Why doesn’t Labour face a UKIP of the left?

The loyalty of the trade unions to Labour, the rebirth of street politics and, in Scotland and Wales, Plaid Cymru and the SNP help explain why the party faces no effective challenge from the left.

Notwithstanding the defection of UKIP MEP Martina Andreason last Saturday, the Tories look set to lose the Eastleigh by-election on Thursday thanks to a surge by Nigel Farage's party.

Now routinely hitting 8-12 per cent in national polls, UKIP’s rise might not be enough to break our three-party system, but it may see them improve on their position in next year’s European elections and perhaps deprive the Tories of an overall majority in 2015 by splitting the centre-right vote as the Cameroon Tory party tacks to the centre; leaving UKIP space to pick up alienated social conservatives with a penchant for small-state solutions and a disavowal of all things European.

But why does this not work on the other side of the political aisle? Why is there no effective leftist challenge eating away at Labour’s core support? On the face of it, it seems anomalous. As Labour moved to the right under Tony Blair from 1994 onwards, enormous amounts of political space opened up on the left.

Arthur Scargill’s Socialist Labour Party, born of the decision to scrap the Clause IV commitment to large-scale nationalisation, was the first to try and fill it back in 1995. Both the Socialist Alliance and George Galloway’s Respect party have also unsuccessfully attempted to occupy Labour’s left flank. Granted, Galloway has now poked Labour in the eye on two memorable occasions; beating pro-Iraq war Blairite Oona King in Bethnal Green and Bow in 2005 and then, last March, winning the Bradford West by-election. But these were aberrations and no wider breakthrough has followed.

There’s a reason for that. Well, actually there are three. The first is organisational. Setting up a political party requires cash – rather a lot of it. Without hefty benefactors, this is an insurmountable problem for left-wing pretenders. The trade unions offer Labour both finance and organisation. Those who see the relationship as solely monetary miss the point. Labour’s affiliated unions supplement the party’s activist base with a reserve army of committed, well-organised and politically-motivated supporters. Without the trade unions, no left-wing alternative to Labour stands a chance.

The second reason is that idealists have simply taken to the streets. From the Stop The War movement through to UK Uncut, new grassroots movements, relying on social media, rather than union funding, are reinventing the left as oppositional mass protest. The compromises of constitutional politics, as Ed Miliband’s Marxist theorist father, Ralph, noted in his book, Parliamentary Socialism, means that many left-wing idealists, who would in previous years have caused problems for Labour’s moderate leadership, are now happy to bypass party politics altogether.

The third reason Labour faces no effective challenge from the left is down to existing choice, at least for voters on the Celtic fringe. Although Labour would never admit it, both Plaid Cymru and the SNP are essentially social democratic parties, offering a viable, centre-left, anti-Tory alternative to wavering Labour voters. The choice for English voters though is essentially one of stick or twist; with twist in this instance being the option of not voting at all.

As UKIP threatens to reshape British politics by taking up permanent residence on the Tories’ right flank, David Cameron can perhaps be forgiven for wishing disgruntled Tories simply stayed at home too.  

Protesters occupy the Fortnum and Mason department store in London on March 26, 2011, during a mass demonstration against government spending cuts. Photograph: Getty Images.

Kevin Meagher is associate editor of Labour Uncut and a former special adviser at the Northern Ireland office. 

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In defence of orientalism, the case against Twenty20, and why Ken should watch Son of Saul

My week, from Age Concern to anti-semitism.

Returning late from a party I never much wanted to go to, I leap up and down in the middle of the Harrow Road in the hope of flagging down a taxi, but the drivers don’t notice me. Either they’re haring down the fast lane or they’re too preoccupied cursing Uber to one another on their mobile phones. My father drove a black cab, so I have a deep loyalty to them. But there’s nothing like being left stranded in NW10 in the dead of night to make one reconsider one’s options. I just wish Uber wasn’t called Uber.

Just not cricket

Tired and irritable, I spend the next day watching sport on television – snooker, darts, cricket, anything I can find. But I won’t be following the Indian Premier League’s Twenty20 cricket again. It’s greedy, cynical, over-sponsored and naff. Whenever somebody hits a boundary, cheerleaders in cast-off gym kit previously worn by fourth-form Roedean girls wave tinsel mops.

Matches go to the final over where they’re decided in a thrashathon of sixes hit by mercenaries wielding bats as wide as shovels. Why, in that case, don’t both teams just play a final over each and dispense with the previous 19? I can’t wait for the elegant ennui of a five-day Test match.

Stop! Culture police!

I go to the Delacroix exhibition at the National Gallery to shake off the sensation of all-consuming kitsch. Immediately I realise I have always confused Delacroix with someone else but I can’t decide who. Maybe Jacques-Louis David. The show convincingly argues that Delacroix influenced every artist who came after him except Jeff Koons, who in that case must have been influenced by David. It’s turbulent, moody work, some of the best of it, again to my surprise, being religious painting with the religion taken out. Christ’s followers lamenting his death don’t appear to be expecting miracles. This is a man they loved, cruelly executed. The colours are the colours of insupportable grief.

I love the show but wish the curators hadn’t felt they must apologise for Delacroix finding the North Africans he painted “exotic”. Cultural studies jargon screams from the wall. You can hear the lecturer inveighing against the “appropriating colonial gaze” – John Berger and Edward Said taking all the fun out of marvelling at what’s foreign and desirable. I find myself wondering where they’d stand on the Roedean cheer-leaders of Mumbai.

Taking leave of the senses

My wife drags me to a play at Age Concern’s headquarters in Bloomsbury. When I see where she’s taking me I wonder if she plans to leave me there. The play is called Don’t Leave Me Now and is written by Brian Daniels. It is, to keep it simple, about the effects of dementia on the families and lovers of sufferers. I am not, in all honesty, expecting a good time. It is a reading only, the actors sitting in a long line like a board of examiners, and the audience hunched forward in the attitude of the professionally caring.  My wife is a therapist so this is her world.

Here, unlike in my study, an educated empathy prevails and no one is furious. I fear that art is going to get lost in good intention. But the play turns out to be subtly powerful, sympathetic and sharp, sad and funny; and hearing it read engages me as seeing it performed might not have done. Spared the spectacle of actors throwing their bodies around and singing about their dreams against a backdrop painted by a lesser, Les Mis version of Delacroix, you can concentrate on the words. And where dementia is the villain, words are priceless.

Mixing with the proles

In Bloomsbury again the next day for a bank holiday design and craft fair at Mary Ward House. I have a soft spot for craft fairs, having helped run a craft shop once, and I feel a kinship with the designers sitting bored behind their stalls, answering inane questions about kilns and receiving empty compliments. But it’s the venue that steals the show, a lovely Arts and Crafts house, founded in the 1890s by the novelist Mary Ward with the intention of enabling the wealthy and educated to live among the poor and introduce them to the consolations of beauty and knowledge. We’d call that patronising. We’re wrong. It’s a high ideal, to ease the burden of poverty and ignorance and, in Ward’s words, save us from “the darker, coarser temptations of our human road”.

An Oscar-winning argument for Zionism

Speaking of which, I am unable to empty my mind of Ken Livingstone and his apologists as I sit in the cinema and watch the just-released Academy Award-winning Son of Saul, a devastating film about one prisoner’s attempt to hold on to a vestige of humanity in a Nazi death camp. If you think you know of hell from Dante or Michelangelo, think again. The inferno bodied forth in Son of Saul is no theological apportioning of justice or deserts. It is the evisceration of meaning, the negation of every grand illusion about itself mankind has ever harboured. There has been a fashion, lately, to invoke Gaza as proof that the Holocaust is a lesson that Jews failed to learn – as though one cruelty drives out another, as though suffering is forfeit, and as though we, the observers, must choose between horrors.

I defy even Livingstone to watch this film, in which the Jews, once gassed, become “pieces” – Stücke – and not grasp the overwhelming case for a Jewish place of refuge. Zionism pre-dated the camps, and its fulfilment, if we can call it that, came too late for those millions reduced to the grey powder mountains the Sonderkommandos were tasked with sweeping away. It diminishes one’s sympathy for the Palestinian cause not a jot to recognise the arguments, in a world of dehumanising hate, for Zionism. Indeed, not to recognise those arguments is to embrace the moral insentience whose murderous consequence Son of Saul confronts with numbed horror. 

This article first appeared in the 06 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The longest hatred