Nick Clegg speaks at Bloomberg's London headquarters on June 9, 2014. Photograph: Getty Images.
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The smaller coalition party nearly always gets smashed – but all is not lost for the Lib Dems

To cement its identity in future coalitions, the party needs to own departments.

Shortly before the 2010 general election, aware that the Conservatives were unlikely to win a majority, an anxious David Cameron asked Angela Merkel what it was like to lead a coalition government. “The little party always gets smashed!” she mischievously replied. As he met the German chancellor in Sweden in recent days, Cameron could have been forgiven for recalling her remark. Like their sister party in Germany, the Free Democrats, which lost all of its seats in the 2013 Bundestag election, the Liberal Democrats have indeed been smashed.

Since 2010, they have lost a third of their members, 1,500 of their councillors, all but one of their MEPs, nine by-election deposits and more than half of their previous opinion-poll support. The Tories, by contrast, have retained most of their 2010 vote share of 36 per cent and have consistently exceeded expectations in local elections. “We knew we would pay a price for working with the Conservatives,” said Nick Clegg in his recent speech at the Bloomberg headquarters in London.

In these circumstances, one might expect there to be little optimism among the Lib Dems. But the shifting plates of British politics have given them hope. With both the Tories and Labour doubtful of winning a majority in 2015, many Lib Dems believe that they will once again act as kingmakers in a “balanced parliament” and extract significant concessions for doing so.

Some are even more sanguine. At a recent parliamentary party away day in Wyboston, Bedfordshire, Danny Alexander declared that the Lib Dems could become the largest party in British politics by 2025. “We were all rolling our eyes, even Clegg’s spads,” one of those present tells me. David Steel’s 1981 exhortation to Liberal activists to “go back to your constituencies and prepare for government” looks modest by comparison.

Though it is now rarely recalled, there were those who argued that coalition would enhance, not diminish, the Lib Dems’ popularity. The standard explanation offered for the party’s recurrent midterm slumps was that it failed to receive the media attention devoted to the Conservatives and Labour, a defect rectified by equal treatment at the time of the general election. But with Liberal Democrats in government, this disadvantage would be removed permanently. The more the public saw of the third party, the logic ran, the more it would like it.

That the reverse proved to be the case was partly because of their alliance with the Tories. As Tony Blair shrewdly observed, a party that ran to the left of Labour for three successive elections could not hope to avoid punishment for entering government with a party to its right. Long before Clegg and his fellow Lib Dem ministers walked through the division lobby in favour of higher tuition fees, their poll ratings had collapsed.

The party’s “contamination” by the Conservatives encourages the thought that an alliance with Labour could have a cleansing effect. Clegg’s pledge in his Bloomberg speech to borrow to invest in infrastructure was the latest example of policy convergence between the two parties. But a partnership with the opposition would pose dangers of its own kind. Such is the degree of policy overlap that the Lib Dems would risk becoming indistinguishable from their centre-left rival. The existential question that stalks Clegg – “What is the point of the Lib Dems?” – would become more rather than less insistent in coalition with Labour.

It is in anticipation of this fate that the former Lib Dem minister Jeremy Browne has called for the party to embrace an “unbridled, unambiguous” programme of free-market liberalism. Browne considers the left-leaning party president, Tim Farron, and the Business Secretary, Vince Cable, to be examples of what Keynes called “watery Labour men”: social democrats who would be better off with Ed Miliband.

What Browne’s position boasts in intellectual rigour, it lacks in electoral nous. Outside the City of London, there is little appetite for turbo-Thatcherism. Rather than veering to the right, the Lib Dems should adopt other means of differentiating themselves. An increasing number in the party, including on its federal executive, believe it was a mistake for Clegg not to demand control of entire government departments in 2010. His decision instead to spread the Lib Dems across Whitehall made it harder to claim credit for policy achievements and left the party’s junior ministers looking like the helpless hostages of their Tory superiors. The next time parliament is hung, the party should learn from the approach of its Scottish sister, which took control of justice and agriculture in its first Holyrood coalition with Labour in 1999 and prospered in the subsequent election. Far from being wiped out, the party retained all 17 of its seats in 2003 and most of its vote share.

Having named his coalition negotiating team for 2015, Clegg should already be targeting politically attractive departments. A Lib Dem minister could win control of the housing portfolio and take credit for a Macmillan-style building programme, or secure home affairs and act as the guardian of civil liberties. Tim Farron told me: “There’s a lot of wisdom in that . . . When you’re a smaller party, identity is everything. Being known for one or two and, if you’re really lucky, three good things is what you’re after in terms of getting traction with the voters.”

A few days ago, Clegg received a consoling text message from his friend Jan Björklund, the leader of the Swedish Liberal People’s Party (currently polling at 6 per cent). “Us liberals,” he wrote, “must never accept that we can only survive in opposition.” An admirable sentiment – but if the Lib Dems are to avoid being continuously smashed in a new era of hung parliaments, they need to wise up and ensure they are better prepared.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 11 June 2014 issue of the New Statesman, The last World Cup

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Love a good box set? Then you should watch the Snooker World Championships

The game relies on a steady arm, which relies on a steady nerve. The result is a slow creeping tension needs time and space to be properly enjoyed and endured. 

People are lazy and people are impatient. This has always been so – just ask Moses or his rock – but as illustrated by kindly old Yahweh, in those days they could not simply answer those impulses and stroll on.

Nowadays, that is no longer so. Twitter, YouTube and listicles reflect a desire for complex and involved issues, expansive and nuanced sports – what we might term quality – to be condensed into easily digestible morsels for effort-free enjoyment.

There is, though, one notable exception to this trend: the box set. Pursuing a novelistic, literary sensibility, it credits its audience with the power of sentience and tells riveting stories slowly, unfolding things in whichever manner that it is best for them to unfold.

In the first episode of the first series of The Sopranos, we hear Tony demean his wife Carmela's irritation with him via the phrase “always with the drama”; in the seventh episode of the first series we see his mother do likewise to his father; and in the 21st and final episode of the sixth and final series, his son uses it on Carmela. It is precisely this richness and this care that makes The Sopranos not only the finest TV show ever made, but the finest artefact that contemporary society has to offer. It forces us to think, try and feel.

We have two principal methods of consuming art of this ilk - weekly episode, or week-long binge. The former allows for anticipation and contemplation, worthy pursuits both, but of an entirely different order to the immersion and obsession offered by the latter. Who, when watching the Wire, didn’t find themselves agreeing that trudat, it's time to reup the dishwasher salt, but we’ve run out, ain’t no thing. Losing yourself in another world is rare, likewise excitement at where your mind is going next.

In a sporting context, this can only be achieved via World Championship snooker. Because snooker is a simple, repetitive game, it is absorbing very quickly, its run of play faithfully reflected by the score.

But the Worlds are special. The first round is played over ten frames – as many as the final in the next most prestigious competition – and rather than the usual week, it lasts for 17 magical days, from morning until night. This bestows upon us the opportunity to, figuratively at least, put away our lives and concentrate. Of course, work and family still exist, but only in the context of the snooker and without anything like the same intensity. There is no joy on earth like watching the BBC’s shot of the championship compilation to discover that not only did you see most of them live, but that you have successfully predicted the shortlist.

It is true that people competing at anything provides compelling drama, emotion, pathos and bathos - the Olympics proves this every four years. But there is something uniquely nourishing about longform snooker, which is why it has sustained for decades without significant alteration.

The game relies on a steady arm, which relies on a steady nerve. The result is a slow creeping tension needs time and space to be properly enjoyed and endured. Most frequently, snooker is grouped with darts as a non-athletic sport, instead testing fine motor skills and the ability to calculate angles, velocity and forthcoming shots. However, its tempo and depth is more similar to Test cricket – except snooker trusts so much in its magnificence that it refuses to compromise the values which underpin it.

Alfred Hitchcock once explained that if two people are talking and a bomb explodes without warning, it constitutes surprise; but if two people are talking and all the while a ticking bomb is visible under the table, it constitutes suspense. “In these conditions,” he said, “The same innocuous conversation becomes fascinating because the public is participating in the scene. The audience is longing to warn the characters on the screen: ‘You shouldn't be talking about such trivial matters. There is a bomb beneath you and it is about to explode!’”

Such is snooker. In more or less every break, there will at some point be at least one difficult shot, loss of position or bad contact – and there will always be pressure. Add to that the broken flow of things – time spent waiting for the balls to stop, time spent prowling around the table, time spent sizing up the table, time spent cleaning the white, time spent waiting for a turn – and the ability for things to go wrong is constantly in contemplation.

All the more so in Sheffield’s Crucible Theatre. This venue, in its 40th year of hosting the competition, is elemental to its success. Place is crucial to storytelling, and even the word “Crucible” – whether “a ceramic or metal container in which metals or other substances may be melted or subjected to very high temperatures,” “a situation of severe trial”, or Arthur Miller’s searing play – conjures images of destruction, injustice and nakedness. And the actual Crucible is perhaps the most atmospheric arena in sport - intimate, quiet, and home to a legendarily knowledgeable audience, able to calculate when a player has secured a frame simply by listening to commentary through an earpiece and applauding as soon as the information is communicated to them.

To temper the stress, snooker is also something incredibly comforting. This is partly rooted in its scheduling. Working day and late-night sport is illicit and conspiratorial, while its presence in revision season has entire cohorts committing to “just one more quick frame”, and “just one more quick spliff”. But most powerfully of all, world championship snooker triggers memory and nostalgia, a rare example of something that hasn’t changed, as captivating now as it was in childhood.

This wistfulness is complemented by sensory pleasure of the lushest order. The colours of both baize and balls are the brightest, most engaging iterations imaginable, while the click of cue on ball, the clunk of ball on ball and the clack of ball on pocket is deep and musical; omnipresent and predictable, they combine for a soundtrack that one might play to a baby in the womb, instead of whale music or Megadeth.

Repeating rhythms are also set by the commentators, former players of many years standing. As is natural with extended coverage of repetitive-action games, there are numerous phrases that recur:

“We all love these tactical frames, but the players are so good nowadays that one mistake and your opponent’s in, so here he is, looking to win the frame at one visit ... and it’s there, right in the heart of the pocket for frame and match! But where’s the cue ball going! it really is amazing what can happen in the game of snooker, especially when we’re down to this one-table situation.”

But as omniscient narrators, the same men also provide actual insight, alerting us to options and eventualities of which we would otherwise be ignorant. Snooker is a simple game but geometry and physics are complicated, so an expert eye is required to explain them intelligibly; it is done with a winning combination of levity and sincerity.

The only essential way in which snooker is different is the standard of play. The first round of this year’s draw featured eight past winners, only two of whom have made it to the last four, and there were three second-round games that were plausible finals.

And just as literary fiction is as much about character as plot, so too is snooker. Nothing makes you feel you know someone like studying them over years at moments of elation and desolation, pressure and release, punctuated by TV confessions of guilty pleasures, such as foot massages, and bucket list contents, such as naked bungee jumping.

It is probably true that there are not as many “characters” in the game as once there were, but there are just as many characters, all of whom are part of that tradition. And because players play throughout their adult life, able to establish their personalities, in unforgiving close-up, over a number of years, they need not be bombastic to tell compelling stories, growing and undergoing change in the same way as Dorothea Brooke or Paulie Gualtieri.

Of no one is this more evident that Ding Junhui, runner-up last year and current semi-finalist this; though he is only 30, we have been watching him almost half his life. In 2007, he reached the final of the Masters tournament, in which he faced Ronnie O’Sullivan, the most naturally talented player ever to pick up a cue – TMNTPETPUAC for short. The crowd were, to be charitable, being boisterous, and to be honest, being pricks, and at the same time, O’Sullivan was playing monumentally well. So at the mid-session interval, Ding left the arena in tears and O’Sullivan took his arm in consolation; then when Ding beat O’Sullivan in this year’s quarter-final, he rested his head on O’Sullivan’s shoulder and exchanged words of encouragement for words of respect. It was beautiful, it was particular, and it was snooker.

Currently, Ding trails Mark Selby, the “Jester from Leicester” – a lucky escape, considering other rhyming nouns - in their best of 33 encounter. Given a champion poised to move from defending to dominant, the likelihood is that Ding will remain the best player never to win the game’s biggest prize for another year.

Meanwhile, the other semi-final pits Barry Hawkins, a finalist in 2013, against John Higgins, an undisputed great and three-time champion. Higgins looks likely to progress, and though whoever wins through will be an outsider, both are eminently capable of taking the title. Which is to say that, this weekend, Planet Earth has no entertainment more thrilling, challenging and enriching than events at the Crucible Theatre, Sheffield.

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