Why won't Labour publish the Falkirk report?

Labour figures believe the party fears the evidence against Unite is embarrassingly thin.

The police's decision not to launch a criminal investigation into Unite over its alleged manipulation of the Falkirk selection contest has achieved the rare feat of uniting the Conservatives and Len McCluskey in agreement. Both are demanding that Ed Miliband publish Labour's internal inquiry into the affair (which was passed to the police), as are Labour figures, including Tom Watson and David Blunkett. The party, however, which is now pursuing disciplinary action against Stephen Deans and Karie Murphy (the two suspended Unite members) "as a matter of urgency", is insistent that it will do no such thing.

So why the obstinacy? Among Labour figures there are two main theories. The first is that the evidence against Unite is embarrassingly thin. The Guardian's Seumas Milne, one of the few (perhaps only) journalists to have seen the report, recently wrote that while "a handful of members were signed up without their knowledge (by family members)" and there were "'discrepancies in the signatures' of four others (suggesting some may have been forged)", "the union isn't held directly responsible". 

The second is that the report would implicate others in the party and spark a new scandal. Diane Abbott recently commented that "one of the things the report might reveal is that Unite weren’t the only ones signing up members in the run-up to this selection". Suspicion has fallen on Gregor Poynton, one of the other Falkirk candidates and the husband of Labour MP Gemma Doyle, who is alleged to have handed over a cheque for £137 in June 2012 to pay the membership fees of 11 people. Milne, however, reported that Poynton, like Unite, was not held "directly responsible" in the inquiry.

How this debacle will end remains unclear. But the most striking thing today is how Labour unity is fraying. Abbott, who is Labour's shadow public minister, earlier retweeted Michael Crick's claim that "Miliband won't publish cos evidence agst Unite is weak, and others implicated too", while in response to Ian Austin, who noted the Tories' failure to publish their report into Aidan Burley's stag party antics, Tom Watson simply replied: "publish both". The longer the cloud of suspicion continues to hang over Unite, the greater the pressure for transparency is likely to become. 

Unite general secretary Len McCluskey. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism