Middle England. They’re nicer than you think

Middle Englanders are insular, selfish and intolerant. Not so, argues Richard Reeves. Plus Stephen A

It is a place inhabited by "ordinary people with suburban dreams who worked hard to improve their homes and their lives; to get gradually better cars, washing machines and televisions; to go on holiday in Spain rather than Bournemouth", in the words of the new Labour strategist Philip Gould. It is where homes are anxiously owned, families are raised and crime is feared. The Daily Mail lies on the doorsteps. It is where contemporary British elections are won and lost. And it casts a powerful spell over marketeers, pollsters, journalists and - above all - politicians. It is, of course, "Middle England".

When Gordon Brown praises "hard-working families" or when David Cameron takes the axe to inheritance tax, they are assumed by headline-writers to have their eyes trained on this semi-mythical land. It represents, we are supposed to assume, the very heartland of the nation. As such, it acts as a kind of political bull's-eye: if parties can aim their policies directly at Middle England, the electoral match will be theirs.

Middle England is also frequently assumed to be insular, selfish, xeno phobic, homophobic, anti-welfare, anti-Europe and generally resentful. It is the place where Thatcher's children moved to when they grew up. But if Middle England means anything at all, then its inhabitants are in fact more numerous, more diverse and considerably more liberal than the stereotype. Middle England reads the Mail, but does not agree with it.

Ian Hislop, researching his BBC radio series Looking for Middle England, found Lord Salisbury using the term in 1882, but it did not seem to have caught on. The historian David Cannadine records in his Class in Britain that it was Mrs T herself who introduced the term into the modern political lexicon - apparently copying Richard Nixon's conjuring of "Middle America". Politically, Middle England denotes a set of voters, presumed to have mainstream attitudes, who are also disproportionately likely to be swing voters in marginal constituencies. Martin Jacques has complained that Middle England is a "metaphor for respectability, the nuclear family, conservatism, whiteness, middle age and the status quo".

One of the fears of liberal-left commentators, who unfailingly use the term disparagingly, is that national politics is being driven by the neuroses of an insular, unrepresentative group of a few hundred thousand people. It is certainly true that those in Brown's team are obsessively interested in the views of this group, and that Lord Ashcroft is pouring money into winning their votes, but they are not political freaks. Their views may not be those of New Statesman readers - but they are roughly representative of the nation. They voted Tory until 1997 and have voted Labour since, though with misgivings in 2005. They are non-graduate families in which both Dad and Mum work to pay the mortgage. They read the tabloids but get their news from television, and are utterly uninterested in party politics. They water their neighbours' plants when they are on holiday and keep an eye on the old lady over the road. The only manner in which they differ significantly from the norm is their unusually high, and largely irrational, fear of crime.

Ben Page, managing director of the MORI Social Research Institute, says that the label Middle England is used as "a convenient shorthand for the 25 per cent of the population who are not surgically wedded to one of the main parties - and who happen to live in marginal constituencies". For this group, party commitment is weak and the impression made by an individual leader is strong. Policies are generally weakly linked with voting intention - unless they push the right buttons.

The Conservative pincer movement to lower both stamp duty and inheritance tax played beautifully with them because of their powerful relationship with property: they are the first in their family to own a home, and fear that they will be the last. The rise in house prices threatens to price their children out of the market. This is also the group with the darkest memories of Black Wednesday, negative equity and repossessions. Even if they were not personally affected, they know somebody who was. It is true that inheritance tax is extremely unlikely to affect them - but it also offends one of their strongest instincts, which is to see their kids right.

Geographically, Middle England means suburbs - in the south and the Midlands. There are moments when "Middle Britain" is preferred by Labour politicians, but Scotland and Wales do not feature in any of the social, spatial or psepho logical categories that command the attention of the political classes. Middle England is Metroland - the areas traversed by the Metropolitan Line: Pinner, Ruislip, Hillingdon - writ large across the English nation. It is Essex Man, or Worcester Woman, but never Merthyr Man or Galloway Girl.

In terms of social status, Middle Englanders are what pollsters and marketing analysts call C1s and C2s, otherwise the lower middle class and skilled working class, though analysts at the purer end of the market don't like such labels. "Categorisations always carry the danger of being misleading," says Miranda Phillips from the National Centre for Social Research. "Middle England is a phrase used in the press and politics, rather than in social research. On balance, I think Middle England is likely to be a misleading categorisation. It is simply not that straightforward."

The university effect

It certainly is not. Class, status and attitudes relate to each other in complex and changing ways and there are many dangers in our apparently insatiable desire to put ourselves - and especially other people - into tidy boxes. Nonetheless, certain key trends are fairly clear. More people are middle class, and more people think of themselves that way; the relationship between social class and both political identification and social attitudes is weakening; and - most interesting of all - the group that can plausibly be defined as being in the "middle" is both more liberal than the stereotype suggests, and becoming more so with each passing year.

Forty per cent of the population now define themselves as "middle class", up from 30 per cent four decades ago. The final numerical triumph of the bourgeoisie is at hand: as Professor Anthony Heath has written: "In 1964, for every person who called themselves middle-class, there were 2.1 who said they were working-class. Now that ratio is just 1:1.5." Even John Prescott is middle-class now, remember. As the number of unskilled labourers has diminished, the proportion of the adult population classified as C1 or C2 or equivalent has reached 22 per cent, up from 18 per cent in 1983 - a significant expansion in socioeconomic terms.

Profound shifts are taking place in attitudes, too. The lazy stereotype is that Middle Englanders lack the lofty liberalism of their AB cousins, but the evidence often suggests otherwise. In a Populus survey this year, for example, 42 per cent of respondents in social classes AB agreed that "children brought up by a single parent are more likely to get into trouble than children brought up by married parents", compared to 37 per cent of C1s and 28 per cent of C2s.

Over time, Middle Englanders have become more tolerant and open-minded. According to data prepared by the National Centre for Social Research, the pro p ortions of C1s and C2s who think that "sexual relations between two adults of the same sex" are "always wrong" are 23 and 30 per cent, respectively - down from 38 and 56 per cent in 1983. The current figure among those from social class A is 17 per cent.

Widening access to higher education has played a part: one of the best predictors of socially liberal attitudes is level of edu cation. Universities have been opened to the masses, to the dismay of über-conservative commentators such as Digby Anderson, who asks in his pamphlet All Oiks Now: the Un noticed Surrender of Middle England: "In what ways do the middle-class students differ from the others? They certainly look the same. It is difficult to tell the daughter of a doctor from the daughter of an unemployed miner, indeed sometimes from the son of an unemployed miner." His Middle England, it should be noted, is entirely upper-middle-class.

In the 1960s, a fierce academic debate raged over the "em bourgeoisement thesis" - which stated that, as the working class became more affluent, they would detach from their proletarian peers, lose class consciousness and adopt the attitudes and values of the middle class, in particular with regard to party and trade union loyalty. (Anderson fears that the opposite process - de-embourgeoisement, perhaps? - is the actual result.) The famous sociologist John Goldthorpe, in his masterpiece The Affluent Worker, showed that, in terms of social networks, even well-off workers remained true to their roots, but that their political opinions did begin to alter. In particular, their support for the Labour Party became contingent, rather than given. In some ways, the politics of the rest of the century flow from this fact, and Labour's long failure to grasp it. Where it is clear that embourgeoisement does apply is in social attitudes; affluence has brought toleration in its wake.

Muddle England

One reason why commentators miss the rising liberalism of Middle England is that they make the mistake of looking at what they read, and assuming they agree with it. It is true that Daily Mail readers are more likely to vote Conservative - but to a lesser extent than Mirror readers are more likely to vote Labour. And while it is also true that 46 per cent of Mail readers think that immigration is one of the most important issues facing the country, 44 per cent of Financial Times readers do, too. On many social issues, the readers of the Middle England tabloids are more liberal than the population at large, especially the younger ones. The views of Mail readers are not facsimiles of the paper's editorials. There is no clone army of Paul Dacres roaming the suburbs.

What is stalking the land is anxiety and fear, especially about money. Middle Englanders are under huge financial pressure. Wages in the middle-income range have ticked up painfully slowly over the past decade - which may be one reason why Middle England supports moves to hit the unearned wealth of private equity barons and the untethered wealth of the "non-doms": again, a truth the Tories divined before phobic Labour ministers. Their concerns about immigration are primarily economic, rather than straightforwardly "racist".

The fears of Middle England are not always consistent, or rational. Ben Page has decided that the public is suffering from "cognitive polyphasia", a diagnosis that means "people are holding lots of conflicting ideas": more muddle England than Middle England. The majority think immigration is a big problem, but only a small minority say it is a problem affecting them. Middle England, he says, is also "a bit Pooterish - a bit Margo from The Good Life; they are conservative but with a small 'c'". They may well be fiscally conservative, but they are mostly socially liberal. Their high fear of crime may stem from their position as the first middle-class members of their family: now they have something to lose.

As with all sociopolitical categories, the edges of Middle England become more blurred as you approach them, the inhabitants as hard to pin down as those of Middle Earth. Middle Englanders certainly do not recognise the "long shadows" falling across county cricket grounds and the "old maids bicycling to Holy Communion" evoked by John Major; but nor did they make much of the tortured attempts of early new Labour to conjure a "Cool Britannia".

Middle England is sceptical of party politics, yes. Fearful about crime and immigration, certainly. Instinctively desiring to hold on to its own money rather than give it to the Treasury, you bet. Much of which is because Middle England is a more precarious place than the lands above, where professionals and the rich can insulate themselves against risk, and below, where there is less to be lost in any case. But Middle England is not nasty. Indeed, it is a broad-minded kind of place. And to the extent that it really is the soul of the nation, this can only be cause for celebration. For the liberalisation of Middle England might represent the final triumph of liberalism itself.

Illustration by A Richard Allen

This article first appeared in the 29 October 2007 issue of the New Statesman, Pakistan

Show Hide image

The age of loneliness

Profound changes in technology, work and community are transforming our ultrasocial species into a population of loners.

Our dominant ideology is based on a lie. A series of lies, in fact, but I’ll focus on just one. This is the claim that we are, above all else, self-interested – that we seek to enhance our own wealth and power with little regard for the impact on others.

Some economists use a term to describe this presumed state of being – Homo economicus, or self-maximising man. The concept was formulated, by J S Mill and others, as a thought experiment. Soon it became a modelling tool. Then it became an ideal. Then it evolved into a description of who we really are.

It could not be further from the truth. To study human behaviour is to become aware of how weird we are. Many species will go to great lengths to help and protect their close kin. One or two will show occasional altruism towards unrelated members of their kind. But no species possesses a capacity for general altruism that is anywhere close to our own.

With the possible exception of naked mole-rats, we have the most social minds of all mammals. These minds evolved as an essential means of survival. Slow, weak, armed with rounded teeth and flimsy nails in a world of fangs and claws and horns and tusks, we survived through co-operation, reciprocity and mutual defence, all of which developed to a remarkable degree.

A review paper in the journal Frontiers in Psychology observes that Homo economicus  might be a reasonable description of chimpanzees. “Outsiders . . . would not expect to receive offers of food or solicitude; rather, they would be fiercely attacked . . . food is shared only under harassment; even mothers will not voluntarily offer novel foods to their own infants unless the infants beg for them.” But it is an unreasonable description of human beings.

How many of your friends, colleagues and neighbours behave like chimpanzees? A few, perhaps. If so, are they respected or reviled? Some people do appear to act as if they have no interests but their own – Philip Green and Mike Ashley strike me as possible examples – but their behaviour ­attracts general revulsion. The news is filled with spectacular instances of human viciousness: although psychopaths are rare, their deeds fill the papers. Daily acts of kindness are seldom reported, because they are everywhere.

Every day, I see people helping others with luggage, offering to cede their place in a queue, giving money to the homeless, setting aside time for others, volunteering for causes that offer no material reward. Alongside these quotidian instances are extreme and stunning cases. I think of my Dutch mother-in-law, whose family took in a six-year-old Jewish boy – a stranger – and hid him in their house for two years during the German occupation of the Netherlands. Had he been discovered, they would all have been sent to a concentration camp.

Studies suggest that altruistic tendencies are innate: from the age of 14 months, children try to help each other, attempting to hand over objects another child can’t reach. At the age of two, they start to share valued possessions. By the time they are three, they begin to protest against other people’s violation of moral norms.

Perhaps because we are told by the media, think tanks and politicians that competition and self-interest are the defining norms of human life, we disastrously mischaracterise the way in which other people behave. A survey commissioned by the Common Cause Foundation reported that 78 per cent of respondents believe others to be more selfish than they really are.

I do not wish to suggest that this mythology of selfishness is the sole or even principal cause of the epidemic of loneliness now sweeping the world. But it is likely to contribute to the plague by breeding suspicion and a sense of threat. It also appears to provide a doctrine of justification for those afflicted by isolation, a doctrine that sees individualism as a higher state of existence than community. Perhaps it is hardly surprising that Britain, the European nation in which neoliberalism is most advanced, is, according to government figures, the loneliness capital of Europe.

There are several possible reasons for the atomisation now suffered by the supremely social mammal. Work, which used to bring us together, now disperses us: many people have neither fixed workplaces nor regular colleagues and regular hours. Our leisure time has undergone a similar transformation: cinema replaced by television, sport by computer games, time with friends by time on Facebook.

Social media seems to cut both ways: it brings us together and sets us apart. It helps us to stay in touch, but also cultivates a tendency that surely enhances other people’s sense of isolation: a determination to persuade your followers that you’re having a great time. FOMO – fear of missing out – seems, at least in my mind, to be closely ­associated with loneliness.

Children’s lives in particular have been transformed: since the 1970s, their unaccompanied home range (in other words, the area they roam without adult supervision) has declined in Britain by almost 90 per cent. Not only does this remove them from contact with the natural world, but it limits their contact with other children. When kids played out on the street or in the woods, they quickly formed their own tribes, learning the social skills that would see them through life.

An ageing population, family and community breakdown, the decline of institutions such as churches and trade unions, the switch from public transport to private, inequality, an alienating ethic of consumerism, the loss of common purpose: all these are likely to contribute to one of the most dangerous epidemics of our time.

Yes, I do mean dangerous. The stress response triggered by loneliness raises blood pressure and impairs the immune system. Loneliness enhances the risk of depression, paranoia, addiction, cognitive decline, dem­entia, heart disease, stroke, viral infection, accidents and suicide. It is as potent a cause of early death as smoking 15 cigarettes a day, and can be twice as deadly as obesity.

Perhaps because we are in thrall to the ideology that helps to cause the problem, we turn to the market to try to solve it. Over the past few weeks, the discovery of a new American profession, the people-walker (taking human beings for walks), has caused a small sensation in the media. In Japan there is a fully fledged market for friendship: you can hire friends by the hour with whom to chat and eat and watch TV; or, more disturbingly, to pose for pictures that you can post on social media. They are rented as mourners at funerals and guests at weddings. A recent article describes how a fake friend was used to replace a sister with whom the bride had fallen out. What would the bride’s mother make of it? No problem: she had been rented, too. In September we learned that similar customs have been followed in Britain for some time: an early foray into business for the Home Secretary, Amber Rudd, involved offering to lease her posh friends to underpopulated weddings.



My own experience fits the current pattern: the high incidence of loneliness suffered by people between the ages of 18 and 34. I have sometimes been lonely before and after that period, but it was during those years that I was most afflicted. The worst episode struck when I returned to Britain after six years working in West Papua, Brazil and East Africa. In those parts I sometimes felt like a ghost, drifting through societies to which I did not belong. I was often socially isolated, but I seldom felt lonely, perhaps because the issues I was investigating were so absorbing and the work so frightening that I was swept along by adrenalin and a sense of purpose.

When I came home, however, I fell into a mineshaft. My university friends, with their proper jobs, expensive mortgages and settled, prematurely aged lives, had become incomprehensible to me, and the life I had been leading seemed incomprehensible to everyone. Though feeling like a ghost abroad was in some ways liberating – a psychic decluttering that permitted an intense process of discovery – feeling like a ghost at home was terrifying. I existed, people acknowledged me, greeted me cordially, but I just could not connect. Wherever I went, I heard my own voice bouncing back at me.

Eventually I made new friends. But I still feel scarred by that time, and fearful that such desolation may recur, particularly in old age. These days, my loneliest moments come immediately after I’ve given a talk, when I’m surrounded by people congratulating me or asking questions. I often experience a falling sensation: their voices seem to recede above my head. I think it arises from the nature of the contact: because I can’t speak to anyone for more than a few seconds, it feels like social media brought to life.

The word “sullen” evolved from the Old French solain, which means “lonely”. Loneliness is associated with an enhanced perception of social threat, so one of its paradoxical consequences is a tendency to shut yourself off from strangers. When I was lonely, I felt like lashing out at the society from which I perceived myself excluded, as if the problem lay with other people. To read any comment thread is, I feel, to witness this tendency: you find people who are plainly making efforts to connect, but who do so by insulting and abusing, alienating the rest of the thread with their evident misanthropy. Perhaps some people really are rugged individualists. But others – especially online – appear to use that persona as a rationale for involuntary isolation.

Whatever the reasons might be, it is as if a spell had been cast on us, transforming this ultrasocial species into a population of loners. Like a parasite enhancing the conditions for its own survival, loneliness impedes its own cure by breeding shame and shyness. The work of groups such as Age UK, Mind, Positive Ageing and the Campaign to End Loneliness is life-saving.

When I first wrote about this subject, and the article went viral, several publishers urged me to write a book on the theme. Three years sitting at my desk, studying isolation: what’s the second prize? But I found another way of working on the issue, a way that engages me with others, rather than removing me. With the brilliant musician Ewan McLennan, I have written a concept album (I wrote the first draft of the lyrics; he refined them and wrote the music). Our aim is to use it to help break the spell, with performances of both music and the spoken word designed to bring people together –which, we hope, will end with a party at the nearest pub.

By itself, our work can make only a tiny contribution to addressing the epidemic. But I hope that, both by helping people to acknowledge it and by using the power of music to create common sentiment, we can at least begin to identify the barriers that separate us from others, and to remember that we are not the selfish, ruthless beings we are told we are.

“Breaking the Spell of Loneliness” by Ewan McLennan and George Monbiot is out now. For a full list of forthcoming gigs visit: monbiot.com/music/

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