Nick Clegg arrives for his second debate with Nigel Farage. Source: Getty
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Anti-Establishment venom proves lethal to pro-European arguments

Nick Clegg stress-tested the case for Britain's EU membership in his debates with Nigel Farage and it failed.

This time Farage won it easily. The rapid reaction opinion poll shows the Ukip leader enjoyed an even wider margin of victory over the deputy Prime Minister than he did in last week’s TV debate. Comfortably more than two thirds of the surveyed audience sided against the EU, or rather, with the man who is against the EU.

There are many possible reasons for this. As last week, there is surely a predisposition in audiences to be suspicious of a pro-European argument and, in many quarters, an inclination to be suspicious of Nick Clegg. But the Lib Dem leader also seemed less stable in his rhetoric than last week, while Farage kept his cantankerous side in check. (Although he did display a sour, mirthless laugh that surely cannot have been endearing even to his most dedicated followers.)

Clegg seems to have decided that his performance last week lacked passion – perhaps because many of the reviews, including mine, said as much. Unfortunately, he responded with a  kind of urgent outrage that seemed directed as much at people who agree with Farage as at Farage himself. In other words, his attacks on the “dangerous fantasy” of wanting to “turn the clock back” must have come across as patronising and dismissive to people who are alarmed at and alienated by features of modern Britain – and there are probably more of them than there are die-hard Ukip voters.

The deputy Prime Minister put up a lively and robust defence of a diverse, open, tolerant society but he didn’t demonstrate that those things are contingent on continued membership of the EU. He denigrated the Ukip world view, which wasn’t the subject of the debate. Farage was more ruthlessly focused on the wickedness of Brussels. His hatred of the European project is not in doubt, as evidenced by his conviction that the EU has undeclared military imperial ambitions. Clegg is right when he says that line reeks of conspiracy theory and yet, I suspect, his efforts at ridicule – comparing Europhobia to doubts about the moon landing – missed their target. Farage neither looked nor sounded enough like a crank to make that attack work.

Clegg failed to rebut the view that Britain is controlled by a cabal of foreign bureaucrats – the most insidious and potent Eurosceptic theme. And yet again he found it hard to wriggle away from the argument that pro-Europeans don’t want to call a referendum because they are afraid the nation will deliver the “wrong” answer.

Farage’s foreign policy pronouncements – a kind of amoral isolationism that offers Vladimir Putin as an impressive practitioner of Great Game nationalism –  were as devoid of moral sense as they were last week. Except this time he had more space to expound on the theme and managed to turn it into a semi-coherent rejection of reckless interventions, deploying language often heard on the anti-war left.

Clegg’s final declaration of love for liberal, modern Britain will have earned cheers among his party faithful and that is half of his mission accomplished. But to win outright Clegg needed to show that Farage’s entire project runs on pessimism and fear. He needed to expose Ukip’s lack of any positive prescription and to remind people that Farage – public school educated, a former City trader, bankrolled by a handful of millionaires, free-riding on an MEP’s salary and allowances – has no credible claim to be the voice of the dispossessed. But Farage accused Clegg of being part of an “elite club of career politicians" in hock to "big business”. He offered his audience an invitation to  “join the people’s army and topple the Establishment.” And he got away with it. Clegg let him off the hook. This should cause alarm among those who believe in pragmatic engagement in Europe and those who take a liberal, open-minded, cosmopolitan view of the kind of place Britain should aspire to be. Perhaps Clegg was the wrong messenger. Perhaps under the circumstances he did well to get that case across at all. But it is hard to avoid the feeling that important arguments about Britain's cultural and economic future were stress-tested tonight and yielded too easily.

Rafael Behr is political columnist at the Guardian and former political editor of the New Statesman

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What David Hockney has to tell us about football

Why the sudden glut of blond footballers? A conversation I had with the artist back in 1966 gave me a clue. . .

In 1966, I went to interview David Hockney at a rather run-down flat in Bayswater, central London. He was 28 and had just won a gold medal at the Royal College of Art.

In his lavatory, I noticed a cut-out photograph from a newspaper of Denis Law scoring a goal. I asked if he was a football fan. He said no, he just liked Denis Law’s thighs.

The sub-editors cut that remark out of the story, to save any gossip or legal problems. In 1966 homosexual activity could still be an offence.

Hockney and a friend had recently been in the United States and had been watching an advert on TV that said “Blondes have more fun”. At two o’clock in the morning, slightly drunk, they both went out, bought some hair dye and became blond. Hockney decided to remain blond from then on, though he has naturally dark hair.

Is it true that blonds have more fun? Lionel Messi presumably thinks so, otherwise why has he greeted this brand-new season with that weird blond hair? We look at his face, his figure, his posture and we know it’s him – then we blink, thinking what the heck, does he realise some joker has been pouring stuff on his head?

He has always been such a staid, old-fashioned-looking lad, never messing around with his hair till now. Neymar, beside him, has gone even blonder, but somehow we expect it of him. He had foony hair even before he left Brazil.

Over here, blonds are popping up all over the shop. Most teams now have a born-again blondie. It must take a fortune for Marouane Fellaini of Man United to brighten up his hair, as he has so much. But it’s already fading. Cheapskate.

Mesut Özil of Arsenal held back, not going the full head, just bits of it, which I suspect is a clue to his wavering, hesitant personality. His colleague Aaron Ramsey has almost the full blond monty. Paul Pogba of Man United has a sort of blond streak, more like a marker pen than a makeover. His colleague Phil Jones has appeared blond, but he seems to have disappeared from the team sheet. Samir Nasri of Man City went startlingly blond, but is on loan to Seville, so we’re not able to enjoy his locks. And Didier Ndong of Sunderland is a striking blond, thanks to gallons of bleach.

Remember the Romanians in the 1998 World Cup? They suddenly appeared blond, every one of them. God, that was brilliant. One of my all-time best World Cup moments, and I was at Wembley in 1966.

So, why do they do it? Well, Hockney was right, in a sense. Not to have more fun – meaning more sex – because top footballers are more than well supplied, but because their normal working lives are on the whole devoid of fun.

They can’t stuff their faces with fast food, drink themselves stupid, stay up all night, take a few silly pills – which is what many of our healthy 25-year-old lads consider a reasonably fun evening. Nor can they spend all their millions on fun hols, such as skiing in the winter, a safari in the spring, or hang-gliding at the weekend. Prem players have to be so boringly sensible these days, or their foreign managers will be screaming at them in their funny foreign accents.

While not on the pitch, or training, which takes up only a few hours a day, the boredom is appalling, endlessly on planes or coaches or in some hotel that could be anywhere.

The only bright spot in the long days is to look in the mirror and think: “Hmm, I wonder what highlights would look like? I’ve done the beard and the tattoos. Now let’s go for blond. Wow, gorgeous.”

They influence each other, being simple souls, so when one dyes his hair, depending on where he is in the macho pecking order, others follow. They put in the day by looking at themselves. Harmless fun. Bless ’em.

But I expect all the faux blonds to have gone by Christmas. Along with Mourinho. I said that to myself the moment he arrived in Manchester, smirking away. Pep will see him off. OK then, let’s say Easter at the latest . . . 

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times