The book of Dave

In conversation with the editor of GQ, the would-be prime minister reveals . . . that he "d

If there is one political question that needs to be addressed today it is this: what sort of prime minister would David Cameron be? The voters may have decided they do not like Gordon Brown, but before they let go of Nurse they are entitled to ask whether the smooth, young man they are offered instead is not something worse.

A year of privileged access to Cameron, combining lots of close-up observation with one- to-one interviews, would seem a wonderful opportunity to answer the question. You might get under the veneer. You might be able to tell people something new and important.

Well, Dylan Jones, the editor of GQ, had that opportunity, and he found out that Cameron "doesn't really like" Pot Noodles. He also discovered that the Tory leader prefers Lily Allen to Amy Winehouse (though he buys the albums of both), that he needs six or seven hours' sleep a night, and that long ago his father took the Times and the Express but at some point dropped the Express for the Mail.

It doesn't stop there, for it turns out that Cameron has views on the recent history of his party. They go like this: Margaret Thatcher, of course, was a great leader, and he can't find fault with John Major; William Hague was also a great leader; Iain Duncan Smith was ahead of his time; and Cameron admires Michael Howard "a lot".

Cameron on Cameron: Conversations With Dylan Jones (Fourth Estate, £12.99) bills itself as the best introduction to the man who could be our next prime minister, a must-read for voters intrigued by this political phenomenon, and indeed it tells us one important (though not very new) thing about the Conservative leader: he knows how to pick an interviewer.

Though Jones makes a half-hearted claim, in the introduction, that his objective is merely to put information before the reader, when he gets to work he leaves no doubt that his real business is brazen hagiography. Cameron, he declares, is "my man", his ascendancy "coinciding with my own political shift". And the author has no interest in challenging; the verbatim question-and-answer passages that form the heart of the book have all the excitement and interest of a village cricket team bowling to Australia. You know the sort of all-things-to-all-men stuff Cameron puts in his speeches? Well, he gets to say those things here and nobody stops him.

Maybe we should not expect the editor of GQ to tackle the details of crime policy, or education; he is not a policy specialist, after all. But even where he has the ammunition to hand he refuses to use it. It is clear to anyone interested in Cameron's life, for example, that he does not like people dwelling on his years (1994-2001) as a top PR for Carlton Communications. It is equally clear that if we are to understand him at all, we need to know in what ways he was influenced by the job, the longest of his short career and a job of particular relevance for a man now in politics.

The business journalist Patrick Hosking once wrote in this magazine that he had found Cameron the PR man obstructive, and that his work included such wholesome fare as "defending the dumping of News at Ten to make way for a revival of Mr and Mrs; arguing the case for commercials targeted at children; defending the screening of insalutary scenes from The Vice within minutes of the 9pm watershed; explaining how Carlton had come to screen a one-hour programme, conceived, sponsored and entirely funded by British Telecom".

Jones quotes those lines from Hosking at one stage in his narrative, but he does not put them to Cameron. When it comes to the interview he allows his man to finesse the period entirely. "I learned how to explain difficult and complex things," is his airy verdict on those years. "I also learned that spin and PR will not get you where you want to go, and that truth is the most important commodity." How nice.

All we see is that seamless, shiny veneer. Try this. "Are you middle- or upper-class?" he is asked. "I don't really buy these labels." "Come on, gun to your head," Jones insists. "Gun to my head, I suppose I'd describe myself as well-off." And this: "You've been described as a cautious man. Are you?" "Well, I'm a mixture of sometimes being quite radical and wanting changes, and on the other hand being cautious and thoughtful about how to bring it about."

If you like this sort of thing, as the old saying has it, then you will find it is the sort of thing you like.

Brian Cathcart is Director of Hacked Off. He tweets as @BrianCathcart.

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2008 issue of the New Statesman, How to survive the recession

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The French millennials marching behind Marine Le Pen

A Front National rally attracts former socialists with manicured beards, and a lesbian couple. 

“In 85 days, Marine will be President of the French Republic!” The 150-strong crowd cheered at the sound of the words. On stage, the speaker, the vice-president of the far-right Front National (FN), Florian Philippot, continued: “We will be told that it’s the apocalypse, by the same banks, media, politicians, who were telling the British that Brexit would be an immediate catastrophe.

"Well, they voted, and it’s not! The British are much better off than we are!” The applause grew louder and louder. 

I was in the medieval city of Metz, in a municipal hall near the banks of the Moselle River, a tributary of the Rhine from which the region takes its name. The German border lies 49km east; Luxembourg City is less than an hour’s drive away. This is the "Country of the Three Borders", equidistant from Strasbourg and Frankfurt, and French, German and French again after various wars. Yet for all that local history is deeply rooted in the wider European history, votes for the Front National rank among the highest nationally, and continue to rise at every poll. 

In rural Moselle, “Marine”, as the Front National leader Marine Le Pen is known, has an envoy. In 2014, the well-spoken, elite-educated Philippot, 35, ran for mayor in Forbach, a former miner’s town near the border. He lost to the Socialist candidate but has visited regularly since. Enough for the locals to call him “Florian".

I grew up in a small town, Saint-Avold, halfway between Metz and Forbach. When my grandfather was working in the then-prosperous coal mines, the Moselle region attracted many foreign workers. Many of my fellow schoolmates bore Italian and Polish surnames. But the last mine closed in 2004, and now, some of the immigrants’ grandchildren are voting for the National Front.

Returning, I can't help but wonder: How did my generation, born with the Maastricht treaty, end up turning to the Eurosceptic, hard right FN?

“We’ve seen what the other political parties do – it’s always the same. We must try something else," said Candice Bertrand, 23, She might not be part of the group asking Philippot for selfies, but she had voted FN at every election, and her family agreed. “My mum was a Communist, then voted for [Nicolas] Sarkozy, and now she votes FN. She’s come a long way.”  The way, it seemed, was political distrust.

Minutes earlier, Philippot had pleaded with the audience to talk to their relatives and neighbours. Bertrand had brought her girlfriend, Lola, whom she was trying to convince to vote FN.  Lola wouldn’t give her surname – her strongly left-wing family would “certainly not” like to know she was there. She herself had never voted.

This infuriated Bertrand. “Women have fought for the right to vote!” she declared. Daily chats with Bertrand and her family had warmed up Lola to voting Le Pen in the first round, although not yet in the second. “I’m scared of a major change,” she confided, looking lost. “It’s a bit too extreme.” Both were too young to remember 2002, when a presidential victory for the then-Front National leader Jean-Marie Le Pen, was only a few percentage points away.

Since then, under the leadership of his daughter, Marine, the FN has broken every record. But in this region, the FN’s success isn’t new. In 2002, when liberal France was shocked to see Le Pen reach the second round of the presidential election, the FN was already sailing in Moselle. Le Pen grabbed 23.7 per cent of the Moselle vote in the first round and 21.9 per cent in the second, compared to 16.9 per cent and 17.8 per cent nationally. 

The far-right vote in Moselle remained higher than the national average before skyrocketing in 2012. By then, the younger, softer-looking Marine had taken over the party. In that year, the FN won an astonishing 24.7 per cent of the Moselle vote, and 17.8 per cent nationwide.

For some people of my generation, the FN has already provided opportunities. With his manicured beard and chic suit, Emilien Noé still looks like the Young Socialist he was between 16 and 18 years old. But looks can be deceiving. “I have been disgusted by the internal politics at the Socialist Party, the lack of respect for the low-ranked campaigners," he told me. So instead, he stood as the FN’s youngest national candidate to become mayor in his village, Gosselming, in 2014. “I entered directly into action," he said. (He lost). Now, at just 21, Noé is the FN’s youth coordinator for Eastern France.

Metz, Creative Commons licence credit Morgaine

Next to him stood Kevin Pfeiffer, 27. He told me he used to believe in the Socialist ideal, too - in 2007, as a 17-year-old, he backed Ségolène Royal against Sarkozy. But he is now a FN local councillor and acts as the party's general co-ordinator in the region. Both Noé and Pfeiffer radiated a quiet self-confidence, the sort that such swift rises induces. They shared a deep respect for the young-achiever-in-chief: Philippot. “We’re young and we know we can have perspectives in this party without being a graduate of l’ENA,” said another activist, Olivier Musci, 24. (The elite school Ecole Nationale d’Administration, or ENA, is considered something of a mandatory finishing school for politicians. It counts Francois Hollande and Jacques Chirac among its alumni. Ironically, Philippot is one, too.)

“Florian” likes to say that the FN scores the highest among the young. “Today’s youth have not grown up in a left-right divide”, he told me when I asked why. “The big topics, for them, were Maastricht, 9/11, the Chinese competition, and now Brexit. They have grown up in a political world structured around two poles: globalism versus patriotism.” Notably, half his speech was dedicated to ridiculing the FN's most probably rival, the maverick centrist Emmanuel Macron. “It is a time of the nations. Macron is the opposite of that," Philippot declared. 

At the rally, the blue, red and white flame, the FN’s historic logo, was nowhere to be seen. Even the words “Front National” had deserted the posters, which were instead plastered with “in the name of the people” slogans beneath Marine’s name and large smile. But everyone wears a blue rose at the buttonhole. “It’s the synthesis between the left’s rose and the right’s blue colour”, Pfeiffer said. “The symbol of the impossible becoming possible.” So, neither left nor right? I ask, echoing Macron’s campaign appeal. “Or both left and right”, Pfeiffer answered with a grin.

This nationwide rebranding follows years of efforts to polish the party’s jackass image, forged by decades of xenophobic, racist and anti-Semitic declarations by Le Pen Sr. His daughter evicted him from the party in 2015.

Still, Le Pen’s main pledges revolve around the same issue her father obsessed over - immigration. The resources spent on "dealing with migrants" will, Le Pen promises, be redirected to address the concerns of "the French people". Unemployment, which has been hovering at 10 per cent for years, is very much one of them. Moselle's damaged job market is a booster for the FN - between 10 and 12 per cent of young people are unemployed.

Yet the two phenomena cannot always rationally be linked. The female FN supporters I met candidly admitted they drove from France to Luxembourg every day for work and, like many locals, often went shopping in Germany. Yet they hoped to see the candidate of “Frexit” enter the Elysee palace in May. “We've never had problems to work in Luxembourg. Why would that change?” asked Bertrand. (Le Pen's “144 campaign pledges” promise frontier workers “special measures” to cross the border once out of the Schengen area, which sounds very much like the concept of the Schengen area itself.)

Grégoire Laloux, 21, studied history at the University of Metz. He didn't believe in the European Union. “Countries have their own interests. There are people, but no European people,” he said. “Marine is different because she defends patriotism, sovereignty, French greatness and French history.” He compared Le Pen to Richelieu, the cardinal who made Louis XIV's absolute monarchy possible:  “She, too, wants to build a modern state.”

French populists are quick to link the country's current problems to immigration, and these FN supporters were no exception. “With 7m poor and unemployed, we can't accept all the world's misery,” Olivier Musci, 24, a grandchild of Polish and Italian immigrants, told me. “Those we welcome must serve the country and be proud to be here.”

Lola echoed this call for more assimilation. “At our shopping centre, everyone speaks Arabic now," she said. "People have spat on us, thrown pebbles at us because we're lesbians. But I'm in my country and I have the right to do what I want.” When I asked if the people who attacked them were migrants, she was not so sure. “Let's say, they weren't white.”

Trump promised to “Make America Great Again”. To where would Le Pen's France return? Would it be sovereign again? White again? French again? Ruled by absolutism again? She has blurred enough lines to seduce voters her father never could – the young, the gay, the left-wingers. At the end of his speech, under the rebranded banners, Philippot invited the audience to sing La Marseillaise with him. And in one voice they did: “To arms citizens! Form your battalions! March, march, let impure blood, water our furrows...” The song is the same as the one I knew growing up. But it seemed to me, this time, a more sinister tune.