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Jeremy Corbyn is a risk the middle-class can afford to take

I’ve spent too long now watching the class I belong to live on its own sense of moral rectitude, says Sarah Ditum.

I know I’m middle class, because the day I needed to claim benefits and burst into tears because the queue was too long and I knew I would be going home without the money to pay the overdue electricity bill, the security guard took me aside and told me that if I came back early the next day, someone would be able to see me. I know the family in front of me were not middle class because the buggy they were pushing was a lesser brand than the one I was pushing, and because they were smoking, and because they had strong Sheffield accents, which I heard when they started to remonstrate with the security guard about the special treatment they (rightly) suspected I was getting. I hurried away, their threats to give me a good slapping echoing behind me.

The year of being poor was the year I knew my class most keenly. That year, I was thin because I walked a lot and ate mostly lentils, traipsing between the university campus where I studied English literature, and the flat I lived in with my boyfriend and our baby and the mice that poured in under the skirting boards. I paid for things with prayerful checks, hoping my student loan would clear in time. We took part-time jobs to eke out our tax credits – one working days, one working nights, meeting to hand over our baby. I stood in line outside seminar rooms, listening to normal students complain that they “hadn’t had time” to read Middlemarch over the summer, and wanted to deliver a slapping myself. The spines of all my Victorian set texts are split because I held them with one hand, cupping my baby’s head with the other, reading while I breast-fed.

That year was pinched and hard, and I knew it wouldn’t last. I knew that, in the end, I was more like the idiot children who couldn’t be bothered to finish a novel than I was like the neighbours I shared my mice with. I had a nice voice to talk to officials with, and a lifetime of trust that people in power were there mostly to help me, and parents who, if everything failed, would always come and get me. I had been brought up to believe that I would do well, sure of my own exceptionalism; my head stuffed with art and politics and foreign travel and table manners, so that if or when I sat down at formal hall one day, I would pass as someone who had always belonged there. My parents were the first generation of their family to go to university and lived very different lives to their parents. They wanted that life for me too.

When my boyfriend and me got our degrees and moved for work, we had to leave behind most of our furniture – all cast-offs and donations from family and friends. A little later we came back to do some final tidying up. I called in at my neighbours, and found myself sitting on my own ex-sofa, resting a cup on my own ex-coffee table, politely not mentioning it. That was the difference: neither of us had much, but I could afford to bet that there was more in my future. That’s what being middle class meant to me then. It was the promise that, however tired or wet or hungry I was that day, my future would be warm and dry and plump. I couldn’t always believe it. But I lived as though it were true, and by my acts I was redeemed.

Even so, the life me and my boyfriend had was really only possible because of a government that is now held in contempt by many of my peers. It’s hard to agree that New Labour was the epitome of neoliberal evil when tax credits kept you fed. Student loans and tuition fees smarted, but they didn’t stop me from doing OK. Labour helped me. It didn’t hugely help the place where I lived in my year of being poor, though. The constituency of Brightside and Hillsborough (once David Blunkett’s) remains a very safe Labour seat, but it’s never been given a solution for the disappearance of British industry. Unemployment is high, educational attainment low. The white population’s anxiety about immigration was evident when I lived there. Now, the second party in the constituency is Ukip (albeit second by a very long way). Sheffield voted, narrowly, for Leave in the the EU Referendum.

I didn’t live there for a general election, but the chances are I would not have voted for Blunkett if I’d had the chance. Class again. My issues were the Iraq war and tuition fees. I had a vague idea that a “proper” Labour government would not have done those things, and I took the goods of the Labour government I had for granted. In its turn, Labour took constituencies like Brightside and Hillsborough for granted, banking that they had no other party to turn to. That freed Labour up to move into the centre, where it won election after election. I still wish Labour had used that power to do more. I still think it’s wrong that the kind of redistribution Labour established could fix me safely back in the class where I started, but not haul up the whole neighbourhood.

But I want Labour to have power. I’ve spent too long now watching the class I belong to live on its own sense of moral rectitude, at the expense of the class I temporarily lived within. Corbyn's heritage, heirloom leftism is a luxury good – you can afford it if life under perpetual Tory government is something you can bear the cost of. And, like most retro pleasures you find at the farmers’ market, it’s a very modern version of the old: Corbyn’s Labour is a Labour movement for a world where labour has lost most of its former power. A Labour of the herbivores, headed up by a grammar-school boy, flanked by his Winchester-educated press-strategy man, still expecting the working classes to fall into grateful line. That’s an expectation that can no longer be relied on. I know I'm middle class now because Labour’s failure doesn't hurt me. 

Sarah Ditum is a journalist who writes regularly for the Guardian, New Statesman and others. Her website is here.

Newsgroup Newspapers Ltd/Published with permission
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Everything that is wonderful about The Sun’s HMS Global Britain Brexit boat

And all who sail in her.

Just when you’d suffered a storm called Doris, spotted a sad Ukip man striding around the Potteries in top-to-toe tweed, watched 60 hours of drama about the Queen being a Queen and thought Britain couldn’t get any more Brexity, The Sun on Sunday has launched a boat called HMS Global Britain.


Photo: Newsgroup Newspapers Ltd/Photos published with permission from The Sun

Taking its name from one of Theresa May’s more optimistic characterisations of the UK post-Europe (it’s better than “Red, white and blue Brexit”, your mole grants), this poor abused vessel is being used by the weekend tabloid to host a gaggle of Brexiteers captained by Michael Gove – and a six-foot placard bearing the terms of Article 50.

Destination? Bloody Brussels, of course!

“Cheering MPs boarded HMS Global Britain at Westminster before waving off our message on a 200-mile voyage to the heart of the EU,” explains the paper. “Our crew started the journey at Westminster Pier to drive home the clear message: ‘It’s full steam ahead for Brexit.’”

Your mole finds this a wonderful spectacle. Here are the best bits:

Captain Michael Gove’s rise to power

The pinnacle of success in Brexit Britain is to go from being a potential Prime Minister to breaking a bottle of champagne against the side of a boat with a fake name for a publicity stunt about the policy you would have been enacting if you’d made it to Downing Street. Forget the experts! This is taking back control!


 

“God bless her, and all who sail in her,” he barks, smashing the bottle as a nation shudders.

The fake name

Though apparently photoshopped out of some of the stills, HMS Global Britain’s real name is clear in The Sun’s footage of the launch. It is actually called The Edwardian, its name painted proudly in neat, white lettering on its hull. Sullied by the plasticky motorway pub sign reading “HMS Global Britain” hanging limply from its deck railings. Poor The Edwardian. Living in London and working a job that involves a lot of travel, it probably voted Remain. It probably joined the Lib Dems following the Article 50 vote. It doesn’t want this shit.

The poses

All the poses in this picture are excellent. Tory MP Julian Brazier’s dead-eyed wave, the Demon Headmaster on his holidays. Former education minister Tim Loughton wearing an admiral’s hat and toting a telescope, like he dreamed of as a little boy. Tory MP Andrea Jenkyns’ Tim Henman fist of regret. Labour MP Kate Hoey’s cheeky grin belied by her desperately grasping, steadying hand. Former Culture Secretary John Whittingdale’s jolly black power salute. And failed Prime Ministerial candidate Michael Gove – a child needing a wee who has proudly found the perfect receptacle.

The metaphor

In a way, this is the perfect representation of Brexit. Ramshackle, contrived authenticity, unclear purpose, and universally white. But your mole isn’t sure this was the message intended by its sailors… the idea of a Global Britain may well be sunk.

I'm a mole, innit.