Why the Lib Dems are confident they can win the Eastleigh by-election

Lib Dem activists point out that the party has gained seats in recent local elections.

Conservative MPs are already talking up their party's chances in the Eastleigh by-election triggered by Chris Huhne's resignation, with one, Alec Shelbrooke, describing it as "an early opportunity to exact revenge on the Lib Dems over boundaries". The Tories have no intention of going easy on their coalition partner; this is a must-win seat for them. 

Given how poorly the Lib Dems are polling nationally and the slimness of their majority (3,864), it's unsurprising that many expect a Tory victory. But Lib Dem activists are confident that they can hang on. They point out that the party has actually gained seats in recent local elections, increasing its majority on Eastleigh Borough Council from 34 seats to 36 in May 2012 (the Lib Dems hold 40 to the Tories' four). The Lib Dems, who plan to treat the next general election as 57 by-elections, have long argued that they will lose fewer seats than expected in 2015 because their vote is holding up in key local strongholds. The by-election will be an early test of this claim. 

It is no less of a test for the Tories, whose hopes of winning a majority in 2015 depend on them taking a  large number of seats off the Lib Dems. The party has included 20 Lib Dem MPs on its 2015 target list of 40 in the belief that they will prove easier to dislodge than their Labour counterparts. Were the list purely based on the swing required, only nine would appear. But if the Tories fail to win Eastleigh, even after the sitting MP has been forced to resign in disgrace, a Conservative majority in 2015 will begin to look impossible. 

The Liberal Democrats increased their majority on Eastleigh Borough Council from 36 seats to 38 in May 2012. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

Getty Images
Show Hide image

Is there such a thing as responsible betting?

Punters are encouraged to bet responsibly. What a laugh that is. It’s like encouraging drunks to get drunk responsibly, to crash our cars responsibly, murder each other responsibly.

I try not to watch the commercials between matches, or the studio discussions, or anything really, before or after, except for the match itself. And yet there is one person I never manage to escape properly – Ray Winstone. His cracked face, his mesmerising voice, his endlessly repeated spiel follow me across the room as I escape for the lav, the kitchen, the drinks cupboard.

I’m not sure which betting company he is shouting about, there are just so many of them, offering incredible odds and supposedly free bets. In the past six years, since the laws changed, TV betting adverts have increased by 600 per cent, all offering amazingly simple ways to lose money with just one tap on a smartphone.

The one I hate is the ad for BetVictor. The man who has been fronting it, appearing at windows or on roofs, who I assume is Victor, is just so slimy and horrible.

Betting firms are the ultimate football parasites, second in wealth only to kit manufacturers. They have perfected the capitalist’s art of using OPM (Other People’s Money). They’re not directly involved in football – say, in training or managing – yet they make millions off the back of its popularity. Many of the firms are based offshore in Gibraltar.

Football betting is not new. In the Fifties, my job every week at five o’clock was to sit beside my father’s bed, where he lay paralysed with MS, and write down the football results as they were read out on Sports Report. I had not to breathe, make silly remarks or guess the score. By the inflection in the announcer’s voice you could tell if it was an away win.

Earlier in the week I had filled in his Treble Chance on the Littlewoods pools. The “treble” part was because you had three chances: three points if the game you picked was a score draw, two for a goalless draw and one point for a home or away win. You chose eight games and had to reach 24 points, or as near as possible, then you were in the money.

“Not a damn sausage,” my father would say every week, once I’d marked and handed him back his predictions. He never did win a sausage.

Football pools began in the 1920s, the main ones being Littlewoods and Vernons, both based in Liverpool. They gave employment to thousands of bright young women who checked the results and sang in company choirs in their spare time. Each firm spent millions on advertising. In 1935, Littlewoods flew an aeroplane over London with a banner saying: Littlewoods Above All!

Postwar, they blossomed again, taking in £50m a year. The nation stopped at five on a Saturday to hear the scores, whether they were interested in football or not, hoping to get rich. BBC Sports Report began in 1948 with John Webster reading the results. James Alexander Gordon took over in 1974 – a voice soon familiar throughout the land.

These past few decades, football pools have been left behind, old-fashioned, low-tech, replaced by online betting using smartphones. The betting industry has totally rebooted itself. You can bet while the match is still on, trying to predict who will get the next goal, the next corner, the next throw-in. I made the last one up, but in theory you can bet instantly, on anything, at any time.

The soft sell is interesting. With the old football pools, we knew it was a remote flutter, hoping to make some money. Today the ads imply that betting on football somehow enhances the experience, adds to the enjoyment, involves you in the game itself, hence they show lads all together, drinking and laughing and putting on bets.

At the same time, punters are encouraged to do it responsibly. What a laugh that is. It’s like encouraging drunks to get drunk responsibly, to crash our cars responsibly, murder each other responsibly. Responsibly and respect are now two of the most meaningless words in the football language. People have been gambling, in some form, since the beginning, watching two raindrops drip down inside the cave, lying around in Roman bathhouses playing games. All they’ve done is to change the technology. You have to respect that.

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war