Grant Shapps should give Obama his campaign line back

The Conservative chairman borrows Obama's "don't give them the keys back" line. But it's his party that crashed the car again.

It's well known that most Conservative cabinet ministers supported Barack Obama's re-election and in an interview in today's Independent, Tory chairman Grant Shapps borrows one of the US president's favourite campaign lines.

Shapps tells the paper: "We are in a global race. Britain is on the right track, don't go back. Don't give the keys to the guys who crashed the car in the first place. Do you want to go through all this pain again?"

Obama told a Democratic fundraiser in May 2010: "So after they drove the car into the ditch, made it as difficult as possible for us to pull it back, now they want the keys back.  No! You can’t drive! We don't want to have to go back into the ditch! We just got the car out! We just got the car out!" He used the analogy again at a labour day rally in Milwaukee in September of that year.

It's a good line, but unfortunately for Shapps it's not one the Conservatives have any right to use. While the US economy enjoyed a sustained recovery under Obama (with 13 consecutive quarters of growth), the UK fell into a double-dip recession (and is at risk of a triple-dip). To adapt Obama's analogy, the Tories didn't drive the car out of the ditch; they drove it back in (you could call it a double-ditch recession).

When Labour left office, the economy was recovering, with growth of 0.4 per cent in Q3 of 2009, 0.4 per cent in Q4, 0.6 per cent in Q1 of 2010 and 0.7 per cent in Q2 (see this table for the full data). Since then, it has stagnated. Over the last year, the US economy has grown by 2.3 per cent, while the UK hasn't grown at all. As a result, while the US economy is now 2.3 per cent above its pre-recession peak, the UK remains 3.1 per cent below.

If and when Shapps's party boasts a comparable record, he might be entitled to borrow Obama's line. But until then, he should gracefully return it to its original owner.

Conservative chairman Grant Shapps speaks at the party's conference in Birmingham last year. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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Mister Lizard is not at home to bailiffs – he is eating salmon pâté by the river

Why is it that when people answer the question “What’s the worst thing anyone’s ever said to you?” in the Guardian questionnaire they never say, “You’ve been served”?

Summer’s nearly over. I look at the angle of the sunlight as it strikes the back terrace of the Hovel. I have been here long enough to use the terrace as a gnomon marking the passage of the year. I need, like the protagonists of Withnail and I, to go to the countryside to rejuvenate.

Last week when the Perseids were meant to be in full flow I asked frantically on a social medium for people to chum me along on a midnight walk on Hampstead Heath. In the end my new friends A— and her husband, C—, together with his new friend (whose initial I have forgotten, but he is Australian, if that helps), stepped up to the plate and after a couple at the Flask we went on a wide-ranging tour, which was a bust as far as seeing meteors – or my favourite tree – went, but was still hugely enjoyable. At about 2 am they packed me into an Uber and I went home happy, but I still felt as if I could do with more countryside.

The next few days made me even more anxious to get out of London. There are ominous signs that some serious roadworks are going to be taking place outside my bedroom window any day now. A bailiff came and rang the doorbell and I didn’t have the heart, or the nerve, to say that Nicholas Lezard was not at home at the moment and, is, in fact, on a walking tour of Patagonia now I come to think of it, due back some time next year. I just took the piece of paper into my hands as if it were a chicken come home to roost.

The previous day, presumably the same bailiff had come round and asked if Mr Lizard was in, and my housemate gallantly – and quite truthfully – said “no”. (Why is it that when people answer the question “What’s the worst thing anyone’s ever said to you?” in the Guardian questionnaire they never say, “You’ve been served”? Maybe it’s because they haven’t ever been.) In addition, as I said last week, the cleaning lady is on holiday and the Hovel is starting to look distinctly seedy.

So, then I get a call from a person who once featured quite prominently in this column, some time ago. This person is bored and wants me to go to his or her town and alleviate his or her boredom. This person and I parted company in circumstances that were far from ideal some time ago, and only recently have diplomatic relations been resumed.

It is too late, I say, for me to get on the train now; but when I have reviewed the book I am meant to be reviewing, I will hop on the train tomorrow around noon. And so I do, despite some monkey business from the departures board at King’s Cross, which tells passengers the 12:44 has been cancelled, then hasn’t been, then has, then hasn’t after all, while the 12:14 has slipped away like a thief in the night without telling anyone it was doing so.

I wonder if my return to the town of ——— is wise. As a dog returneth to its vomit, so doth a fool return to his folly. And the burnt hand fears the fire. Look, I say to myself, all we’re doing is going to have a picnic by the river. As we buy our supplies, the stallholder at the market asks if I am my companion’s husband. “No, he’s my picnic buddy,” he or she replies. “Never heard it called that before,” says the stallholder.

And the day passes perfectly pleasantly. We have two bottles of wine, cheese and smoked salmon pâté with crusty bread. People in punts drift past us, with varying degrees of competence. I remember it is A-level results day and call the eldest boy to ask how he’s done. He’s done well enough, it turns out, to get a place at university, though he feels obliged to point out that his results came in exactly a year ago. This is the kind of thing that happens when the number of children you have exceeds your mental bandwidth.

Later on, a porter from the college behind which we are picnicking asks me if I am a member, or an alumni. “Alumnus,” I correct him gently, hoping that this should establish my credentials. He asks for my name, and he radios the porters’ lodge to check my veracity. For some reason it takes him several goes to get my name right.

One of these goes is “Lizard”. We offer him some cheese, but he refuses, on the grounds that he has just had a banana and a cup of tea. I could live in a guest room here, I reflect, at not much higher rent than one pays in London. And the beauty of it is that the police, and presumably bailiffs, have to ask permission to go through the gates. 

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 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser