Ed Miliband attends the launch of an online mental health resource. Photo: Getty
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It is no longer enough for our parties just to talk about mental health

Since the last election, mental health has risen higher in the agenda than many campaigners even dreamt of. Labour, however, is behaving as though just talking about the issue is still good enough. 

Of all the many depressing developments in politics over the past years there has been the odd beam of light breaking through the cloud; one such beam is mental health. Mental health has become steadily more and more important in Westminster politics and now it figures as a significant element in each party’s health policy. Every party will at the very least mention mental health in the short paragraphs that they will try and win the public’s votes with. But lip service is no longer enough and sadly Labour in particular is guilty of doing just that.

It’s not all that often that the Lib Dems are called the most progressive of the three main parties and although it would be contentious to call them the most progressive party on mental health, it is not controversial to say that they are the clearest on it. Nick Clegg’s conference speech last year was filled with mental health announcements, including the much lauded announcement creating waiting times for the first time for mental health. Despite the fact that the financial figures used in his speech were a mish-mash of government plans and manifesto promises, the Lib Dem website explicitly lists the party’s financial commitment for mental health. £400m is to go on psychological therapies and £54m on widening children’s access to mental health care.

The Conservative party has publically declared mental health to be a priority, Jeremy Hunt’s conference speech last year proved as much. But when it comes to specific policy commitments there are none of any substance. This makes a degree of sense since mental health seems to have largely been delegated to their coalition partners. However, this excuse is not one that Labour can use; Andy Burnham has won a fair amount of praise for his adoption of "whole-person care", an integrated system of health and social care, giving due priority to mental health. Beyond this though, there has been little progress toward any kind of precise figures and/or policy.

Whereas the Lib Dems have pledge £54m to the problem, Ed Miliband has so far only really identified that children’s mental health is a problem. Children’s mental health services have suffered a real terms cut of 6 per cent since 2010, a "neglect" that Miliband has rightly pledged to stop. Aside from showing us how much they have been cut and saying that Labour will increase spending, we are voting blind on this; how much will they increase spending by? When?  Where will they target the money?

Labour’s recently released independent report on mental health by Stephen O’Brien, which has been two years in the making, has committed the same crime as the central party; it comprehensively identified the problems and false economies in our current approach, but it hasn’t provided any solutions. This is a problem across all parties; considering that the field is pretty well open for any of the main 5 parties to play a role in the next government, there is a worrying lack of specifics and figures. The election is 92 days away, that is fair enough, but soon enough they will need to tell us what they intend to do.

There is an opportunity right now, before the manifestos are launched, for the political parties to take mental health seriously enough to get specific and set out their spending plans. Mental health funding is in dire straits and it is absolutely not adequate just to say you think it’s important. If Labour is not careful, this playing-it-safely approach will give the other parties an open goal on mental health, in much the same way that they let the Tories score on postgraduate funding. As the main opposition party, they cannot let that happen. 

Dan Holden is deputy editor of Shifting Grounds

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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