Eastleigh is now even more of a must-win for the Tories

The Huhne and Rennard scandals mean defeat will be portrayed as a humiliating set-back for Cameron.

Last week the Tories were increasingly resigned to defeat in the Eastleigh by-election but the Rennard allegations, combined with a poll (conducted before the story broke) putting them four points ahead of the Lib Dems, have given the party renewed hope of winning the seat. The odds on a Lib Dem victory have lengthened, while those on a Conservative victory have narrowed. 

My sense, however, is that the Rennard story, like the Huhne scandal, will have little effect on the outcome. As one Lib Dem tells the Times today, "If Chris Huhne lying isn’t going to derail us then a peer that very few people have heard of is not going to harm us". Nick Clegg was almost certainly right when he suggested this morning that local issues such as planning would continue to dominate. 

But this doesn't alter the fact that Eastleigh is now even more of a must-win seat for the Tories. The Huhne and Rennard scandals, notwithstanding their limited influence on voters, give the press every excuse they need to portray any defeat as a humiliating set-back for Cameron. In such circumstances, the only consolation for the Tories will be that Labour, which is set to finish in fourth place behind UKIP, will face some tough questions of its own.

No one ever expected Labour, which polled just nine per cent in Eastleigh at the general election, to win the seat. The swing required would put the party on course for a majority of 362. But as the only large opposition party, not least one which claims to be a "one nation" force, it should be performing much better midway through the parliament. 

David Cameron sits alongside Conservative Eastleigh by-election candidate Maria Hutchings during a Q&A session with workers in the constituency. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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I dined behind the Houses of Parliament in my sexually connected foursome

My wife and I would sometimes dine out with another couple. We did not always check the significance of the date. 

I am self-employed and find that working from home, setting your own schedule, the days generally blur into each other, with weekends holding no significance, and public holidays, when those who are employed in factories, offices or shops get time off, meaning nothing. I am often surprised to go out and find the streets empty of traffic because it is some national day of observance, such as Christmas, that I wasn’t aware of. I find myself puzzled as to why the shops are suddenly full of Easter eggs or pancake batter.

Growing up in a Communist household, we had a distinct dislike for this kind of manufactured marketing opportunity anyway. I remember the time my mother tried to make me feel guilty because I’d done nothing for her on Mother’s Day and I pointed out that it was she who had told me that Mother’s Day was a cynical creation of the greetings card monopolies and the floral industrial complex.

Valentine’s Day is one of those I never see coming. It’s the one day of the year when even the worst restaurants are completely booked out by couples attempting to enjoy a romantic evening. Even those old-fashioned cafés you’ll find still lurking behind railway stations and serving spaghetti with bread and butter will tell you there’s a waiting list if you leave it late to reserve a table.

In the late 1980s my wife and I would sometimes dine out with another couple, he a writer and she a TV producer. One particular place we liked was a restaurant attached to a 1930s block of flats, near the Houses of Parliament, where the endless corridors were lined with blank doors, behind which you sensed awful things happened. The steel dining room dotted with potted palm trees overlooked a swimming pool, and this seemed terribly sophisticated to us even if it meant all your overpriced food had a vague taste of chlorine.

The four of us booked to eat there on 14 February, not realising the significance of the date. We found at every other table there was a single couple, either staring adoringly into each other’s eyes or squabbling.

As we sat down I noticed we were getting strange looks from our fellow diners. Some were sort of knowing, prompting smiles and winks; others seemed more outraged. The staff, too, were either simpering or frosty. After a while we realised what was going on: it was Valentine’s Day! All the other customers had assumed that we were a sexually connected foursome who had decided to celebrate our innovative relationship by having dinner together on this special date.

For the four of us, the smirking attention set up a strange dynamic: after that night it always felt like we were saying something seedy to each other. “Do you want to get together on Sunday?” I’d say to one of them on the phone, and then find myself blushing. “I’ll see if we can fit it in,” they’d reply, and we would both giggle nervously.

Things became increasingly awkward between us, until in the end we stopped seeing them completely. 

This article first appeared in the 25 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Why Islamic State targets Britain

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