on a horse . . . before the election to show that - you know - Murdoch was backing Cameron.
Me What happened to that story?
Him The Guardian paid for me to do it and I stepped in it and missed them, basically. They'd gone past - not as good as having a picture.
Me Do you think Murdoch knew about phone-hacking?
Him Errr, possibly not. He's a funny bloke given that he owns the Sun and the Screws . . . quite puritanical. Sorry to talk about Divine Brown, but when that came out . . . Murdoch was furious: "What are you putting that on our front page for? You're bringing down the tone of our papers." [Indicating himself] That's what we do over here.
Me Well, it's also because it was his film I was about to come out in.
Him Oh. I see.
Me Yeah. It was a Fox film.
[A pause here while we chat to other customers, and then - ]
Him So anyway, let me finish my story.
Me Murdoch, yes . . .
Him So I was sent to do a feature on Moulin Rouge! at Cannes, which was a great send anyway. Basically my brief was to see who Nicole Kidman was shagging - what she was doing, poking through her bins and get some stuff on her. So Murdoch's paying her five million quid to big up the French and at the same time paying me £5.50 to fuck her up . . . So all hail the master. We're just pawns in his game. How perverse is that?
Me Wow. You reckon he never knew about it?
Him [pause] I don't even think he really worried himself too much about it.
Me What's his son called?
Him James. They're all mates together. They all go horse riding. You've got Jeremy Clarkson lives here [in Oxfordshire]. Cameron lives here, and Rebekah Wade is married to Brooks's son [the former racehorse trainer Charlie Brooks]. Cameron gets dressed up as the Stig to go to Clarkson's 50th birthday party [NB: it was actually to record a video message for the party]. Is that demeaning for a prime minister? It should be the other way round, shouldn't it? So basically, Cameron is very much in debt to Rebekah Wade for helping him not quite win the election . . . So that was my submission to parliament - that Cameron's either a liar or an idiot.
Me But don't you think that all these prime ministers deliberately try to get the police to drag their feet about investigating the whole [phone-hacking] thing because they don't want to upset Murdoch?
Him Yeah. There's that . . . You also work a lot with policemen as well . . . One of the early stories was [and here he names a much-loved TV actress in her sixties] used to be a street walker - whether or not she was, but that's the tip.
Me and Chum MLTVA?!
Me I can't believe it. Oh no!
Chum Really??
Him Yeah. Well, not now . . .
Chum Oh, it'd be so much better if it was now.
Him So I asked a copper to get his hands on the phone files, but because it's only a caution it's not there any more. So that's the tip . . . it's a policeman ringing up a tabloid reporter and asking him for ten grand because this girl had been cautioned right at the start of his career. And then I ask another policemen to go and check the records . . . So that's happening regularly. So the police don't particularly want to investigate.
Me But do you think they're going to have to now?
Him I mean - 20 per cent of the Met has taken backhanders from tabloid hacks. So why would they want to open up that can of worms? . . . And what's wrong with that, anyway? It doesn't hurt anyone particularly. I mean, it could hurt someone's career - but isn't that the dance with the devil you have to play?
Me Well, I suppose the fact that they're dragging their feet while investigating a mass of phone-hacking - which is a crime - some people would think is a bit depressing about the police.
Him But then - should it be a crime? I mean, scanning never used to be a crime. Why should it be? You're transmitting your thoughts and your voice over the airwaves. How can you not expect someone to just stick up an aerial and listen in?
Me So if someone was on a landline and you had a way of tapping in . . .
Him Much harder to do.
Me But if you could, would you think that was illegal? Do you think that should be illegal?
Him I'd have to say quite possibly, yeah. I'd say that should be illegal.
Me But a mobile phone - a digital phone . . . you'd say it'd be all right to tap that?
Him I'm not sure about that. So we went from a point where anyone could listen in to anything. Like you, me, journalists could listen in to corrupt politicians, and this is why we have a reasonably fair society and a not particularly corrupt or criminal prime minister, whereas other countries have Gaddafi. Do you think it's right the only person with a decent digital scanner these days is the government? Whereas 20 years ago we all had a go? Are you comfortable that the only people who can listen in to you now are - is it MI5 or MI6?
Me I'd rather no one listened in, to be honest. And I might not be alone there. You probably wouldn't want people listening to your conversations.
Him I'm not interesting enough for anyone to want to listen in.
Me Ah . . . I think that was one of the questions asked last week at one of the parliamentary committees. They asked Yates [John Yates, acting deputy commissioner of the Metropolitan Police] if it was true that he thought that the NoW had been hacking the phones of friends and family of those girls who were murdered . . . the Soham murder and the Milly girl [Milly Dowler].
Him Yeah. Yeah. It's more than likely. Yeah . . . It was quite routine. Yeah - friends and family is something that's not as easy to justify as the other things.
Me But celebrities you would justify because they're rich?
Him Yeah. I mean, if you don't like it, you've just got to get off the stage. It'll do wonders.
Me So I should have given up acting?
Him If you live off your image, you can't really complain about someone . . .
Me I live off my acting. Which is different to living off your image.
Him Yeah, but you're still presenting yourself to the public. And if the public didn't know you -
Me They don't give a shit. I got arrested with a hooker and they still came to my films. They don't give a fuck about your public image. They just care about whether you're in an entertaining film or not.
Him That's true . . . I have terrible difficulty with him [points to pap shot of Johnny Depp]. He's really difficult. You know, I was in Venice and he was a nightmare to do because he walks around looking like Michael Jackson. And the punchline was . . . after leading everyone a merry dance the film was shot on an open balcony - I mean, it was like - he was standing there in public.
Me And you don't see the difference between the two situations?
Chum He was actually working at this time? As opposed to having his own private time?
Him You can't hide all the time.
Me So you're saying, if you're Johnny Depp or me, you don't deserve to have a private life?
Him You make so much more money. You know, most people in Dover take home about £200 and struggle.
Me So how much do you think the families of the Milly and Soham girls make?
Him OK, so there are examples that are poor and you can't justify - and that's clearly one of them.
Me I tell you the thing I still don't get - if you think it was all right to do all that stuff, why blow the whistle on it?
Him Errm . . . Right. That's interesting. I actually blew the whistle when a friend of mine at the Guardian kept hassling me for an interview. I said, "Well if you put the name of the Castle [his pub] on the front page of the Guardian, I'll do anything you like." So that's how it started.
Me So, have you been leant on by the NoW, News International, since you blew the whistle?
Him No, they've kept their distance. I mean, there's people who have much better records - my records are non-existent. There are people who actually have tapes and transcripts they did for Andy Coulson.
Me And where are these tapes and transcripts? Do you think they've been destroyed?
Him No, I'm sure they're saving them till they retire.
Me So did you personally ever listen to my voice messages?
Him No, I didn't personally ever listen to your voice messages. I did quite a lot of stories on you, though. You were a very good earner at times.

Those are the highlights. As I drove home past the white cliffs, I thought it was interesting - apart from the fact that Paul hates people like me, and I hate people like him, we got on quite well. And, absurdly, I felt a bit guilty for recording him.

And he does have a very nice pub. The Castle Inn, Dover, for the record. There are rooms available, too. He asked me if I'd like to sample the honeymoon suite some time: "I can guarantee your privacy."

-- Listen to the audio now --

This article first appeared in the 11 April 2011 issue of the New Statesman, Jemima Khan guest edit

Show Hide image

The English question

The political community that is England is neither stable nor settled. But something is stirring among Chesterton’s secret people.

From the late 18th century to the early 20th, Britain’s political class wrestled with an Irish Question: how could the British state govern “John Bull’s Other Island” in a way that kept the native Irish quiescent, without jeopardising its own security? When Ireland was partitioned in 1921 the question disappeared from the British political agenda – only to reappear in another guise during the Troubles in Northern Ireland half a century later. It was not laid to rest until the Belfast Agreement of 1998. More recently, politicians and commentators on both sides of the border have had to come to terms with an increasingly intractable Scottish Question: how should the ancient and once independent Scottish nation relate to the other nations of the United Kingdom and to the Westminster parliament? As the convoluted debate provoked by the coming EU referendum shows, a more nebulous English Question now looms in the wings.

Like the Irish and Scottish Questions, it is the child of a complex history. England became a united kingdom in Anglo-Saxon times. It faced external enemies, notably invading Danes, but its kings ruled their own territory with an iron hand. The Norman Conquest substituted francophone rulers and a francophone nobility for these Anglo-Saxon kings; the new elite spoke French, sent their sons to France to be educated and polished and, in many cases, owned territory in France. Simon de Montfort, once credited with founding the English parliament, was a French nobleman as well as an English one. But the kingdom remained united. The Celtic people who had once inhabited what is now England were driven out by the Anglo-Saxons; Lloegr, the Welsh word for England, means “the lost land”. It stayed lost after the Conquest; and indeed, the Norman rulers of England pushed further into Wales than their Anglo-Saxon predecessors had done.

United did not mean peaceful or stable. Henry II, William the Conqueror’s great-grandson, ruled a vast Continental empire stretching from the English Channel to the Pyrenees, as well as England. Inept kings, uppity barons, an aggressive church, restive peasants, a century-long war with France and bitter dynastic rivalries undermined his achievement. But there was no English equivalent to the powerful, de facto independent duchies of Burgundy or Aquitaine in what is now France, or to the medley of principalities, city states and bishoprics that divided Germans and Italians from each other until well into the 19th century. That was still true after the Welshman Henry Tudor defeated Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth in 1485 and seized the English crown as Henry VII. His son (who became Henry VIII) was not content with keeping England united. Having broken with the Catholic Church when the Pope refused to annul his first marriage, he made himself head of the Church in England and proclaimed that the realm of England was an “empire”, free from all external authority.

From the upheavals of Henry’s reign and the subtle compromises of his daughter Elizabeth’s emerged the Church of England – an institutional and theological third way between the Catholicism of Rome, on the one hand, and the Protestantism of John Calvin’s Geneva and Martin Luther’s Germany on the other. The Church of England has spoken to and for the English people ever since. Sometimes it has spoken feebly and complacently, as in the 18th century. At other times it has been outspoken and brave, as in the Second World War, when William Temple was the archbishop of Canterbury, and during the 1980s, when a Church of England commission excoriated the Thatcher era’s “crude exaltation” of “individual self-interest”. Despite (or perhaps because of) the subtle compromises embodied in it, the Anglican Church has been prone to schism. “High Church” Anglicans have stressed its Catholic inheritance; followers of the “low” Church have insisted on its Protestantism. Two charismatic High Anglican priests – John Henry Newman and Henry Edward Manning – converted to Catholicism and ended as cardinals.

Yet these schisms did not affect the laity or diminish the Church’s role in English life. From the end of the English civil wars in 1660 to the late 19th century, England was ruled by the Anglican landed class, the most relaxed and confident governing class in Europe. A bien-pensant, easygoing and undogmatic latitudinarianism shaped relations between church and state. Doctrinal precision was tiresome, even a little vulgar. Wherever possible, differences were fudged: the very Thirty-Nine Articles of the Anglican Church are a fudge. There were exceptions. Gladstone’s restless, sometimes tormented religiosity and baffling combination of high ideals with low cunning could hardly have been less easygoing. And as the 19th century wore on, Protestant dissenters, Catholics and even Jews and unbelievers were slowly incorporated into the political nation. Joseph Chamberlain, who did more to make the political weather than any other leader in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and contrived to split both the Liberal and the Conservative parties, was a Unitarian, contemptuous of fudge.

However, the style and mood of English governance were still quintessentially Anglican. Fudge prevailed. Trollope’s political novels are a hymn to fudging. Disraeli, ethnically Jewish, though baptised into the Church of England, was a fudger to his fingertips. In his low-cunning moods, even Gladstone was not above fudging. After the Act of Union between England and Scotland in 1707 the monarchy itself rested on a mountain of fudge: the monarch was an Anglican in England, but a Presbyterian in Scotland. The English and Scottish parliaments were merged into a British parliament, but because England was far more populous and far richer than Scotland, it was the English parliament writ large, and embodied English constitutional doctrine. Equally, the Scots became junior partners in a new British empire, ultimately controlled by the Anglican elite. It won the race for empire against France, but the stiff-necked, pernickety legalism of successive London governments drove its colonies on the seaboard of what is now the United States into revolt and eventual independence.

The Anglican elite learned their lesson. Thereafter, imperial governance was English governance writ large. From an early stage the colonies of settlement, later known as the “white dominions”, were, in effect, self-governing. At first sight, India, “the brightest jewel in the British crown”, was an exception. It was acquired by force and maintained, in the last resort, by force. The Great Rebellion of 1857, once known as the Indian Mutiny, was brutally suppressed. In the Amritsar Massacre of 1919, Brigadier General Dyer ordered his troops to fire on an unarmed and peaceful crowd; they went on firing until their ammunition was exhausted. But the most astonishing feature of the British Raj is that a tiny sliver of British soldiers and administrators somehow managed to govern a subcontinent populated by roughly 250 million subjects. Force alone could not have done this. The Raj depended on indirect rule, on adroit accommodation to local pressures. It would not have survived without the collaboration of Indian elites, and the price of collaboration was a willingness to temper the wind of imperial power to the shorn lamb of Indian hopes and fears.

***

 

The Anglo-British story echoed the Indian story. The political, administrative and financial elites in Westminster, Whitehall and the City of London viewed the kingdom they presided over through an Indian lens. British subjects in the mother country were treated like Indian subjects in the Raj. Force lurked in the background, but most of the time it stayed in the background. The Peterloo Massacre of 1819, in which mounted cavalry charged into a crowd of as many as 80,000 people demonstrating for greater parliamentary representation at St Peter’s Field in Manchester, was a paler precursor of the Amritsar Massacre; the Rhondda township of Tonypandy, where hussars helped crush a “riot” by striking miners in 1910, lived on in the folk memory of the labour movement for decades. Yet these were exceptions, just as Amritsar was an exception.

Co-option, accommodation and collaboration between the governing elites and lesser elites beyond them were the real hallmarks of British governance. The French saying that there is more in common between two deputies, one of whom is a communist, than there is between two communists, one of whom is a deputy, also applied to Britain. In the cosy Westminster village, insurgent tribunes of the people, from the popular radical John Bright to the fulminating socialist Michael Foot, slowly morphed into grand and harmless old men. Outside the village, subjects were inescapably subjects, not citizens, just as their Indian counterparts were. Sovereignty, absolute and inalienable, belonged to the Crown-in-Parliament, not to the people. And the whole edifice was held together by layer upon layer of fudge.

Now the fudge is beginning to dissolve. The Raj disappeared long ago. The fate of steelworkers in South Wales depends on decisions by an Indian multinational whose headquarters are in Mumbai. The empire on which the sun never set is barely a memory. Unlike her great-great-grandmother Queen Victoria, the present Queen is not an empress; she has to make do with leading the Commonwealth. In law, the Crown-in-Parliament remains absolutely sovereign and the peoples of the United Kingdom are still subjects, not citizens. But legal principles and political realities diverge. The Anglo-British state whose capital is London and whose parliament stands on the fringes of the Thames is no longer the sole institution that shapes and reflects the political will of the people over whom it presides. There are now four capital cities, four legislatures, four governments and four political systems in the United Kingdom.

The devolved administrations in the non-English nations of the kingdom control swaths of public policy. The parties that lead them vary enormously in ideology and history. The Scottish National Party, which has governed Scotland for nearly nine years, stands for an independent Scotland. In Wales, Labour has been the strongest party since devolution, but it and Plaid Cymru (the “Party of Wales”) have already formed one coalition and may well form another after the elections to the Welsh Assembly next month. No great changes are likely. Almost certainly Wales will continue to be a social-democratic candle in a naughty world. Since the Belfast Agreement, Northern Ireland has been governed by a power-sharing executive, representing both the republican tradition, embodied in Sinn Fein, and the loyalist tradition, embodied in the Democratic Unionist Party. The sovereign Westminster parliament has the legal right to repeal the devolution statutes, but doing so would amount to a revolution in our uncodified constitution and would destroy the Union.

England is a stranger at the feast. It towers above the others in wealth, in population and in political clout. It has almost 84 per cent of the UK population. Scotland has just under 8.5 per cent, Wales just under 5 per cent and Northern Ireland less than 3 per cent. Yet there is no English parliament or government. In times past, English people have often treated the words “English” and “British” as synonyms, but devolution to Scottish, Welsh and Northern Irish legislatures and administrations has made a nonsense of this lazy conflation.

***

England and the English now face the primordial questions that face all self-conscious political communities: “Who are we?”, “Who do we want to be?” At bottom, these questions are philosophical, in a profound sense moral, not economic or institutional. They have to do with the intangibles of culture and sentiment, not the outward forms that clothe them. In stable and settled political communities they are rarely discussed. They don’t need to be. But the political community that is England is neither stable nor settled. Fuelled in part by resentment of the alleged unfairness of the devolution process and in part by the psychic wound left by the end of the Anglo-British empire, an inchoate, grouchy English nationalism is now a force to be reckoned with. St George’s flags flying on 23 April; the extraordinary rise of Ukip; David Cameron’s panic-stricken attempt to “renegotiate” Britain’s role in the European Union – all tell the same story: the “secret people of England”, as G K Chesterton called them, are secret no longer.

But that is not an answer to my questions. It only shows that they are urgent. At the moment, two answers hold the field. The first – the answer embodied in the Cameron government’s “Project Fear” over the UK’s membership of the EU – is essentially deracinated. For the globetrotting super-rich, the financial services sector, the Bank of England and the managers of the Union state, England consists of London and the more salubrious parts of the south-east. The answer to the English Question is that there is no such question. The notion that the English have to decide who they are and who they want to be is a backward-looking fantasy. Globalisation has overwhelmed the specificities of English culture and experience. The English buy and sell in the global marketplace and they face global threats. Membership of an EU made safe for market fundamentalism offers the best available route to security and prosperity in an ever more globalised world.

The second answer – the answer implicit in Eurosceptic rhetoric – is romantically ­archaic. At its heart is a vision of England as a sea-girt and providential nation, cut off from the European mainland by a thousand years of history and a unique constitutional arrangement. It harks back to Shakespeare’s hymn to England as a “jewel set in the silver sea”; to Henry Newbolt’s poem “Drake’s Drum”, evoking the memory of gallant English mariners driving the top-heavy galleons of the Spanish Armada up the Channel to their doom; and to Nelson dying gloriously at Trafalgar at the climax of his greatest victory. It fortified Margaret Thatcher during the nail-biting weeks of the Falklands War; it inspired Enoch Powell’s passionate depiction of post-imperial England as the reincarnation of the England of Edward the Confessor: an England whose unity was “effortless and unconstrained” and which accepted the “unlimited supremacy of Crown-in-Parliament so naturally as not to be aware of it”. As Powell saw more clearly than anyone else, this vision rules out EU membership.

No one with progressive instincts can possibly be satisfied with either of these answers. The great question is whether there is a better one. I think there is, but I can’t pretend that it is easy or comfortable. It is republican in spirit – which does not entail getting rid of the monarchy, as the many Continental monarchies show. It embodies a tradition stretching back to England’s brief but inspiring republican experiment during the civil wars of the 17th century, and before that to Renaissance Italy and Republican Rome. Central to it is the notion of “neo-Roman liberty”: of liberty as freedom from domination, from dependence on another’s will. John Milton was its most eloquent English exponent, in prose and verse, but it also inspired Tom Paine’s contempt for hereditary rule and the “foppery” that went with it. In the 20th century its most engaging champion was R H Tawney, the ethical socialist, economic historian and foe of the “religion of inequality”, its “great God Mumbo-Jumbo” and the “servile respect for wealth and social position” it inculcated.

The goal is clear: a republican England in a republican Britain and a republican Britain in a republican Europe. The obstacles are formidable. As the founders of the American republic discovered, republican liberty entails federal union, combining diversity at the base with unity at the centre; and for that there are few takers. But Gramsci was right. Pessimism of the intellect should go hand in hand with optimism of the will. There is all too much pessimism of the intellect on the British left. It is time for some optimism of the will.

David Marquand’s most recent book is “Mammon’s Kingdom: an Essay on Britain, Now” (Allen Lane)

This article first appeared in the 08 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Tories at war