Paddy Ashdown and Ming Campbell take pre-conference swipes at Cable

Campbell tells Cable "don't be quite so gloomy" and Ashdown says that Clegg's enemy Lord Oakeshott is "Vince’s problem".

Nick Clegg and his allies have often privately expressed their frustration at how Vince Cable has sought (with some success) to avoid taking full responsibility for policies such as the tuition fees rise and the austerity programme by regularly positioning himself to the left of the coalition. But what is striking today is that two former Lib Dem leaders have gone public with their criticisms of the Business Secretary. In an article for the Guardian, ahead of the opening of the party's conference in Glasgow tomorrow, Ming Campbell writes: "And by the way Dr Cable, don't be quite so gloomy!" 

While recognising the importance of differentiating themselves from the Tories on the economy, the Lib Dems also want to take their share of the credit for the recovery. Cable's consciously downbeat assessment this week was widely viewed as unhelpful. 

In addition, following Lord Oakeshott's hackneyed call for the party to consider removing Clegg, Paddy Ashdown, the Lib Dem leader's political godfather, remarked: "I think Matthew’s self-appointed position as a sort of vicar on Earth for Vince does neither of them any good ... but that’s Vince’s problem". 

With these interventions, Campbell and Ashdown are rather kicking a kick at a man when's he down. A year ago, when Clegg's position still seemed at risk, Cable was viewed as the party's leader-in-waiting. He memorably signalled his interest in the position ("I don’t exclude it – who knows what might happen in the future...The worship of youth has diminished – perhaps generally – in recent years.") and was aided by a poll showing that the Lib Dems would gain four points with him as leader. But the Eastleigh by-election (which proved that the party could win in its strongholds) and the return of growth (which deflated Cable's call in the New Statesman for a plan B) mean that his star has waned. As I suggest in this week's NS, Tim Farron is now the man to watch. 

Vince Cable at the Liberal Democrat spring conference in Brighton earlier this year. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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The footie is back. Three weeks in and what have we learned so far?

Barcleys, boots and big names... the Prem is back.

Another season, another reason for making whoopee cushions and giving them to Spurs fans to cheer them up during the long winter afternoons ahead. What have we learned so far?

Big names are vital. Just ask the manager of the Man United shop. The arrival of Schneiderlin and Schweinsteiger has done wonders for the sale of repro tops and they’ve run out of letters. Benedict Cumberbatch, please join Carlisle United. They’re desperate for some extra income.

Beards are still in. The whole Prem is bristling with them, the skinniest, weediest player convinced he’s Andrea Pirlo. Even my young friend and neighbour Ed Miliband has grown a beard, according to his holiday snaps. Sign him.

Boots Not always had my best specs on, but here and abroad I detect a new form of bootee creeping in – slightly higher on the ankle, not heavy-plated as in the old days but very light, probably made from the bums of newborn babies.

Barclays Still driving me mad. Now it’s screaming from the perimeter boards that it’s “Championing the true Spirit of the Game”. What the hell does that mean? Thank God this is its last season as proud sponsor of the Prem.

Pitches Some groundsmen have clearly been on the weeds. How else can you explain the Stoke pitch suddenly having concentric circles, while Southampton and Portsmouth have acquired tartan stripes? Go easy on the mowers, chaps. Footballers find it hard enough to pass in straight lines.

Strips Have you seen the Everton third kit top? Like a cheap market-stall T-shirt, but the colour, my dears, the colour is gorgeous – it’s Thames green. Yes, the very same we painted our front door back in the Seventies. The whole street copied, then le toot middle classes everywhere.

Scott Spedding Which international team do you think he plays for? I switched on the telly to find it was rugby, heard his name and thought, goodo, must be Scotland, come on, Scotland. Turned out to be the England-France game. Hmm, must be a member of that famous Cumbrian family, the Speddings from Mirehouse, where Tennyson imagined King Arthur’s Excalibur coming out the lake. Blow me, Scott Spedding turns out to be a Frenchman. Though he only acquired French citizenship last year, having been born and bred in South Africa. What’s in a name, eh?

Footballers are just so last season. Wayne Rooney and Harry Kane can’t score. The really good ones won’t come here – all we get is the crocks, the elderly, the bench-warmers, yet still we look to them to be our saviour. Oh my God, let’s hope we sign Falcao, he’s a genius, will make all the difference, so prayed all the Man United fans. Hold on: Chelsea fans. I’ve forgotten now where he went. They seek him here, they seek him there, is he alive or on the stairs, who feckin’ cares?

John Stones of Everton – brilliant season so far, now he is a genius, the solution to all of Chelsea’s problems, the heir to John Terry, captain of England for decades. Once he gets out of short trousers and learns to tie his own laces . . .

Managers are the real interest. So refreshing to have three young British managers in the Prem – Alex Neil at Norwich (34), Eddie Howe at Bournemouth (37) and that old hand at Swansea, Garry Monk, (36). Young Master Howe looks like a ball boy. Or a tea boy.

Mourinho is, of course, the main attraction. He has given us the best start to any of his seasons on this planet. Can you ever take your eyes off him? That handsome hooded look, that sarcastic sneer, the imperious hand in the air – and in his hair – all those languages, he’s so clearly brilliant, and yet, like many clever people, often lacking in common sense. How could he come down so heavily on Eva Carneiro, his Chelsea doctor? Just because you’re losing? Yes, José has been the best fun so far – plus Chelsea’s poor start. God, please don’t let him fall out with Abramovich. José, we need you.

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 27 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Isis and the new barbarism