Clacton has become the UKIP-Tory electoral frontier. Photograph: Oli Scarff/Getty Images.
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As the Tories choose their candidate, the battle for Clacton begins in earnest

Giles Watling, former 80s TV star, is selected through an open primary to fight the by-election against Douglas Carswell.

The Clacton Conservative Association has had a tough time over the past few years. In 2012 Neil Stock, leader of Tendring District Council, whose headquarters are in Clacton, resigned after fury erupted at the £90,000 per year he and his wife claimed in allowances. The replacement leader, Peter Halliday, lasted only a year before he was accused of corruption and resigned. But at least he went out in style – during a public meeting he lambasted his fellow Tory councillors and the local MP, Douglas Carswell, and later admitted “going for” a colleague at a private meeting afterwards.

Even more sensational, and much better publicised, was Carswell’s defection to Ukip, which has resulted in a by-election due to be held on 9 October. The local Conservative Association have now announced their candidate to go up against their former colleague: Giles Watling, all-round thespian and former star of 80s TV show Bread, who was selected at an open primary last night.

In a move that was clearly designed to contrast with Ukip’s decision to appoint Carswell over Roger Lord, whom local Ukip members had already elected as their candidate, the local Conservative Association sent letters to everyone registered on the electoral roll in Clacton, inviting them to attend the selection meeting and vote for their preferred candidate.

The local party members retained the final say, but it would have been highly unusual for them to go against the decision of the town, especially as they drew up the shortlist of two themselves. "We have shortlisted two exceptional candidates both of whom would make excellent campaigners for Clacton, Frinton, and the surrounding areas," Simon Martin-Redman, Chairman of the Clacton Conservative Association, said before the event, which was held in Clacton Town Hall.

Around 240 people attended the meeting last night, in which Watling competed with Sue Lissimore, a councillor for the borough of Colchester and the county of Essex – and of those 240, over half were not party members, according to a spokesman for the Conservative Party. Watling and Lissimore were each given two to three minutes to speak, and then answered questions from the audience. Nick Ferrari, the LBC chat-show host, moderated the debate.

The big topics of the evening, according to the Clacton Gazette, were the EU, immigration, GP services, and a recent column by Matthew Parris in the Times, in which he describes Clacton as "a friendly resort trying not to die, inhabited by friendly people trying not to die." As even Parris admitted, in a diary piece on Wednesday, the article "has not everywhere been well received, especially in Clacton."

Watling described winning the selection as "an honour and an enormous privilege," according to the same article in the Clacton Gazette. “We have been doing a lot work here locally. I live here – I know the strengths and the weaknesses of this place. I want to play to the strengths and deal with the weaknesses. We have a great future here.”

The new Tory candidate can hardly be under any illusion as to the scale of the difficulties he will face in his by-election campaign. Earlier today Carswell claimed substantial numbers of local Tory activists have moved over to Ukip with him, writing on his Telegraph blog, "Having put so much effort into increasing local party membership in Clacton when I was a Conservative, I'm thrilled that so many have joined me in making the change to Ukip.

"I now have almost two hundred pledges from members of my old Association – including from two district councillors. Four of the past five Conservative Association chairmen have pledged their support."

The Conservatives, however, contest the accuracy of these claims. A spokesman tells the New Statesman, "On our reckoning, six people have defected – there’s a bit of spin from Carswell’s side."

Ukip did not specifically deny the claim that only six local activists have defected, instead referring the New Statesman’s queries to Carswell’s Telegraph blog.

All the same, confident noises are coming out of the Ukip camp. “We have already been campaigning on the ground since the day after Douglas joined the party,” says a spokesman. “The response on the doorstep has been fantastic.”

The fight between Watling and Carswell will surely be bitter and obsessively scrutinised by the local and national press. It must be some small consolation to the candidates that the battle will last no longer than a month.

Alexander Woolley is a freelance journalist. He can be found on Twitter as @alexwoolley4.

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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

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