The strongest parts of Gordon Brown’s pro-union speech were negative. Photo: Getty
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Why ambivalence is the dark matter of political debate

Normal polling methods struggle to detect people’s internal divisions, yet the Scottish referendum has just demonstrated how powerful an effect ambivalence can be.

The numbers have a stark clarity: 55 per cent for, 45 per cent against. But if you were able to peer inside the minds of many who voted in Scotland’s referendum you would probably have found something much less simple, and much more contradictory: voters who wanted Scotland to be independent but didn’t want to leave the union, and voters who wanted to remain part of Great Britain but longed to throw in their lot with the nationalists. When it comes to complex and deeply felt issues, it is human nature to be ambivalent.

Ambivalence – the mental mess that exists before someone forces you to commit to a view – is an underrated and misunderstood phenomenon in politics. It is not indifference, though it’s sometimes mistaken for it. An ambivalent person holds contradictory views so strongly that neither will cede to the other; their ambivalence results from an excess, not a deficit, of opinion. When she votes, or when a pollster asks her a question, she forces this incoherence uncomfortably into one box or another.

Ambivalence is physical: we say, “on the one hand, on the other hand”, and we “waver” or “feel torn”. Researchers at the University of Amsterdam’s Uncertainty Lab presented students with information about a controversial employment law in the Netherlands. One group read a briefing that made a strong argument against the law, while another received a briefing that made both cases with equal force, a standard method for inducing ambivalence. The participants were then given a few minutes to think about it, while electrodes measured the moisture in their skin. Those in the ambivalent condition literally sweated over their decision. 

In another experiment from the same lab, participants were asked to consider their view on a controversial issue while standing on a Wii balance board. Those experiencing ambivalence moved from side to side more than those who were not. The effect even worked in reverse: people moving from side to side on the board were more likely to feel ambivalent than people who were standing still or moving up and down.

Ambivalence is the dark matter of political debate: normal instruments cannot detect it. Pollsters find it hard to measure because it registers only as indifference on their five-point scales. But political scientists who study it (see, for example, this collection of essays), believe that people’s views on seemingly polarising issues are a lot less clear-cut than they seem. For instance, the way public opinion shifted so quickly and decisively on gay marriage in the US and UK suggested that, rather than being the result of people switching from one firmly held view to another, a build-up of ambivalence being resolved. People believed that marriage was a heterosexual institution and also that anyone should be able to marry who they liked. At a certain point, the latter view won out, but it would be wrong to say that these voters switched sides, since they were on both sides to begin with.

Something similar, I suspect, happened during the referendum campaign. We’ve heard that the Scots were divided against one another, but for many, if not most, the main division was internal. Those big movements in the polls – the Yes campaign gaining support fast in the month before the vote, the swing back to No in the final days – represented the roiling emotions of those torn between patriotism and empiricism, those twin poles of the Scottish character.

As Rick Nye of Populus has pointed out, a year before the referendum, nearly a third of voters were undecided, and most of them (70 per cent) were attracted to the idea of independence but wary of the accompanying economic risks – as close as you can get to polling evidence of an ambivalent mindset. The Better Together campaign, for all that it was accused of negativity (which, considering they were asking people to vote No, always seemed a tad unfair to me), succeeded in their core task of preventing those undecided voters from allowing their heart to overwhelm their mind – of reconciling their ambivalence into an unequivocally pro-independence position.

In the days following Scotland’s vote to stay in the United Kingdom, supporters of the “Yes” campaign could be heard expressing their belief that many of those who voted No had wanted to side with them had allowed the Better Together campaign to scare their heads into over-ruling their hearts. In a sense, they’re correct, but that can hardly be a consolation once you understand that the job of both campaigns was to gain the votes of those with divided sympathies.

Those on the pro-union side who longed for Alistair Darling to put the positive case for staying with the UK couldn’t see that the anxiety he communicated about separation effectively amplified the fears of the undecided (or that the strongest parts of Gordon Brown’s speech were negative: “It’s not about the fear of the unknown. It’s the risks of the known”). Perhaps they couldn’t see it because they weren’t sufficiently in touch with the ambivalence of many who wanted independence. The best political strategies are formulated by people who have empathy for opposing views.

If some No voters yearned to support independence , the reverse also applies. On the day of the referendum, the Guardian’s Michael White talked to an old soldier in a kilt, outside the cathedral of St Giles on Edinburgh’s Royal Mile. “As a patriotic Scot I’ll vote for Yes, hoping No will win,” he said. “So will lots of people.”

Ian Leslie is a writer, author of CURIOUS: The Desire to Know and Why Your Future Depends On It, and writer/presenter of BBC R4's Before They Were Famous.

HEINZ BAUMANN/GALLERY STOCK
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With the BBC Food’s collection under threat, here's how to make the most of online recipes

Do a bit of digging, trust your instincts – and always read the comments.

I don’t think John Humphrys is much of a chef. Recently, as his Today co-presenter Mishal Husain was discussing the implications of the BBC’s decision to axe its Food website (since commuted to transportation to the Good Food platform, run by its commercial arm), sharp-eared listeners heard the Humph claim that fewer recipes on the web could only be a good thing. “It would make it easier!” he bellowed in the background. “We wouldn’t have to choose between so many!”

Husain also seemed puzzled as to why anyone would need more than one recipe for spaghetti bolognese – but, as any keen cook knows, you can never have too many different takes on a dish. Just as you wouldn’t want to get all your news from a single source, it would be a sad thing to eat the same bolognese for the rest of your life. Sometimes only a molto autentico version, as laid down by a fierce Italian donna, rich with tradition and chopped liver, will do – and sometimes, though you would never admit it in a national magazine, you crave the comfort of your mum’s spag bol with grated cheddar.

The world wouldn’t starve without BBC Food’s collection but, given that an online search for “spaghetti bolognese recipe” turns up about a million results, it would have been sad to have lost one of the internet’s more trustworthy sources of information. As someone who spends a large part of each week researching and testing recipes, I can assure you that genuinely reliable ones are rarer than decent chips after closing time. But although it is certainly the only place you’ll find the Most Haunted host Yvette Fielding’s kedgeree alongside Heston Blumenthal’s snail porridge, the BBC website is not the only one that is worth your time.

The good thing about newspaper, magazine and other commercial platforms is that most still have just enough budget to ensure that their recipes will have been made at least twice – once by the writer and once for the accompanying photographs – though sadly the days when everyone employed an independent recipe tester are long gone. Such sites also often have sufficient traffic to generate a useful volume of comments. I never make a recipe without scrolling down to see what other people have said about it. Get past the “Can’t wait to make this!” brigade; ignore the annoying people who swap baked beans for lentils and then complain, “This is nothing like dhal”; and there’s usually some sensible advice in there, too.

But what about when you leave the safety of the big boys and venture into the no man’s land of the personal blog? How do you separate the wheat from the chaff and find a recipe that actually works? You can often tell how much work a writer has put in by the level of detail they go into: if they have indicated how many people it serves, or where to find unusual ingredients, suggested possible tweaks and credited their original sources, they have probably made the dish more than once. The photography is another handy clue. You don’t have to be Annie Leibovitz to provide a good idea of what the finished dish ought to look like.

Do a bit of digging as part of your prep. If you like the look of the rest of the site, the author’s tastes will probably chime with your own. And always, always, wherever the recipe is from, read it all the way through, even before you order the shopping. There is nothing more annoying than getting halfway through and then realising that you need a hand blender to finish the dish, just as the first guest arrives.

Above all, trust your instincts. If the cooking time seems far too short, or the salt content ridiculously high, it probably is, so keep an eye on that oven, check that casserole, keep tasting that sauce. As someone who once published a magic mince pie recipe without any sugar, I’m living proof that, occasionally, even the very best of us make mistakes. 

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad