The politics of excitement

The Blair decade began with an exuberant rush of energy and sense of possibility. How can politics r

Ian McEwan's latest novel, On Chesil Beach, returns us to the summer of 1962, and to the hopes and aspirations of a young, newly married couple in a stilted and repressed Britain that is soon to be transformed for ever by the political and cultural turbulence of what we simply know now as "the Sixties". They are from respectable, upper-middle-class families, and yet they long for convulsive change and a new kind of politics.

"Edward and Florence would be voting for the first time in the next general election and were keen on the idea of a Labour landslide," McEwan writes. "In a year or two, the older generation that still dreamed of Empire must surely give way to politicians like Gaitskell, Wilson, Crosland - new men with a vision of a modern country . . . If America could have an exuberant and handsome President Kennedy, then Britain could have something similar - at least in spirit, for there was no one quite so glamorous in the Labour Party."

In the event, Labour won the general election of 1964, but it was no landslide. We had to wait two more years for a more comprehensive victory, in the election of March 1966. We had to wait even longer, until the emergence of Tony Blair, for a truly exuberant and glamorous leader who, for a short, tantalising period, seemed to embody all our yearning and desire for pro gressive change, beguiling us with his vision of a modern country. If he was not quite our Kennedy, he was something entirely new in British political history.

His extraordinary popularity did not last. In retrospect, it could not have lasted, because party politics is, ultimately, not about ideals and truth; it is about compromise and obfuscation. It's about being pragmatic, and working out what is and what is not possible in a capitalist liberal democracy in an age of globalisation, and of intense media scrutiny, when the richest members of any society are intent on paying as little tax as possible and the rest of us often demand of others what we are not prepared to do ourselves.

Yet those early weeks that followed the Labour landslide in May 1997, with their jingly-jangly Britpop soundtrack, now have a strange, drifting, dreamlike quality, as if we were all high on the opiate of change and possibility, as if we had all been sprinkled with a kind of magic dust. How different Tony Blair seemed from the grey man he had replaced at Downing Street: he was our first politician-as-celebrity, articulate in the language of popular culture, at ease on television, whatever the cultural register of the programme on which he found himself, relaxed in the company of rock stars and the new rich, and apparently uninhibited by the old class anxieties.

"London swings again!" announced Vanity Fair in 1997 on the cover of an issue showing the then husband-and-wife partnership of Patsy Kensit and Oasis's Liam Gallagher lying on a bed, wrapped in a Union Jack duvet. According to Newsweek, London was the most exciting city on the planet, offering a "hip compromise between the non-stop newness of Los Angeles and the aspic-preserved beauty of Paris - sharpened to New York's edge".

We were living through the historical moment known as Cool Britannia when, for the first time in my lifetime, mainstream party politics had something of the allure of rock'n'roll, and Labour was the hegemonic power. In July 1997, Noel Gallagher of Oasis and Alan McGee, founder of Creation Records, the band's record label, were among numerous arts celebrities invited along for a drinks party at 10 Downing Street. Afterwards, Gallagher, who was photographed drinking champagne and chatting with Blair in one of the defining images of that year, and indeed of the entire new Labour first term, announced that "Blair's the man! Power to the people."

Not long after that Downing Street party, I received a call from an old university friend. He is a remote and austere figure, religious and resolutely uninterested in the culture at large. But that afternoon he wanted only to talk about the new government, its promise, its sense of purpose, its "ethical" foreign policy, however misunderstood that notion turned out to be. Like so many of us, my friend believed in Tony Blair and in his mission to remake the country. He knew nothing of the dirt, struggle, grind and compromise of political life. What he did know was this: that there was a sense of optimism in the country such as he had never experienced before, and it was leading him away from his books and music and back into an active engagement with wider society.

Nowadays, once more in retreat, my friend seldom speaks about politics, except in distraction and sorrow. He would have enjoyed last week's issue of this magazine, grandly titled "Blair: the reckoning". The presiding tone was one of powerful regret, and even of rage. The political philosopher John Gray predicated that, after ten years in power, Blair would "bequeath to Labour a long sojourn in the wilderness". The barrister Helena Kennedy suggested that, with the "war, the erosion of liberty, the absence of egalitarianism", Blair had "blown it". The writer Natasha Walter was even more direct: Blair, with blood on his hands, was "truly evil". And so it went on: so much sadness and loss in this shadowland.

Much of what I read struck me as ludicrously pessimistic, the usual leftist dissatisfaction at the failures of a Labour government to liberate itself from the influence and hold of the United States and effect a radical remodelling of society.

"New Labour suffered from an exaggerated sense of expectation, just as it is now suffering from an exaggerated sense of disillusionment," says Matthew Taylor, a former director of policy at 10 Downing Street who is now running the RSA, the royal society for the arts.

"We are always that much more disillusioned by the failures of parties of the left, because we expect so much more of them," says Peter Wilby, who has published a study of Anthony Eden and the politics of the 1950s. "I recall how excited I was when Wilson came to power, ending 13 years of Tory rule. I felt that sense of excitement and possibility much more strongly in 1964 than in 1997, when I didn't have past disillusionment to mollify my enthusiasms."

More substance

This seems to me an important observation - and one that, in addition to anger at the catas trophe of Iraq, helps to explain why there will be little fanfare to accompany Gordon Brown's arrival at Downing Street. Disillusionment has mollified our enthusiasms. Our expectations are no longer so unrealistic. The magic dust has long since been removed from our eyes.

Brown understands this, which is why he has talked about a turn towards a less ostentatious and frivolous style of politics. "I think we're moving from this period when, if you like, celebrity matters, when people have become famous for being famous," he told the Guardian. "I think you can see that in other countries, too - people are moving away from that to what lies behind the character and the personality."

Less celebrity and more substance: is this what we now want from our politicians in the immediate post-Blair period? Can this move away from celebrity, if it is really happening at all, help to reinvigorate our interest in mainstream party politics?

Matthew Taylor, for one, believes that we are experiencing what he calls a profound shift in our politics. "People don't want politics to be about something government does to them; they want it to be about how life and society feels to them. We need to be less government-centric, and begin to speak more about the kind of society we want to live in and what we can do as citizens to achieve it. For too long there's been a social aspiration gap - between the society we want to live in, and the society we are able to create through our actions. I think David Cameron is closer to articulating this shift than any other politician. Of course, being in opposition allows him the freedom to speak as he does."

In conversation, Taylor uses phrases such as "civic altruism" and "citizen voluntarism". He asks how we can "reconceptualise social change" and calls on "citizens" to be more "self-sufficient". What he is proposing is a different "model of democracy" from what we have now: less centralised and more flexible, and one that demands more responsibility and participation from the citizen. This seems appropriate for an internet-dominated culture, which offers so many ways of social networking and methods of instant communication: the email, the text, the blog, the chatroom. After all, among the most popular sites on the web - YouTube, MySpace, Facebook - are those for which the content is mostly provided by users, and which encourage not passive consumption, but active responsibility and interaction.

"There is a long-term secular trend of disengagement from party politics," Taylor says. "In this sense, the period from 1994 to 1997, associated with the political phenomenon that was new Labour, was a blip. I think people felt in 1992 that they had been conned in some way into voting Conservative, and they didn't want that to happen again. They became engaged. But we must distinguish between cycles and trends. The new Labour phenomenon was a cycle. The trend is towards disengagement."

In 2005, the journalist John Harris published a book called So Now Who Do We Vote For?, which was about his own alienation from and disillusionment with the new Labour project. An earlier book by Harris, The Last Party, had smartly chronicled the rise of Britpop and explained how the movement, if it could be so described, began to fracture as soon as it became associated with the Labour Party and with Tony Blair in particular. The NME led the counter-attack against the government in its celebrated issue of March 1998, with the dramatic cover line: "Ever get the feeling you've been cheated?" The subhead was: "Rock'n'roll takes on the government."

The NME is notoriously impatient and capricious. It was inevitable that, before too long, it would turn against Blair and his new Labour Party. But few could have predicted how quickly the magazine would position itself in opposition to the government; that party at Downing Street with Noel Gallagher was at once the apotheosis and the beginning of the end of the cult of Cool Britannia. It was indeed the last party.

"I was 27 in 1997, and I was caught up in the euphoria of Labour's victory," Harris says now. "When I wrote Now Who Do We Vote For? I felt terribly disillusioned with politics, and shut out and at odds with the new Labour project. I felt the lunatic Blairite fringe was winning."

He is less disengaged now. "I've rejoined the party, yes. I no longer feel that modern social democracy is a cause that has been lost. Ed Mili band, Yvette Cooper, Ed Balls - you feel that they're committed to social democracy. I'm guardedly optimistic that we can begin to have a conversation again. What I want from politics - and this is the way to get young people more interested again - is to have a clearer sense of difference, of a clash of conflicting ideologies.

"We've got to get away from fake politics. Across the world, when people feel there's something at stake, turnout rises at elections, as it did in France. Watching the French presidential elections - the dialogue taking place between Nicolas Sarkozy and Ségolène Royal - you had a sense of something meaningful being talked about. They were talking about what kind of society France should become in relation to globalisation. And you had a clear sense of choice between the two."

Genuine policy differences, opposing ideologies, class conflicts, a clash of ideas: these are what first attracted me as a teenager to politics in the early 1980s, as Margaret Thatcher radicalised wider society with her market reforms and ideologically driven attack on the postwar consensus. The Labour Party moved, disastrously, leftwards in response to Thatcherism, and the divided party had to split as well as suffer many defeats and humiliations before it began to make its long journey back to the political centre, a position from which it could once more contemplate winning elections.

Can party politics ever be cool again? That, I think, is the wrong question, especially if being cool means drinks parties with rock stars at Downing Street as well as winning and maintaining the support of the NME. In fact, to be cool is, almost by definition, to be fleetingly fashionable. Far better, as Gordon Brown understands, to be a politician of moral authority and of permanent ethical values.

There is no doubt that even as membership of political parties continues to fall exponentially - Labour would not tell us for this piece how many of its members are aged 35 or under - engagement with political issues, such as climate change and third world debt and poverty, continues to rise. There is a craving for seriousness, for hard political action, would that we were prepared to grasp it and act, in the image of Taylor's active and responsible citizens.

At present, Westminster politics is defined by its ideological convergence; there is very little difference between Blair's Labour and Cameron's new-model, more socially liberal Conservatives. With the arrival of Gordon Brown as prime minister, and with the nationalists so strong in Scotland, we may be entering a period of upheaval, with the Labour government defining itself not so much against the Con servatives, the official opposition, as against its previous leader. Tony Blair was our first true politician-as-celebrity, and we once loved him unwisely and too well, just as we now loathe him ardently and, perhaps, too much.

Jason Cowley is the newly appointed editor of Granta magazine

Jason Cowley is editor of the New Statesman. He has been the editor of Granta, a senior editor at the Observer and a staff writer at the Times.

This article first appeared in the 14 May 2007 issue of the New Statesman, What now?

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Goodbye to the Confederate flag

After the shootings in Charleston, the Republican right showed it was finally ready to reject the old symbols of the Confederacy.

On 27 June, an African-American activist named Bree Newsome woke up before dawn, put on her climbing equipment and scaled a 30-foot flagpole on the lawn of State House in Columbia, South Carolina. She then removed the Confederate battle flag that flew from it. “We can’t wait any longer,” she explained later in an online statement. “It’s time for a new chapter where we are sincere about dismantling white supremacy.”

After she was led away in handcuffs, the flag was raised again.

Newsome’s protest reflected a growing impatience within America’s black community and anger about liberal inaction. Political rallies by the Democratic presidential contenders Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders have been disrupted by the Black Lives Matter campaign against violence committed on young African Americans and the cultural and legal biases that justify it. While promoting his book on race in the US, the writer Ta-Nehisi Coates argued that, to African Americans, the battle flag represents a lingering attempt “to bury the fact that half this country thought it was a good idea to raise an empire rooted in slavery”.

Yet, on this matter, to everyone’s surprise, the black civil rights movement and many southern Republicans have proved to be of one mind. On 9 July the House of Representatives in South Carolina voted to lower the battle flag for good. It stood, representatives said, for racism. It had to go.

The context of this agreement was a painful one. Ten days before Newsome’s act, a 21-year-old white man named Dylann Roof shot and killed nine black worshippers at the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina. According to his room-mate, he wanted to start a race war. The TV screens showed a photo of him holding a gun in one hand and a Confederate battle flag in the other.

If the demands for redress made by civil rights groups didn’t come as a surprise, conservative acquiescence did. The Republican Party had built a solid base in the South by courting white voters who cherished the memory of the Confederacy. Yet the party’s presidential hopefuls from both the North and the South – including Jeb Bush, Lindsey Graham, Scott Walker and George Pataki – said that the battle flag ought to be lowered. The most striking intervention was made by the governor of South Carolina, Nikki Haley, who denounced the use of the Confederate flag and signed the bill removing it. Haley is now tipped to figure on the list of potential vice-presidential nominees.

The volte-face of the US right is in part a result of the horror of the Charleston shootings. Yet it also occurs in the context of major shifts within American society. There are still many conservatives who will defend Confederate heritage as a matter of southern pride but the culture wars are changing as the US becomes increasingly European in outlook. This is taking place across the country. It just happens to be more pronounced in the South because no other region has fought so violently and so long to resist the liberal tide.

The story of the battle flag is the story of the South. The first official Confederate flag used in the civil war of 1861-65 caused confusion during fighting – through the haze of gun smoke, its design of 13 stars and red and white bars was hard to distinguish from the Stars and Stripes. An alternative blue cross was rejected for being too sectarian; the racist Confederacy was anxious not to offend its Jewish citizens. So the cross became a diagonal X. This flag was never officially adopted by the Confederate army. In the years after the war its use was infrequent.

There was little need to visualise southern difference in a flag. It was self-evident in the physical signs of racial segregation: separate schools, pools and drinking fountains; black people confined to the back of the bus. Political displays of the battle flag of Dixie (the historical nickname for the states that seceded from the Union) only really resurfaced when that racial order was challenged by northern liberals. In 1948, the Democrats – then the party overwhelmingly in control of the South – split over modest calls for civil rights. The conservatives who refused to support that year’s presidential ticket, the “Dixiecrats”, triggered a rev­ival of flag-waving across the region.

The old battle flag suddenly appeared on private lawns, on cars and at political rallies. Supposedly ancient cultural traditions were invented overnight. For instance, the 1948 student handbook of the University of Mississippi confessed: “Many Ole Miss customs are fairly new; they lack only the savouring which time brings . . . Ole Miss has adopted the Confederate flag as a symbol of the Mississippi spirit. Each football game finds the scarlet flag frantically waving to the rhythm of the Rebel band.”

I can confirm that this “tradition” was still going as recently as in 2005. That year, I attended an American football game at Ole Miss and was surprised when the band played “Dixie” at the end. White boys and white girls stood up and belted out the folk song of the Confederacy, while black students filed out.

In 1958, South Carolina made it a crime to desecrate the battle flag. Three years later, on the 100th anniversary of the outbreak of the civil war, it was hoisted above its Capitol building in Columbia. That day, there was a struggle in the US Congress to keep federal funding going for segregated schools.

So clear is the link between the postwar white resistance to civil rights and the battle flag that many see it as the symbolic equivalent of the N-word. Jack Hunter, the editor of the conservative website Rare Politics, says: “Some people insist that it’s not about racism, not about slavery, not about segregation. But it’s about all those things.” Hunter grew up in Charleston and used to skateboard in the car park of the church that Dylann Roof attacked. When he was a young journalist, he appeared on local radio as a rabidly right-wing masked character called “the Southern Avenger”. His past was exposed in 2013 while he was working for Rand Paul, a Republican presidential candidate, and Hunter stepped down from his position. He publicly renounced his youthful association with racial conservatism. He now eschews any romanticism about the Confederate cause and its demand for states’ rights. “States’ rights to do what?” he asks: the right to discriminate against African Americans? He is glad that the State House flag is gone. He ascribes its longevity to ignorance, which was corrected by Roof’s rampage: “It was the first time that [southern Republicans] were able to see a different perspective on this symbol.”

Not everyone agrees. Richard Hines – a former South Carolina legislator, Reagan campaign state co-chair and senior activist with the Sons of Confederate Veterans – insists that the flag is “an enduring symbol of the southern fighting man”. Indeed, a poll in July found that 57 per cent of Americans think it stands for southern heritage, rather than racism. Yet that heritage has a political dimension. “Southern people are proud of who they are and there is a leftist assault to destroy the best part of America,” Hines says. “The Trotskyite elite in control of the establishment wants to root out the southern tradition” – a tradition of religious devotion, chivalry and military honour. It is possible to cast the battle flag as a pawn in a much larger cultural conflict.

In 2000, civil rights activists lobbied hard to get the battle flag removed from the top of the South Carolina Capitol and succeeded in having it shrunk in size and relocated to the grounds of State House. The issue came up in that year’s Republican presidential primaries – an unusually poisonous contest between George W Bush and John McCain. Supporters of Bush put out a false story that McCain had fathered an interracial child out of wedlock. McCain added to his woes by opining that the battle flag was “a symbol of racism and slavery”. An organisation called Keep It Flying flooded the state with 250,000 letters attacking him and he lost the crucial competition here to Bush.

The battle flag has retained a strong emotional power for a long time. This makes the Republican establishment’s abandonment of the flag all the more surprising. Then again, those who run the South are probably the people most likely to grasp how much the region has changed in just a decade.

***

In 2010 I took a trip through North Carolina. The landscape told a story. Dotted along the roadside were abandoned black buildings, the old tobacco sheds. The decline of the rural economy had rendered them obsolete. Over the fields that would once have been full of farmers were freshly tarmacked roads, stretching out to nowhere. My guide explained that these were supposed to be cul-de-sacs for new houses. North Carolina was going through a property boom. But who was going to buy all those homes, I asked? The answer: damn Yankees.

Demography is destiny. This once agri­cultural region developed fast from the 1960s onwards by keeping union membership, taxes and regulation as low as possible. Yet capitalism proved disastrous for southern conservatism. Northerners flooded in, seeking work or retirement and bringing their own values. The forecast is that North Carolina’s Research Triangle – the South’s Silicon Valley – will grow by 700,000 jobs and 1.2 million people in two decades.

White migration was accompanied by an influx of Spanish speakers as the service sector flourished. Between 2000 and 2010, the white share of the population of North Carolina fell from 70 to 65 per cent. The black proportion remained at roughly 21 per cent. The Latino proportion, however, jumped from 4.7 per cent to 8.4 per cent. Today, the proportion of people who are non-white and over 60 is about a third. But it’s approaching nearly half for those under 18. As a result, politics in the South is no longer biracial: a contest between white and black. It is increasingly multiracial and uncoupled from the region’s complex past.

The impact of these changes is reflected in voting patterns. In 2000, the South was still overwhelmingly Republican in presidential contests. Even the Democratic nominee, Al Gore, a southerner, lost his home state of Tennessee. But in 2008 and 2012, Barack Obama took those states with the fastest-changing demographics: Florida and Virginia. He won North Carolina in 2008 and lost it in 2012 – but by less than 100,000 votes. It is true that the Republicans won back control in the 2014 midterm elections, with the result that the Deep South now sends few Democrats to Congress; but the region’s political masters are not quite as traditional-minded as they once were.

The Republican relationship with the Confederate past is complex. As the party of Abraham Lincoln and the Union, the GOPs’ southern support was historically small. But in the 1960s the national Democratic Party embraced civil rights and alienated its once loyal southern following; the Republicans took the opportunity to steal some conservative white voters.

The growing southern Republican vote had a class component. Its success in local and congressional races was built more on winning over middle-class moderates than on appealing to the working-class racists who filled the ranks of the Ku Klux Klan. The southern Republican Party did enthusiastically embrace the Confederate battle flag in many quarters. But some office-holders did so only with ambiguity, while large sections of the party never identified with it at all. The period of Republican ascendancy in the South was, in reality, linked with a softening of the area’s racial politics.

Two of the Republicans’ current southern stars are Indian Americans: Bobby Jindal, the governor of Louisiana, and Nikki Haley, the anti-flag governor of South Carolina. There are just two black people in the US Senate and one of them is a Republican, the Tea Party-backed senator for South Carolina, Tim Scott. Marco Rubio, the Floridian senator and presidential candidate, is Cuban American, and the former Florida governor Jeb Bush is married to a Mexican-born woman and speaks fluent Spanish. Bush has tried to push a more moderate line on immigration, in deference to how the GOP will struggle to win the White House if it appeals only to angry white voters. The Kentucky libertarian senator Rand Paul, Jack Hunter’s former boss, has called for legal reforms to correct the trend of keeping far more black than white people in prison. And he is not the only Republican to have been moved by recent race riots sparked by police violence.

***

Violence on the streets of Ferguson, Missouri, and Baltimore, Maryland, confirmed that there still is a culture war in the US. Yet its character has changed. In the past, civil disturbances were typically leapt upon by conservative politicians as evidence of social decline. The 1992 LA riots were blamed on single parenthood and rap lyrics. In contrast, conservative leaders today are far more likely to acknowledge the problems of white racism. There is no place in their ranks for the likes of Dylann Roof. White supremacists are tiny in number.

Jack Hunter claims: “The KKK is like 12 guys in a telephone booth. Liberal groups will use their threat for fundraising but it doesn’t exist. It hasn’t properly since the 1960s.” Roof’s actions say more about gun control, mental illness and the angst of the young than they do about popular, largely liberal views on race, as polling shows.

We can see a similar liberal shift in other areas of the historic culture war. In May 2015 Gallup released the results of a “moral acceptability” survey charting changes in national attitude across all age groups, from 2001 to 2015. Approval of gay relationships jumped from 40 to 63 per cent; having a baby out of wedlock from 45 to 61 per cent; sex between unmarried men and women from 53 to 68 per cent; doctor-assisted suicide from 49 to 56 per cent; even polygamy went from 7 to 16 per cent. Abortion remained narrowly disapproved of: support for access has only crept up from 42 to 45 per cent. This is probably a result of an unusual concentration of political and religious opposition and because it involves a potential life-or-death decision. But the general trend is that young people just don’t care as much about what consenting adults get up to.

Why? It might be because old forms of identity are dying. One way of measuring that is religious affiliation. From 2007 to 2014, according to Pew Research, the proportion of Americans describing themselves as Christian fell from 78 to 71 per cent. Today, only a quarter of the population is evangelical and 21 per cent Catholic, down despite high immigration. Then there is the decline in civic or communal activity. Since 2012, the organisers of Nascar, the stock-car races, have not published attendance figures at their tracks, probably because they have fallen so sharply. The decline of this most macho and working class of sports parallels the fall in conservative forms of collective identity such as southern traditionalism.

The old culture war was, like the racial politics of the old South, binary. In the 1950s, around the same time as the South invented its tradition of flying the battle flag in colleges, the US constructed an ideal of the “normal” nuclear family unit: straight, white, patriarchal, religious. On the other side was the “abnormal”: gay, black, feminist, atheist, and the rest. The surest way to get elected in the US between 1952 and 2004 was to associate yourself with the economic needs and cultural prejudices of the majority. The approach was once summed up by a Richard Nixon strategist thus: split the country in two and the Republicans will take the larger half. But that is changing. The old normal is no longer the cultural standard but just one of many identities to choose from. The races are mixing. Women want to work more and have children later in life, possibly without marriage. Many religious people are having to rethink their theology when a child comes out as gay. And the enforcers of the old ways – the unions, churches or political parties – are far less attractive than the atomising internet.

***

Politicians are scrabbling to keep up with the diffusion of American identity. Democrats got lucky when they nominated Barack Obama and chose a presidential candidate who reflected the fractured era well: interracial, non-denominational Christian, and so on. In the 2012 presidential race the Republicans got burned when they tried to play the old culture war card on abortion. They won’t repeat that mistake. After the Supreme Court legalised gay marriage across the country in June, the right’s response was not as uniformly loud and outraged as it would have been in the past. Some protested, but serious presidential contenders such as Jeb Bush grasped the implications of the defeat. There is a cultural and political realignment going on and no one is sure where it will lead. It’s encouraging caution among the Republican top brass. It is time, they think, to abandon lost causes.

The death of southern traditionalism is part of the ebb and flow of cultural history. Identities flourish and die. As political fashions change, you find the typically American mix of triumph on one side and jeremiad on the other. Richard Hines stood vigil as the battle flag was lowered in Columbia and noted with disgust the presence of what he described as “bussed-in” activists. “They pulled out all these gay pride flags and started shouting, ‘USA, USA, USA!’ It reminded me of the Bolshevik Revolution.”

Hines reckons that more southerners will now fly the flag than ever before and says he has attended overflow rallies of ordinary folks who love their region. He may well be correct. The faithful will keep the old Confederate standard fluttering on their lawns – an act of secession from the 21st century. But in the public domain, the battle flag is on its way down and in its place will be raised the standard of the new America. The rainbow flag flutters high. For now.

Tim Stanley is a historian and a columnist for the Telegraph

This article first appeared in the 20 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Corbyn wars