Poll woes for the Greens in Brighton

A new poll shows that the party, currently the largest on Brighton council, has been pushed into third place behind Labour and the Tories.

Brighton remains the only thing close to a Green Party fortress, so it's worth noting a new poll showing that the party is set to be toppled at the next local election. A ComRes/BBC survey shows that support for the Greens has fallen by 12 points to 21%, leaving them in third place behind Labour on 38% (up six) and the Tories on 25% (down four).

The party has already suffered a setback this year with the loss of one of its seats to Labour after an 11.7% swing to Miliband's party. Such is the unpopularity of the council that Caroline Lucas herself has protested against it over pay cuts and other austerity measures. But while the party's former leader might hope to insulate herself from the backlash, it is a reminder that there is no guarantee she will keep her seat in 2015. Lucas currently has a majority of 1,252 (2.4%), with Labour, which held the constituency between 1997 and 2010, in second place. 

Brighton Pavilion is one of Labour's 106 target seats (the 19th most marginal on the list) and with a hung parliament looking increasingly likely, the party has no intention of giving her a free run.

Green MP Caroline Lucas leaves Crawley Magistrates Court on October 16, 2013 after pleading not guilty to charges relating to an anti-fracking protest. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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As the strangers approach the bed, I wonder if this could be a moment of great gentleness

I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do.

It’s 1.13am on an autumn morning some time towards the end of the 20th century and I’m awake in a vast hotel bed in a small town in the east of England. The mysterious east, with its horizons that seem to stretch further than they should be allowed to stretch by law. I can’t sleep. My asthma is bad and I’m wheezing. The clock I bought for £3 many years earlier ticks my life away with its long, slow music. The street light outside makes the room glow and shimmer.

I can hear footsteps coming down the corridor – some returning drunks, I guess, wrecked on the reef of a night on the town. I gaze at the ceiling, waiting for the footsteps to pass.

They don’t pass. They stop outside my door. I can hear whispering and suppressed laughter. My clock ticks. I hear a key card being presented, then withdrawn. The door opens slowly, creaking like a door on a Radio 4 play might. The whispering susurrates like leaves on a tree.

It’s an odd intrusion, this, as though somebody is clambering into your shirt, taking their time. A hotel room is your space, your personal kingdom. I’ve thrown my socks on the floor and my toothbrush is almost bald in the bathroom even though there’s a new one in my bag because I thought I would be alone in my intimacy.

Two figures enter. A man and a woman make their way towards the bed. In the half-dark, I can recognise the man as the one who checked me in earlier. He says, “It’s all right, there’s nobody in here,” and the woman laughs like he has just told her a joke.

This is a moment. I feel like I’m in a film. It’s not like being burgled because this isn’t my house and I’m sure they don’t mean me any harm. In fact, they mean each other the opposite.

Surely they can hear my clock dripping seconds? Surely they can hear me wheezing?

They approach, closer and closer, towards the bed. The room isn’t huge but it seems to be taking them ages to cross it. I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do. I should speak. I should say with authority, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” But I don’t.

I could just lie here, as still as a book, and let them get in. It could be a moment of great gentleness, a moment between strangers. I would be like a chubby, wheezing Yorkshire pillow between them. I could be a metaphor for something timeless and unspoken.

They get closer. The woman reaches her hand across the bed and she touches the man’s hand in a gesture of tenderness so fragile that it almost makes me sob.

I sit up and shout, “Bugger off!” and they turn and run, almost knocking my clock from the bedside table. The door crashes shut shakily and the room seems to reverberate.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge