Peter Pinkney is a union leader and Green candidate. Photo: YouTube screengrab
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From Labour careerists to middle-class Marxists: Peter Pinkney, the union boss and Green candidate

The socialist firebrand and RMT president is running for the Greens in Redcar. Why?

“Well, they haven’t sent Will Self or Nick Lezard, so I can’t be that important...” is Peter Pinkney’s greeting when I arrive to interview him.

After mumbling my sincerest apologies for not being an acerbic middle-aged male NS columnist, I begin trying to find out why this union boss and self-proclaimed Marxist is running to become a Green MP.

It may be a little crude to describe this socialist firebrand as resembling Trotsky, but with his goatee beard, round black spectacle frames, shabby-chic waistcoat, hair groomed back, and single gold earring, he really does look the part of an old-school revolutionary.

When the Greens announced at the beginning of this month that a “top union official” was to stand for their party in Redcar, a coastal constituency to the north-east of Middlesbrough where the Lib Dem MP is standing down, it caused a flurry of media attention. “Unionist Pinko lashes Labour and joins Greens,” roared The Sun.

For many, his move symbolised the Green party now being the true party of the left, and Labour losing its core supporters having torn itself away from the trade unions. But from speaking to Pinkney about his decision, I feel it tells us more about how appealing the Greens are as a “broad church” party, with more freedom for dissent than the Labour party has allowed its foot soldiers in a long time.

Pinkney has been president of the RMT, the railworkers’ union, since 2012, although he is keen to point out that his decision to stand does not represent the union. “I'm standing as me, on a personal level. I didn't join the Green party as Peter Pinkney, president of the RMT,” he tells me. “I just think of myself as Peter Pinkney, railway worker, Middlesbrough, at the end of the day.”

He has never been a member of the Labour party, although he was in the Communist party, which once had links to Labour. He has been a member of Greenpeace all his life, and tells me his motto on the environment has long been: “No earth, no socialism.”

He describes Labour as “reddish Conservatives”, and finds the Greens compelling because of what he calls their “old Labour” style policies.

A couple of years ago, just after the TUC conference in 2013, some comments the Green MP Caroline Lucas made on a panel he was invited on about renationalising the railways caught his attention.

“I was quite interested in how much the Green party reminded us of the old Labour party in that sense of different stalls, different opinions, a broad church. It’s interested in, in my opinion, socialist things of a sort.”

He says he “thought long and hard” about going Green, and watched the insurgence of Syriza and Podemos in Europe very closely, speaking to contacts on the left, and watching a speaker from Syriza address a conference last year held by Left Unity, an alternative left-wing party in the UK.

“I saw a Syriza speaker, and she really impressed me,” he recalls. “She mentioned Karl Marx, Trotsky, Lenin, but she stood up and said – and she was very brave to say this in front of about 400 people there, most of them socialists and Socialist Workers Party people – ‘we don’t live in that century anymore’.

“That sort of rang a bell with me. I’m not a dogmatic Marxist; I'd still consider myself a Marxist, but I realise that things have to change.”

Pinkney in particular decries Labour’s departure from the days of 1945, and what he calls a “really radical agenda” of the NHS, nationalisation of the railways, coalmines, and building social housing. He is also compelled by the Greens’ lack of fear about taxing “people who can afford it”.

“This isn't the politics of envy,” he thunders. “My opinion is how much money do these people want? How many cars do they want? How many houses?”

Pinkney is enthusiastic about the Greens’ positive stance on immigration. Their welcoming attitude to migrants reminds him of a “Communist party” attitude:

“I don't believe in restrictions, I never have – that may be controversial, but I don't care,” he rumbles. “I've got lots of friends from all over the world living here, and I don't understand that sort of behaviour – it’s always the lowest common denominator to blame the Jews, blacks, Asians, Irish at one time, and now it's eastern Europeans.”

Although Pinkney is vocal about standing up for the rights of the working classes – or in Redcar what he dubs the “non-working class” because of the number of unemployed people there – his new-found party is often accused of having far too middle-class credentials to back up its radical agenda.

“One of the criticisms of the Green party is that it's very middle class,” Pinkney arches an eyebrow. “Oh really? So where are all the working-class people leading the Labour party? Or even some of the groups of the far left? And if I remember rightly, Karl Marx was pretty middle-class.”

He is particularly damning about the current leadership of the Labour party, calling them “careerists” and comparing them unfavourably with senior figures in the party 70 years ago.

“In 1945, you had Nye Bevan, ex-coal miner, Ernest Bevin, ex-lorry driver, leading the party – major figures – even Clement Attlee had gone and worked in the East End. You'd never see that now.”

He adds: “Well, you've got Alan Johnson, that's the only one I can think of. The rest, a lot of them, are careerists. They possibly see this [politics] as, ‘well, an easy way for me to have a career in my life, and money, and this that and the other’.”

Pinkney is reticent about discussing the reaction from his union colleagues to his decision to run for the Greens, and does admit when the party first asked him to be their candidate, he refused.

“The candidate who was going to run had some, as far as I'm aware, personal problems, and couldn't run. They [the Greens] asked me and my initial reaction was ‘no’,” he reveals. “At the end of the day, they understand my union duties come first. I was elected, and that’s about it.

“Then I spoke to people, union comrades, friends, family, and they said, ‘if you believe in it, do it’. So I agreed. I went to the selection meeting, I was quite open about my politics, not one person criticised me about my beliefs, and were really happy that I was running.”

There are areas of Green policy Pinkney does not agree with. “Maybe on some of their policies on their vision of the economy, it’s difficult,” he admits. “ . . . I think I’d have to think about what they’re saying on the economy and stuff.

“[But] I'm sure there's a way round it. I'm sure there are people in the Green party who don’t like the fact that I'm standing, don't like what I am – that's fine, I can live with that.”

He’s reticent and rather vague when I ask him to elaborate, but his reservations on economic policy seem to lie in renewable energy companies bringing workers in from abroad and displacing local workers. And as an RMT man, he would like to see the rail franchise contracts torn up upon the Greens entering government:

“My opinion is take it off, all of it, overnight, because you’ve already made a lot of money. But that’s just my personal opinion. Other people are more pragmatic, and it’s an easier way of doing it to let the franchises run out.”

The Greens’ policy is to let the franchises expire, as it costs nothing to do so.

“I know, I don’t care anyway,” Pinkney bellows. “I said it at the TUC, it’s documented – I turned round and said ‘take it off!’”

Our accompanying Green party press officer winces. But to me it seems the party’s greatest asset is not its stable of socialist policies, but that it can allow its candidates to veer so passionately off-message. Marxist freewheeler beats robot activist any day, as machine politics already begins to suffocate the election campaigns. But what would I know?

Anoosh Chakelian is deputy web editor at the New Statesman.

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

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