Ed Miliband speaks to supporters at Redbridge on May 1, 2014. Photograph: Getty Images.
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This week revealed the real Ed

By presenting himself to voters as who he truly is, the Labour leader has given himself a chance of winning their respect and understanding. 

From the White House to Westminster, Ed Miliband presented himself this week to the world as the man he truly is - a smart, slightly geeky politician who cares about big problems and knows how to fix them.

Politicians can be respected, feared, liked or trusted for a host of reasons. But key to almost any politician's success in connecting with the electorate is their authenticity. To my mind the moment George W. Bush beat John Kerry was actually in their first debate when he said: "I understand everybody in this country doesn't agree with the decisions I've made. And I made some tough decisions. But people know where I stand. People out there listening know what I believe." That level of authenticity and consistency was powerful enough to re-elect a man in the middle of a losing war with a weak economy. It is that strength of clarity that the best politicians embody.

For the earlier attempt to sell Ed Miliband as "a man of the people" (the semi-fictitious "Mr Normal" effort) failed. But it is not too late to present Ed to the electorate as who he truly is - a very smart, deeply honest politician who cares deeply about tackling inequality and changing the economy fundamentally so that society itself is transformed.

As Mark Ferguson rightly noted, this meant not just presenting his strengths but also, in that wonderful maxim of veteran politico Chris Matthews, "hanging a lantern on his problem" and owning up to his own presentational weaknesses. By ceding this ground to Cameron he has given away nothing that he could have won anyway and stands to gain much in terms of authenticity and thus connection with the electorate in the months to come.

But today's speech was about more then political positioning. There was a serious point too. Miliband hit on a resonant insight, that of politics having become "a game that fewer and fewer people are watching, or believing." This is something previous Fabian Society research has shown: "Politics is a game played by an out of touch elite who live on another planet" was one of the main criticisms people made of politicians. The solution people tend to reach for is of more representative politicians, drawn from a broader pool than the professional political classes. But Labour’s leaders are who they are: Andy Burnham recently recognised “we’re the professional politician generation”.

So being authentic is a wise play, and one that can position Miliband as a different type of political leader, for an age when people don’t believe in political leadership. Miliband must win back trust – and his pledge to give power away to people is the right policy agenda to match his personal leadership pitch. But being authentic is a high stakes game, with a special responsibility then to walk the walk. This is a Miliband who has learned the danger of dining out on taking on Murdoch only to then sit down with his paper. He knows now, as he ever did, he’s best at his boldest.

This week we saw the Ed Miliband that rejects the gimmicks of Cameron's hug-a-huskie and instead speaks with President Obama about Iraq, Israel and Afghanistan. This is the Ed that's ready for Number 10.

By presenting Ed to the British people as who he actually is, as was the case with the 2012 One Nation speech, or indeed the Redbridge launch of the local and European election campaigns, Ed can win back voters' respect and understanding by being his own man.

Marcus Roberts is the deputy general secretary of the Fabian Society and served as Field Director of Ed Miliband's leadership campaign.

Marcus Roberts is an executive project director at YouGov. 

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Why do the words “soup, swoop, loop de loop” come to mind every time I lift a spoon to my lips?

It’s all thanks to Barry and Anita.

A while ago I was lending a friend the keys to our house. We keep spare keys in a ceramic pot I was given years ago by someone who made it while on an art-school pottery course. “That’s er . . . quite challenging,” the friend said of the pot.

“Is it?” I replied. “I’d stopped noticing how ugly it is.”

“Then it’s a grunty,” she said.

“A what?” I asked.

“A grunty. It’s something you have in your house that’s hideous and useless but you’ve stopped noticing it completely, so it’s effectively invisible.”

I was much taken with this idea and realised that as well as “grunties” there are also “gruntyisms”: things you say or do, though the reason why you say or do them has long since been forgotten. For example, every time we drink soup my wife and I say the same thing, uttered in a strange monotone: we say, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop.” How we came to say “soup, swoop, loop de loop” came about like this.

For a married couple, the years between your mid-thirties and your late forties might be seen as the decade of the bad dinner party. You’re no longer looking for a partner, so the hormonal urge to visit crowded bars has receded, but you are still full of energy so you don’t want to stay in at night, either. Instead, you go to dinner parties attended by other couples you don’t necessarily like that much.

One such couple were called Barry and Anita. Every time we ate at their house Barry would make soup, and when serving it he would invariably say, “There we are: soup, swoop, loop de loop.” After the dinner party, as soon as we were in the minicab going home, me and Linda would start drunkenly talking about what an arse Barry was, saying to each other, in a high-pitched, mocking imitation of his voice: “Please do have some more of this delicious soup, swoop, loop de loop.” Then we’d collapse against each other laughing, convincing the Algerian or Bengali taxi driver once again of the impenetrability and corruption of Western society.

Pretty soon whenever we had soup at home, Linda and I would say to each other, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop,” at first still ridiculing Barry, but eventually we forgot why we were saying it and it became part of the private language every couple develop, employed long after we’d gratefully ceased having soupy dinners with Barry and Anita.

In the early Nineties we had an exchange student staying with us for a year, a Maori girl from the Cook Islands in the southern Pacific. When she returned home she took the expression “soup, swoop, loop de loop” with her and spread it among her extended family, until finally the phrase appeared in an anthropological dissertation: “ ‘Soup swoop, loop de loop.’ Shamanistic Incantations in Rarotongan Food Preparation Rituals” – University of Topeka, 2001. 

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt