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.

Show Hide image

For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

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