"We screwed this up" The Lib Dems flail after Clegg's admission

Party president Tim Farron admits the Lib Dems "screwed up" as Clegg insists there is "nothing to hide".

"We screwed this up," Tim Farron bluntly told the Today programme this morning and, as today's front pages suggest, the Lib Dem president isn't wrong about that. For days, the party gave the impression that Nick Clegg knew nothing about the allegations of sexual misconduct against Chris Rennard only for Clegg to return from holiday last night and admit that he was aware of "indirect and non-specific concerns". 

In his own interview on BBC Radio Solent, Clegg, unlike Farron, suggested that the Lib Dems had behaved entirely appropriately. "The problem, as I explained yesterday, is that until last week no specific allegations were put to me, we acted on general concerns, now those general concerns have evolved into specific allegations we can act and we will," said the Deputy PM. Both he and the party had "nothing to hide". 

But the question remains why more wasn't done at the time to investigate the "general concerns" that Clegg now admits he was aware of. When Danny Alexander, Clegg's then chief of staff, confronted Rennard (who denied and still denies any misconduct) in 2008 did he simply take his denials at face value? In addition, those in the party, such as Jo Swinson and Paul Burstow, who were made aware of specific allegations by the women concerned urgently need to account for their actions. 

A further issue is whether Rennard's resignation in 2009 was made on health grounds alone, as Clegg and Alexander insisted in their statements, or whether the "general concerns" about his behaviour also played a role. Simon Hughes notably told Sky News this morning that "If there were other reasons for that [the resignation] they may emerge". Clegg is known to have held a two hour meeting with Rennard on the morning he resigned. Were the rumours of misconduct discussed then?

Danny Alexander and Nick Clegg at last year's Liberal Democrat conference in Brighton. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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For the Ukip press officer I slept with, the European Union was Daddy

My Ukip lover just wanted to kick against authority. I do not know how he would have coped with the reality of Brexit.

I was a journalist for a progressive newspaper.

He was the press officer for the UK Independence Party.

He was smoking a cigarette on the pavement outside the Ukip conference in Bristol.

I sat beside him. It was a scene from a terrible film. 

He wore a tweed Sherlock Holmes coat. The general impression was of a seedy-posh bat who had learned to talk like Shere Khan. He was a construct: a press officer so ridiculous that, by comparison, Ukip supporters seemed almost normal. He could have impersonated the Queen Mother, or a morris dancer, or a British bulldog. It was all bravado and I loved him for that.

He slept in my hotel room, and the next day we held hands in the public gallery while people wearing Union Jack badges ranted about the pound. This was before I learned not to choose men with my neurosis alone. If I was literally embedded in Ukip, I was oblivious, and I was no kinder to the party in print than I would have been had I not slept with its bat-like press officer. How could I be? On the last day of the conference, a young, black, female supporter was introduced to the audience with the words – after a white male had rubbed the skin on her hand – “It doesn’t come off.” Another announcement was: “The Ukip Mondeo is about to be towed away.” I didn’t take these people seriously. He laughed at me for that.

After conference, I moved into his seedy-posh 18th-century house in Totnes, which is the counterculture capital of Devon. It was filled with crystal healers and water diviners. I suspect now that his dedication to Ukip was part of his desire to thwart authority, although this may be my denial about lusting after a Brexiteer who dressed like Sherlock Holmes. But I prefer to believe that, for him, the European Union was Daddy, and this compulsion leaked into his work for Ukip – the nearest form of authority and the smaller Daddy.

He used to telephone someone called Roger from in front of a computer with a screen saver of two naked women kissing, lying about what he had done to promote Ukip. He also told me, a journalist, disgusting stories about Nigel Farage that I cannot publish because they are libellous.

When I complained about the pornographic screen saver and said it was damaging to his small son, he apologised with damp eyes and replaced it with a photo of a topless woman with her hand down her pants.

It was sex, not politics, that broke us. I arrived on Christmas Eve to find a photograph of a woman lying on our bed, on sheets I had bought for him. That was my Christmas present. He died last year and I do not know how he would have coped with the reality of Brexit, of Daddy dying, too – for what would be left to desire?

This article first appeared in the 19 January 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Trump era