Labour will want to keep its Trident options open

A half-hearted commitment to renewal would make an easy concession to Lib Dems in future coailtion talks.

As with so many policies, Labour’s official position on whether or not it is worth funding a like-for-like replacement for the Trident submarine-based nuclear missile system is under review. More specifically, the view is that the party supports Britain having a nuclear deterrent. (Of course it does. The party isn’t about to revisit early 80s-style unilateral disarmament.) But the question of whether or not that requires having big Cold War-design submarines lurking in the seas ready to retaliate against the Soviets remains undecided.

So it is naturally a matter of interest when Des Browne, a former Labour defence secretary, co-authors an article in the Telegraph suggesting Trident may have had its day; not least because he championed the opposite view in government.

At the moment, on the government side, the matter is also subject to a review, headed by Danny Alexander, the Liberal Democrat Chief Secretary to the Treasury. The very existence of that process is held up by Lib Dems as a mini-policy triumph, effectively thwarting the Tories’ hopes of prompt Trident renewal in this parliament. Scrapping the system is one of those totem Lib Dem policies in which activists take an especially vigorous interest even if the public is largely uninterested.

Labour, meanwhile, are ambivalent. There is still a whiff of CND around the party, but there is also a residual fear from the macho New Labour era of looking like a bunch of weak-kneed lefty pacifists. The Browne position is eminently reasonable: if there is a workable, cheaper alternative that retains some nuclear deterrent capacity, it would be perverse for a cash-strapped government not to take it.

That isn’t to say Labour is ready to adopt such a position. But it is worth noting that a final decision isn’t due before 2016 and it certainly won’t be taken this side of an election. That leaves Labour with the option of a manifesto pledge keeping all Trident options open. It probably hasn’t escaped the leadership’s notice that a vague, half-hearted commitment to Trident would also make an easy concession in the event of coalition negotiations with the Lib Dems in a hung parliament – a concession the Tories could not make.

A Trident submarine makes its way out from Faslane Naval base in Scotland. Photograph: Getty Images.

Rafael Behr is political columnist at the Guardian and former political editor of the New Statesman

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She knew every trick to get a home visit – but this time I had come prepared

 Having been conned into another couple of fruitless house calls, I now parry the proffered symptoms and generally get to the heart of the matter on the phone.

I first came across Verenice a couple of years ago when I was on duty at the out-of-hours service.

“I’m a diabetic,” she told me, “and I’m feeling really poorly.” She detailed a litany of symptoms. I said I’d be round straight away.

What sounded worrying on the phone proved very different in Verenice’s smoke-fugged sitting room. She was comfortable and chatty, she had no fever or sign of illness, and her blood sugar was well controlled. In fact, she looked remarkably well. As I tried to draw the visit to a close, she began to regale me with complaints about her own GP: how he neglected her needs, dismissed her symptoms, refused to take her calls.

It sounded unlikely, but I listened sympathetically and with an open mind. Bit by bit, other professionals were brought into the frame: persecutory social workers, vindictive housing officers, corrupt policemen, and a particularly odious psychiatrist who’d had her locked up in hospital for months and had recently discharged her to live in this new, hateful bungalow.

By the time she had told me about her sit-in at the local newspaper’s offices – to try to force reporters to cover her story – and described her attempts to get arrested so that she could go to court and tell a judge about the whole saga, it was clear Verenice wasn’t interacting with the world in quite the same way as the rest of us.

It’s a delicate path to tread, extricating oneself from such a situation. The mental health issues could safely be left to her usual daytime team to follow up, so my task was to get out of the door without further inflaming the perceptions of neglect and maltreatment. It didn’t go too well to start with. Her voice got louder and louder: was I, too, going to do nothing to help? Couldn’t I see she was really ill? I’d be sorry when she didn’t wake up the next morning.

What worked fantastically was asking her what she actually wanted me to do. Her first stab – to get her rehoused to her old area as an emergency that evening – was so beyond the plausible that even she seemed able to accept my protestations of impotence. When I asked her again, suddenly all the heat went out of her voice. She said she didn’t think she had any food; could I get her something to eat? A swift check revealed a fridge and cupboards stocked with the basics. I gave her some menu suggestions, but drew the line at preparing the meal myself. By then, she seemed meekly willing to allow me to go.

We’ve had many out-of-hours conversations since. For all her strangeness, she is wily, and knows the medical gambits to play in order to trigger a home visit. Having been conned into another couple of fruitless house calls, I now parry the proffered symptoms and generally get to the heart of the matter on the phone. It usually revolves around food. Could I bring some bread and milk? She’s got no phone credit left; could I call the Chinese and order her a home delivery?

She came up on the screen again recently. I rang, and she spoke of excruciating ear pain, discharge and fever. I sighed, accepting defeat: with that story I’d no choice but to go round. Acting on an inkling, though, I popped to the drug cupboard first.

Predictably enough, when I arrived at Verenice’s I found her smiling away and puffing on a Benson, with a normal temperature, pristine ears and perfect blood glucose.

“Well,” I said, “whatever’s causing your ear to hurt is a medical mystery. Take some paracetamol and I’m sure it’ll be fine in the morning.”

There was a flash of triumph in her eyes. “Ah, but doctor, I haven’t got any. Could you –”

Before she could finish, I produced a pack of paracetamol from my pocket and dropped it on her lap. She looked at me with surprise and admiration. She may have suckered me round again, but I’d managed to second-guess her. I was back out of the door in under five minutes. A score-draw. 

Phil Whitaker is a GP and an award-winning author. His fifth novel, “Sister Sebastian’s Library”, will be published by Salt in September

This article first appeared in the 23 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain