The optimism at the end of Sarkozy's era vanished as Hollande (centre) seemed to dither. Photograph: Raymond Depardon/Magnum Photos
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The sorrows of Mr Weak

Since the minister in charge of tax avoidance was forced to admit to a secret Swiss bank account, François Hollande’s entire government has begun to look shaky. How did it go so wrong, so fast?

One blustery day in mid-April, I left my pied-à-terre in Paris’s 11th arrondissement and headed south towards the Seine. I crossed the river by the Île Saint-Louis and made for Gibert Jeune, a large bookshop on the Left Bank at the northern end of the Boulevard Saint-Michel. I was searching for a copy of Rien ne se passe comme prévu (“nothing goes as planned”) by Laurent Binet. It is a quasijournalistic account, inflected with some of the mannerisms of American New Journalism, of François Hollande’s 2011-2012 campaign for the French presidency.

I’d enjoyed Binet’s novel, HHhH, and was interested to discover what he made of Hollande, the upper-middle-class doctor’s son, born in Rouen in 1954, who had committed himself to the politics of the left at a young age. I remembered the excitement that his campaign, with its commitment to levy a 75 per cent tax on high incomes, had elicited in Labour circles on this side of the Channel. Was this deceptively mild-mannered fonctionnaire, whose rhetoric often evoked the days of the Popular Front in the 1930s, a model for a new generation of social-democratic leaders in Europe?

By the time I arrived in Paris, however, the excitement that Hollande once induced on the left was a distant memory. The 75 per cent tax on those earning more than €1m a year had been ruled unconstitutional and the accidental president’s poll ratings were in free fall. The weekly news magazine L’Expressseemed to catch the popular mood with a cover depicting Hollande as “Monsieur Faible” (“Mr Weak”).

Having found a second-hand copy of Binet’s book, I walked west to the seventh arrondissement to meet the English writer and academic Andrew Hussey. He works at the Paris outpost of the University of London and his office overlooks the Esplanade des Invalides, close to the National Assembly, the lower house of the French parliament. The following week, the esplanade would be thronged with protesters, most of them Catholic, agitating against legislation to legalise gay marriage and adoption. In the small hours of 18 April a scuffle broke out on the floor of the Assembly when a rightwing opponent of gay marriage brandished a woman’s shoe that belonged, he claimed, to a young female protester. The next day the papers were full of excited talk about a Catholic “printemps français” (French spring) and even a right-wing version of the protests of May 1968.

None of this would have surprised Hussey, who has made the subject of intellectual and political violence in France his own. Over lunch, we talked about the lurid rhetorical overinvestment that so often characterises French politics, the obsession with gloire and grandeur. It struck me later that the French still expect their president to embody national grandeur, and that the mild and reticent Hollande struggles to do so.

Just how much he is struggling was made clear in an opinion poll published in Le Journal du Dimanche on 21 April, less than a year after he replaced Nicolas Sarkozy in the Élysée Palace. Seventy-four per cent of respondents declared themselves “unhappy” with his performance.

Never in the 55-year history of the French Fifth Republic have approval ratings for an incumbent president been so low so early in a presidency. Sarkozy achieved a comparable level of dissatisfaction (72 per cent) in April 2011, but by then he was almost four years in to the job; hisimmediate predecessor, Jacques Chirac, earned the opprobrium of 70 per cent of those polled in November 1995, and that was in the middle of a general strike. The only other Socialist president of the Fifth Republic, François Mitterrand, managed a disapproval rating of 65 per cent in December 1991, three and a half years in to a second seven-year term. As for the architect of the Fifth Republic, Charles de Gaulle, the worst it ever got for him was in March 1963, when a poll showed that 40 per cent of voters were unhappy with his leadership.

Hollande’s abject standing in the polls owes something to the humiliation of his former budget minister, Jérôme Cahuzac. On 2 April Cahuzac finally admitted, after a series of straight-faced denials, that he had used a secret Swiss bank account to avoid paying tax in France.

By then, the affair had been rumbling on for several months. In December, the investigative website Mediapart claimed that Cahuzac, who began his career as a cosmetic surgeon specialising in hair transplants, had kept an account at UBS in Geneva since the early 1990s. Mediapart’s case relied heavily on a report into Cahuzac’s financial affairs written in 2008 by Rémy Garnier, a former tax inspector in the south-western department of Lot-et-Garonne, where Cahuzac’s parliamentary constituency was located.

Cahuzac’s response to the revelations was swift and robust. He described Mediapart’s claims as “defamatory” and insisted in interviews that he had “never” had a bank account in Switzerland or anywhere else outside France. He also assured the prime minister, Jean-Marc Ayrault, of his good faith. The strategy seemed to be working until, in January this year, magistrates in Paris began building a case against him. Cahuzac’s resignation, which he finally announced on 19 March, was by then inevitable.

As a consequence of the affair, Hollande has become the focus for deep disaffection with what the French call “la classe politique”, the caste of ideologically nimble and sometimes extravagantly wealthy technocrats who usually fill governments of both right and left.

Like most front-rank French politicians, Hollande is an énarque, a graduate of the elite École Nationale d’Administration. He graduated first in his class in 1981. Among his contemporaries were his ex-partner Ségolène Royal, who ran as the Socialist candidate for president in 2007, the former centre-right prime minister Dominique de Villepin and the head of the new bank for public investment, Jean-Pierre Jouyet.

To the sociologists Michel Pinçon and Monique Pinçon-Charlot, the authors of President of the Rich: an Investigation into the Oligarchy in Sarkozy’s France (2010), the Cahuzac affair was cause for “intense intellectual jubilation”. They told the political weekly Le Nouvel Observateur: “The affair validates our theses concerning this caste which dominates France, this micro-society composed of people from left and right who function in the same way, with their wealth and their networks . . . It was another example of the power of oligarchy after the Dominique Strauss-Kahn scandal.”

Voters have no doubt made this very connection between Cahuzac and the disgraced Strauss-Kahn, whose likely run for the Socialist nomination for president was derailed by the exposure of a sex scandal in May 2011. (The two men were political allies; they also share a lawyer.) The public will also have recalled that Cahuzac had been leading the Hollande government’s struggle against tax fraud. He helped to draft a finance law that included important measures to combat tax evasion (notably the introduction of a 60 per cent levy on undeclared funds held abroad by French citizens).

Hollande’s response to the scandal has been uncharacteristically decisive. On 10 April, rather than leave it to Ayrault, the president, in the glare of television cameras, announced a wide-ranging “transparency” programme designed, among other things, to “remoralise” public life. The most eye-catching of these emergency measures was the requirement that cabinet ministers make a public declaration of their assets. They did so in short order – Ayrault revealing, to some amusement among journalists, that in addition to two houses worth more than €1m in total, he owns a 1988 Volkswagen kombi valued at €1,000.

It was the second time in a week that Hollande had gone on television to address the French people directly, something they weren’t accustomed to. He declared himself “hurt by what has happened”, an unusual admission from one who makes such a fetish of his sang-froid.

Catherine Fieschi, who is the director of the British think tank Counterpoint and has advised French administrations of all political complexions, tells me that communication has been Hollande’s biggest challenge. “The tragedy of it is that he’s not actually doing badly, though he’s doing very badly in the polls,” she says. “He’s got a huge communications problem.

“The big reproach is that he doesn’t govern. But the fact is that he does govern in most cases, but he’s been very bad at keeping people informed of what he’s doing –wilfully to begin with, because he wanted to break with the Sarkozy model.”

The president recognises that he must offer decisive leadership at a time of national crisis, yet this sits uneasily with his profound mistrust of the imperial presidency that was one of de Gaulle’s most ambiguous legacies. Shortly after Sarkozy was elected in 2007, Hollande denounced the new president’s method, which consisted, he said, of pretending that “the president can do it all alone” and “announcing this on television”. The irony is that Hollande has found himself doing exactly what he criticised Sarkozy for – supposing, as an article in Le Monde put it, that for every crisis, one can concoct a law in response. The Hollande presidency was meant to have broken with such legislative hyperactivity in the name of “normality” and the “exemplary republic”.

Suspicions on the French left about the institutions of the Fifth Republic have a long history. The strong presidency proposed by de Gaulle in 1958, as an antidote to the political instability caused by the Algerian war of independence, was opposed by the leaders of the non-communist left, Mitterrand and Pierre Mendès France. In 1964, Mitterrand published a book, Le coup d’État permanent, in which he accused de Gaulle of replacing the idea of popular representation with that of the infallible strong man. However, this didn’t stop Mitterrand running for president the following year, and again in 1974 and 1981, when at last he won, beating Valéry Giscard d’Estaing.

Once he was established in the Elysée, Mitterrand’s misgivings about the “permanent coup d’état” soon evaporated. He had campaigned on the promise of restoring to parliament its “constitutional rights”, but in practice he left it little more room for manoeuvre than de Gaulle had ever envisaged for it. (That said, he was forced to endure “cohabitation” with two prime ministers of the right, Jacques Chirac and Édouard Balladur, an arrangement de Gaulle would have found unconscionable.)

Mitterrand’s exercise of the office of president – the cultivation of courtiers, the manipulation of cliques and the dispensing of favours – earned him the nickname “the Florentine”. Even if Hollande were temperamentally disposed to operating in this way, he could never gather around him enough placemen to build a Machiavellian court. “One of the big problems,” Fieschi says, “is his position within the Parti Socialiste [PS]. He might have been a party apparatchik but he had no support inside the PS headquarters in rue de Solférino. He was an accidental candidate. They rallied behind him when they saw he had a chance after the fall of Strauss-Kahn, but I don’t think he really had the party with him.”

Indeed, the party was notably quick, in the person of its first secretary, Harlem Désir, to criticise the government’s handling of economic policy, which Désir judged too focused on deficit reduction at the expense of growth and the fight against unemployment. This criticism was echoed recently by three ministers, including Arnaud Montebourg, who ran to Hollande’s left in the Socialist presidential primary in autumn 2011. Montebourg expressed scepticism at the balancing act that Hollande and the finance minister, Pierre Moscovici, are attempting: making the reduction of the deficit –which, at the end of 2012, stood at 4.8 per cent of economic output – their main priority, in deference to their German partners, while denying that this requires “austerity” measures of the kind being adopted elsewhere in Europe.

Hollande has two problems in this regard. First, he has to manage the expectations of his own party and of PS supporters more broadly. And here the shadow of Mitterrand looms once again. March 2013 marked the 30th anniversary of his “turn to austerity”, when, in the face of rising unemployment, high inflation and exchange-rate difficulties that led to a succession of devaluations of the franc, his government formally abandoned the model of statist economic management it had adopted in 1981.

March 1983 was a seminal moment in the history of the Parti Socialiste. Arthur Goldhammer, a historian of French politics who teaches at Harvard, has written that the PS remains divided “between those who have deeply internalised the U-turn of 1981-83 as a step in the right direction”, an accommodation with the world as it is and not as Socialists would wish it to be, and “those who look back on it as a mistake”. Hollande belongs in the first camp; Montebourg and critics to the president’s left place themselves in the second.

Hollande’s other problem is that his economic policy is failing on its own terms. In the election campaign, in order to outflank his opponent, he accepted Sarkozy’s commitment to reduce the deficit to 3 per cent of output by the end of 2013, partly by means of €10m worth of spending cuts. Despite forecasts of anaemic growth, Hollande reiterated this commitment in office. What Ayrault called a “fighting budget” was announced and the target of a 3 per cent reduction pronounced “realistic”.

In November 2012, during the parliamentary debate on the European “fiscal compact”, many on the left of the party, including the PS first secretary, as well as the foreign minister, Laurent Fabius, a wily political streetfighter who served as prime minister under Mitterrand, protested that the treaty meant “austerity for life”. That same month, the European Commission declared that it was unlikely France would reach the 3 per cent target.

 Hollande insisted it could be achieved, and continued to do so until February this year, when he left it to Ayrault to make the following announcement: “We will not be exactly at 3 per cent at the end of 2013, but we will not be far off.”

Who was the minister despatched to tour the radio and television studios to warn that a recalibration of expectations was imminent? None other than Jérôme Cahuzac. As the right-leaning newspaper Le Figaro reported with some glee, one of Cahuzac’s last acts as a minister was to prepare people for the “burial of a presidential promise”.

Jonathan Derbyshire is the culture editor of the New Statesman

Jonathan Derbyshire is Managing Editor of Prospect. He was formerly Culture Editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 29 April 2013 issue of the New Statesman, What makes us human?

BRIAN ADCOCK FOR NEW STATESMAN
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Divided Britain: how the EU referendum exposed Britain’s new culture war

The EU referendum exposed a gaping fault line in our society – and it’s not between left and right.

There are streets in Hampstead, the wealthy northern suburb of London, where the pro-EU posters outnumber cars. A red “Vote Remain” in one. A “Green Yes” in another. The red, white and blue flag of the official campaign sits happily next to a poster from the left-wing campaign Another Europe Is Possible proclaiming that the world already has too many borders.

If you were looking for an equivalent street in Hull, in the north of England, you would look for a long time. In the city centre when I visited one recent morning, the only outward evidence that there was a referendum going on was the special edition of Wetherspoon News plastered on the walls of the William Wilberforce pub in Trinity Wharf. Most of the customers agreed with the message from the chain’s founder, Tim Martin: Britain was better off outside the European Union.

“Far too much Hampstead and not enough Hull” – that was the accusation levelled at the Remain campaign by Andy Burnham in the final weeks of the campaign. He wasn’t talking about geography; Remain’s voice is persuasive to residents of Newland Avenue in Hull, where I drank a latte as I eavesdropped on a couple who were fretting that “racists” would vote to take Britain out of the EU.

Rather, Burnham was talking about an idea, the “Hampstead” that occupies a special place in right-wing demonology as a haven of wealthy liberals who have the temerity to vote in the interests of the poor. The playwright and novelist Michael Frayn, in his 1963 essay on the Festival of Britain, called them “the Herbivores”:

“. . . the radical middle classes, the do-gooders; the readers of the News Chronicle, the Guardian, and the Observer; the signers of petitions; the backbone of the BBC . . . who look out from the lush pastures which are their natural station in life with eyes full of sorrow for less fortunate creatures, guiltily conscious of their advantages, though not usually ceasing to eat the grass.”

For Hampstead then, read swaths of Islington, Hackney, Brighton, Bristol, Cambridge, Edinburgh and Oxford today – all areas that were most strongly in favour of Remain and where Jeremy Corbyn is popular. But Remain never found a tone that won over the other half of Labour England; the campaign struck as duff a note among the diminishing band of pensioners on Hampstead’s remaining council estates as it did on Hull’s Orchard Park Estate.

The rift between “Hampstead and Hull”, in the sense that Andy Burnham meant it, is one that has stealthily divided Britain for years, but it has been brought into sharp focus by the debate over Europe.

Academics use various kinds of shorthand for it: the beer drinkers v the wine drinkers, or the cosmopolitans v the “left behind”. “It’s not just that [Britain] is div­ided between people who buy organic and people who buy own-brand,” says Philip Cowley, a professor of politics at Queen Mary University of London, “but between people who wouldn’t understand how anyone could buy own-brand and people who wouldn’t buy organic if you put a gun to their head.” Equating political preferences with shopping habits might sound flippant, but on 21 June the retail research company Verdict estimated that “half of Waitrose shoppers backed a Remain vote, against just over a third of Morrisons customers”.

The referendum has shown that there is another chasm in British politics, beyond left and right, beyond social conservatism v liberalism, and beyond arguments about the size of the state. The new culture war is about class, and income, and education, but also about culture, race, nationalism and optimism about the future (or lack of it). This divide explains why Ukip’s message has been seductive to former Labour voters and to Tories, and why Boris Johnson, an Old Etonian, led a campaign that purported to despise “elites” and “experts” and spoke of “wanting our country back”.

***

At the start of the campaign, the question that most accurately predicted whether you would back Remain or Leave was consistently: “Are you a graduate?” (Those who answered yes were much more likely to vote in favour of staying in the EU.) Stronger In never found a way to change that and win over those who left education at 18 or earlier. Pollsters also suggested that the much-vaunted Euroscepticism of older voters reflects generations where only one in ten people went to university.

This fissure has been growing for the best part of a decade and a half, but Britain’s first-past-the-post system, which deters newcomers and maintains entrenched parties, has provided a degree of insulation to Labour that its European cousins have lacked. Yet even here in the UK the mid-Noughties brought the brief rise of the British National Party, powered by voter defections from Labour in its strongholds in east London and Yorkshire, as well as the election of the Greens’ first MP on the back of progressive disillusionment with the governments of Tony Blair and Gordon Brown.

In office, both Blair and Brown calculated, wrongly, that Labour’s core vote had “nowhere else to go”. In opposition under Ed Miliband, the party calculated, again wrongly, that discontent with immigration, and the rise of Ukip powered by that discontent, was a problem for the Conservative Party alone.

In a 2014 pamphlet for the Fabian Society, ­Revolt on the Left, the activist Marcus Roberts, the academic Rob Ford and the analyst Ian Warren warned that Labour had “few reasons to cheer about the Ukip insurgency and plenty to worry about”. When the votes were cast in the general election the following year, that prediction turned out to be dispiritingly accurate. Defections from Labour to Ukip led to Labour losing seats to the Conservatives in Gower, Southampton Itchen, Telford and Plymouth Moor View.

For the most part, however, first-past-the-post papered over the cracks in Labour’s broad coalition: cracks that, in the harsh light of the EU referendum, have become obvious. The divide isn’t simply one of class, or income. The social profile and culture of voters in Cumbria are no different from that of voters on the other side of the border – but Scots in the Borders backed a Remain vote while their English peers in the border areas opted for Brexit. Inhospitality towards Brexit proved a stronger indication of city status than a mere cathedral: Vote Leave generally found Britain’s great cities more difficult terrain than the surrounding towns and countryside.

The problem of the fracturing vote is particularly acute for the Labour Party, which for much of the 20th century was able to rely on the Herbivores. In concert with Frayn’s “less fortunate creatures”, they have been enough to guarantee Labour close to 250 seats in the House of Commons and roughly one-third of the popular vote, even in difficult years. But Britain’s EU referendum placed Hampstead and Hull on opposing sides for the first time in modern British political history.

It was Tony Blair who, in his final speech to the Trades Union Congress as Labour leader in September 2006, said that the new debate in politics was not left against right, but “open v closed” – openness to immigration, to diversity, to the idea of Europe. Driven by their commitment to openness, Blair’s outriders dreamed of reshaping Labour as a mirror of the US Democrats – though, ironically, it was Ed Miliband, who repudiated much of Blair’s approach and politics, who achieved this.

At the 2015 election Labour’s coalition was drawn from the young, ethnic minorities and the well educated: the groups that powered Barack Obama’s two election wins in 2008 and 2012. The party was repudiated in the Midlands, went backwards in Wales and was all but wiped out in the east of England. (Scotland was another matter altogether.) Its best results came in Britain’s big cities and university towns.

The Remain campaign gave Labour a glimpse of how Miliband’s manifesto might have fared without the reassuring imprimatur of a red rosette. Britain Stronger In Europe has been rejected in the Midlands and struggled in the east of England. But it also failed to inspire passion in Sunderland, Oldham and Hull – all areas that, for now, return Labour MPs.

***

In appearance, Hull’s city centre is built on blood and sandstone, dotted with memorials to a lost empire and postwar replacements for bombed buildings, all ringed by suburban housing built by the private sector in the 1930s and the state in the 1950s and 1960s. It could be Bristol without the excessive hills, or a smaller Glasgow with a different accent. Unlike in Glasgow or Bristol, however, the residents of Hull are largely hostile to the European Union. Unlike Glasgow and Bristol, Hull is a post-imperial city that has yet to experience a post-colonial second act.

The William Wilberforce is named after a native son who helped destroy the British slave trade, the engine of Hull’s prosperity in the 18th century. The destruction of another local industry – fishing – drives resentment among the pub’s ageing clientele, who were there for breakfast and a bit of company when I visited. They blame its demise squarely on the EU.

Although the Labour Party now has only one MP in Scotland, the back rooms of the labour movement host an outsized Scottish contingent. For that reason – and the continuing threat that the loss of Labour’s seats in Scotland poses to the party’s chances of winning a majority at Westminster – the Scottish independence referendum of 2014 loomed large for Labour throughout the EU campaign.

From the outset, Britain Stronger In struggled to replicate the success of the Scottish No campaign, in part because the price of victory was one that Labour regarded as too high to pay a second time. In Glasgow, in the week before the Scottish referendum, everyone knew where Labour stood on independence – consequently, many voters were already planning to take revenge. The proprietor of one café told me that Labour was “finished in this city, for ever”.

Predictions of this sort were thin on the ground in Hull. Alan Johnson, the head of Labour’s EU campaign, is one of the three Labour MPs whom Hull sent to Westminster in 2015. But even late in the campaign, in his own constituency, I found uncertainty about the party’s official position on the referendum. For that reason, if nothing else, it didn’t have the feeling of a city preparing to break with a half-century-plus of Labour rule, as Glasgow did in 2014. In Scotland, most people I spoke to believed that they were on the brink of independence, which made the eventual result a big blow.

Only among Hull’s pro-European minority could I find any conviction that Britain might actually leave the EU. In September 2014 Kenneth Clarke remarked that Ukip’s supporters were “largely . . . the disappointed elderly, the grumpy old men, people who’ve had a bit of a hard time in life”. To listen to Hull’s Leave voters is to hear tales of the same frustrated potential: they feel that politicians of all stripes have lives entirely removed from theirs. In their defence, they are right – just 4 per cent of MPs in 2010 were from working-class backgrounds.

As for Ken Clarke, he has carved out a second career as every left-winger’s favourite Tory, but that tone of indifference towards the “disappointed lives” of globalisation’s casualties recalls his younger days as a rising star of Margaret Thatcher’s government.

Hull’s residents have been dismissed, first as the regrettable but inevitable consequence of Thatcherite economics, and now as small-minded opponents of social progress and racial diversity. Unsurprisingly, people who feel that their wishes have been ignored and in some cases actively squashed by successive governments of left and right did not expect to wake up on the morning of 24 June to discover that this time, their votes really had changed something.

Equally unsurprisingly, the Remain campaign’s warnings of economic collapse lacked force for people for whom the world’s end had been and gone.

In Glasgow in 2014 Scottish independence was a question of identity in itself, whereas in Hull, hostility towards Europe is the by-product of other identities that feel beleaguered or under threat: fishing, Englishness and whiteness, for the most part.

In Hampstead, a vote for Remain feels more like a statement about the world as you see it. One woman, who walks off before I can probe further, tells me: “Of course I’m voting to stay In. I buy Fairtrade.”

***

Immigration, not the European Union, is the issue that moves voters in Hull. “Britain is full” was the most frequent explanation they gave for an Out vote. Knowing that immigration, rather than the abstract question of sovereignty, would be crucial to winning the contest, Vote Leave tried from the beginning to make it a referendum on border control. Leave’s main theme: the threat of Turkey joining the European Union and, with it, the prospect of all 75 million Turks gaining the right to live and work in Britain.

Although Turkey’s chances of joining the EU are somewhere only just north of its hopes of launching a manned mission to Mars, the tactic worked: according to an ­Ipsos MORI poll released on the morning of 16 June, 45 per cent of Britons believed that Turkey will be fast-tracked into the Union.

That same morning, Nigel Farage posed in front of a poster showing refugees – mostly from Syria and most of them non-white – on the border between Croatia and Slovenia, with a slogan warning that uncontrolled immigration was leaving Britain at “breaking point”. But the row over the poster came to an unpleasant halt just a few hours later as news began to break that Jo Cox, the Labour MP for Batley and Spen, had been shot and stabbed on her way out of a constituency surgery. She died of her injuries a little over an hour later. On 19 June Thomas Mair, who was arrested in connection with the killing, gave his name at Westminster Magistrates’ Court as “Death to traitors, freedom for Britain”.

The circumstances of the killing felt familiar. A little after midnight on 5 June 1968, Robert Kennedy was returning to the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles in high spirits. He had just won a crucial victory in the California primary and was well placed to secure the Democratic nomination to run in that year’s presidential election. Going through the kitchen in order to avoid cheering crowds and get straight to his press conference, he was ambushed by a man called Sirhan Sirhan, who fired six shots from a revolver. Kennedy was rushed to hospital, where he died early the following morning.

Five months later Richard Nixon was elected president. The American right held on to the White House for 20 years out of the next 25. Jo Cox’s killing, amid the nativist howling from Farage et al, felt like the beginning of a similar chapter of right-wing advance in the UK.

Labour’s problem, and that of its social-democratic cousins throughout Europe, is the same as the American left’s was in the 1960s. Its founding coalition – of trade unions, the socially concerned middle classes and minorities, ethnic and cultural – is united (barely) on economic issues but irrevocably split on questions of identity. Outside crisis-stricken Greece and Spain, the left looks trapped in permanent opposition, with no politician able to reconsolidate its old base and take power again.

***

When I arrive in Hull, preparations are under way for a vigil in Jo Cox’s honour, but it is the nation of Turkey that is weighing on the minds of undecided voters. On Park Street, residents are divided. Those who have exercised their right to buy and are concerned about their mortgages are flirting with an Out vote but are terrified about negative equity. Those who remain in social housing or the private rented sector are untouched by stories of soaring mortgages. To many residents, the Treasury’s dire warnings seem to be the concerns of people from a different planet, not merely another part of the country. As Rachel, a woman in her mid-fifties who lives alone, puts it: “They say I’d lose four grand a month. I don’t know who they think is earning four grand a month but it certainly isn’t me.”

As Vote Leave knew, the promise that an Out vote will allow people to “take control” always had a particular appeal for those with precious little control – of their rent, of next week’s shift, of whether or not they will be able to afford to turn the heating on next week. Never mind that the control envisaged by Vote Leave would be exercised by the conservative right: the campaign found a message that was able to resonate across class and region, at least to an extent that could yet create a force to be reckoned with under first-past-the-post in Britain.

Four grand a month isn’t a bad salary, even in leafy Hampstead, but in that prosperous corner of north London fears of an Out vote, and what will come after, gained a tight purchase. The worry was coupled with resentment, too, over what would come, should the Outers triumph.

The great risk for the left is that herbivorous resentment is already curdling into contempt towards the people of Hull and the other bastions of Brexitism. That contempt threatens the commodity on which Labour has always relied to get Hull and Hampstead to vote and work together – solidarity. The referendum leaves the Conservatives divided at Westminster. That will give little comfort to Labour if the long-term outcome of the vote is to leave its own ranks divided outside it.

 

Stephen Bush is special correspondent at the New Statesman. He usually writes about politics. 

This article first appeared in the 23 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain