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Loosening Labour’s golden straitjacket

Economic crisis presents opportunities as well as stark threats for social democracy, writes the Oxf

Like the early Christians, the founding fathers of the Labour Party were sustained by their faith. They believed that a society based on individual self-interest could be transformed into one based on human fellowship.

Bruce Glasier, a contemporary of Keir Hardie, declared that socialism was not about getting but giving. Such utopianism could not survive the harsh realities of government. The Attlee administration, Lab­our’s first majority government in 1945, came to appreciate that, for the foreseeable future, it would have to administer a private-enterprise economy. Labour became, in practice, a social-democratic rather than a socialist party. Yet, because it was unwilling to face up to reality, it remained, from the time of the demise of the Attlee government until the 1990s, directionless, despite being or perhaps because it was able to form governments in the 1960s and 1970s.

Yet social democracy has been the most successful ideology of the 20th century. What, after all, accounts for the great stability of Europe since 1945 and its high rates of economic growth, compared with the turbulence and crises of the interwar years? The basis of the postwar settlement in western Europe, whether administered by Christian Democrats such as Konrad Adenauer in Germany, the Gaullists in France, or Conservatives such as Winston Churchill and Harold Macmillan in Britain, was social democracy, a philosophy which sought to reconcile the competing needs of the people and the market. Yet the success of social democracy was hardly noticed, because its main tenets – a high level of state-provided welfare with taxation to match in an otherwise private-enterprise economy – seemed, for many years, to have been absorbed by all of the mainstream political parties in Europe.

The true hero of postwar politics in Europe is not John Maynard Keynes, and certainly not Friedrich von Hayek, but the forgotten German revisionist Eduard Bernstein. It was Bernstein who formulated modern social democracy, a type of socialism which accepted the market, but insisted that the state had an important role to play in ensuring social justice. Markets where possible, the state where necessary: this has been the slogan of modern social democrats. It was the view that social and economic processes were not spontaneous – but could be controlled by the state – which served to differentiate social democrats from their ideological opponents. In the words of the American political scientist Samuel Huntington, social democracy sought to recreate “through political means the social unity which modernisation has destroyed”.

Over the past 30 years, however, this philo­sophy has been in eclipse. It was replaced by another philosophy, that of neoliberalism. Not only Keynes, but also Bernstein, found himself eclipsed by Hayek and Milton Friedman. In the neoliberal view, any attempt by governments to influence the natural processes of the market would be counterproductive and doomed to failure. Within a basic framework of law and morality, the economy should be left to run itself. People should be allowed to make the most of their capacities and resources, as well as their luck, and should no longer be subject to the overall direction of the state. The social-democratic philosophy of the primacy of the state came to be replaced by the neoliberal philosophy of the primacy of the market.

In Britain, it is possible to pinpoint with some accuracy the moment at which social democracy came to be eclipsed. It happened after the wave of public-sector strikes – the so-called Winter of Discontent – of 1978-79. For these strikes, which kept the dead unburied in Liverpool, sent cancer patients home in Birmingham and left rubbish in the streets in London, could hardly be reconciled with the social and communal solidarity on which the postwar settlement was based.

In 1979, James Callaghan’s Labour government, which had presided helplessly over the Winter of Discontent, seemed to be facing electoral defeat. At one point, however, the polls improved for Labour and it looked as if the party might be in with a chance after all. No, said Callaghan: “There are times, perhaps once every 30 years, when there is a sea change in politics. It then does not matter what you say or do. There is a shift in what the public wants and what it approves of. I suspect there is now such a sea change – and it is for Mrs Thatcher.” And so it proved. Margaret Thatcher was to remain prime minister for more than 11 years; the Conservatives were in power for 18 – the longest period of continuous one-party rule in Britain since the Napoleonic Wars; and Labour was unable to return to power until it had transformed itself into New Labour.

All over the world, social democracy was on the defensive. It was not that social democrats were not in government, but they could only retain power, as in Australia, France and New Zealand, by adapting themselves to the philosophy of the market. Right-wing parties sometimes lost elections, but everywhere they seemed to be winning the argument. “The era of big government is over,” Bill Clinton told Congress in 1996. In 1999 the French president, Jacques Chirac, referred to Tony Blair as “a modern socialist. That means he is five miles to the right of me.” “And I’m proud of it,” responded Blair.

Blair accommodated his party to the market philosophy and to globalisation, which the American commentator Thomas Friedman called a “golden straitjacket” for the left. The success of postwar social democracy seemed to have depended on an equilibrium between production and redistribution, regulated by the state. With globalisation, that equilibrium appeared to have been broken, because capital and production had moved beyond national borders, and so beyond the remit of state redistribution. Pure socialism in one country seemed impossible, as François Mitterrand discovered after 1981.

Critics argued that New Labour accepted too much of Thatcherism. Yet Tony Blair and Gordon Brown succeeded in rejuvenating social democracy while, in a sense, appearing not to do so. From 2001, there was a huge increase in public expenditure, especially on the National Health Service. This led to the first increase in the public-sector share of gross domestic product since the 1970s, the last period of Labour rule. It had been made possible by Brown’s prudential economic policies from 1997 to 2001, which had gained the confidence of the markets, and therefore allowed expansion of the public services to occur safely.

The increase in public expenditure constituted a sharp break with the Thatcher and Major governments, and for a time it even transformed the attitude of the Conservative Party to public services. Until the recession, David Cameron, the Conservative leader, insisted that his party would follow a “prudent” policy in government. By this, he meant it would ensure that the public services were fully protected before embarking on any programme of tax cuts. He now seems to have abandoned this position, accusing Labour of failing to repair the roof while the sun was shining. But he has yet to make clear what public expenditure cuts would be on the agenda for a Conservative government; as recently as last spring, George Osborne, the shadow chancellor, was calling for more financial deregulation and a smaller role for the state.

The recession is forcing the parties to confront stark choices, and it may be that we are facing another sea change in politics: the recession and the credit crunch could well give birth to a new social-democratic moment comparable to that of the early postwar years. For while, in the neoliberal era, governments had to come to terms with markets, they now have to come to terms with the failure of markets. Our economic problems are the product of a long reign of insufficiently regulated markets, of a regime that produced the housing boom and excess lending by banks and other financial institutions. Governments, therefore, can no longer withdraw from markets, but will have to engage with them more closely. Barack Obama, the nearest America has produced to a social democrat, struck a chord with precisely this message. His chief economic adviser, Larry Summers, now declares that the pendulum “should swing towards an enhanced role for government in saving the market system from its excesses and inadequacies”. Bankers today are more dependent on the state than trade unionists ever were.

Yet governments will also have to engage with society more intensely than they did during the years when the market reigned supreme. In times of economic insecurity, people will insist on a firm safety net of social welfare. They will not be prepared to risk all when markets move. The doctrine that we should all help ourselves and rely on the bankers to make us rich has less resonance now than it did during the neoliberal era. We shall return instead to the philosophy of the immediate postwar years: that the doctrine of self-interest needs to be controlled in the interests of society as a whole, and that a country does better when all work together than when it relies on doctrines of competitive individualism.

The fundamental theme of social democracy is that the processes of economic and social change can be controlled by government. The relevance of this philosophy is becoming newly apparent as the recession bites. Combating the recession, therefore, will depend to no small degree on whether the social-democratic leaders of western Europe can breathe life into the dry bones of what seemed, until recently, a dead doctrine.

In Britain, social democrats are hindered because they have been divided since the end of the First World War, when Labour replaced the Liberals as the main party of the left. Social democrats are divided in many European countries as well: but that is a luxury they can afford, under proportional representation. With first past the post the consequences are ruinous.

In Britain, the divisions on the left have helped encourage Conservative hegemony. From 1914 to 1964, there was just one government of the left with a comfortable overall majority, and this even though there probably was a progressive majority in Britain for much of that period, a majority that would have adopted more imaginative policies to deal with unemployment and the threat from dictators. The divisions among social democrats deepened with the breakaway of the Social Democratic Party in 1981, which served to strengthen the political centre at the expense of the Labour Party.

The leading figures who have done most for the Labour Party – Ernest Bevin, Hugh Gaitskell, Tony Blair and Gordon Brown – have done so by forcing it to confront its shibboleths, by telling the party that it cannot afford to retreat to its comfort zone. The same courage is needed today if the recession in Britain is not to inaugurate another long period of Conservative hegemony.

Vernon Bogdanor is professor of government at Oxford University. His book “The New British Constitution” will be published later this year by Allen Lane

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2009 issue of the New Statesman, Campbell guest edit

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The lost magic of England

The great conservative journalist Peregrine Worsthorne reflects on a long life at the heart of the establishment.

In a recent editorial meeting, our subscriptions manager happened to mention that Peregrine Worsthorne was still a New Statesman subscriber. A former editor of the Sunday Telegraph and, during a long Fleet Street career, a self-styled “romantic reactionary” scourge of liberals and liberalism, Worsthorne used to be something of a pantomime villain for the left, a role he delighted in. He had close friends among the “Peterhouse right”, the group of High Tory intellectuals who gathered around Maurice Cowling at the small, conspiratorial Cambridge college. He was a frequent contributor to Encounter (which turned out to be funded by the CIA) and an ardent cold warrior. His social conservatism and lofty affectations offended lefty Islingtonian sensibilities. On several occasions he was the Guardian’s reviewer of choice for its annual collection of journalism, The Bedside Guardian, and he invariably delivered the required scornful appraisal while praising its witty television critic, Nancy Banks-Smith. There is no suggestion, he wrote in 1981, that the “Guardian ever sees itself as part of the problem; itself as having some responsibility for the evils its writers described so well”.

His prose style was Oxbridge high table, more Walter Pater than George Orwell. It was essential not to take Worsthorne too seriously, because he delighted in mischief-making and wilful provocation – one of his targets for remorseless ridicule was Andrew Neil, when Neil edited the abrasively Thatcherite Sunday Times. He ended up suing Worsthorne, who was famous for his silk shirts and Garrick Club lunches, for libel; he was awarded damages of £1, the then cover price of the Sunday Times.

“I wrote that in the old days editors of distinguished Sunday papers could be found dining at All Souls, and something must have changed when they’re caught with their trousers down in a nightclub,” Worsthorne told me when we met recently. “I had no idea he was going to sue. I was teasing. I occasionally run into him and we smile at each other, so it’s all forgotten and forgiven.”

After his retirement in 1989, Worsthorne, although he remained a resolute defender of aristocracy, seemed to mellow, and even mischievously suggested that the Guardian had replaced the Times as the newspaper of record. In the 1990s he began writing occasionally for the New Statesman – the then literary editor, Peter Wilby, commissioned book reviews from him, as I did after I succeeded Wilby. Like most journalists of his generation, Worsthorne was a joy to work with; he wrote to length, delivered his copy on time and was never precious about being edited. (Bill Deedes and Tony Howard were the same.) He might have had the mannerisms of an old-style toff but he was also a tradesman, who understood that journalism was a craft.

Shortly before Christmas, I rang Wors­thorne at the home in Buckinghamshire he shares with his second wife, Lucinda Lambton, the charming architectural writer. I asked how he was. “I’m like a squeezed lemon: all used up,” he said. Lucy described him as being “frail but not ill”. I told him that I would visit, so one recent morning I did. Home is a Grade II-listed old rectory in the village of Hedgerley. It is grand but dishevelled and eccentrically furnished. A sign on the main gates warns you to “Beware of the Dog”. But the dog turns out to be blind and moves around the house uneasily, poignantly bumping into objects and walls. At lunch, a small replica mosque in the dining room issues repeated mechanised calls to prayer. “Why does it keep doing that?” Perry asks. “Isn’t it fun,” Lucy says. She then turns to me: “Have some more duck pâté.”

As a student, I used to read Worsthorne’s columns and essays with pleasure. I did not share his positions and prejudices but I admired the style in which he articulated them. “The job of journalism is not to be scholarly,” he wrote in 1989. “The most that can be achieved by an individual newspaper or journalist is the articulation of an intelligent, well-thought-out, coherent set of prejudices – ie, a moral position.”

His Sunday Telegraph, which he edited from 1986 to 1989, was like no other newspaper. The recondite and reactionary comment pages (the focus of his energies) were unapologetically High Tory, contrary to the prevailing Thatcherite orthodoxies of the time, but were mostly well written and historically literate. Bruce Anderson was one of the columnists. “You never knew what you were going to get when you opened the paper,” he told me. “Perry was a dandy, a popinjay, and of course he didn’t lack self-esteem. He had a nostalgia for Young England. In all the time I wrote for him, however, I never took his approval for granted. I always felt a tightening of the stomach muscles when I showed him something.”

***

Worsthorne is 92 now and, though his memory is failing, he remains a lucid and engaging conversationalist. Moving slowly, in short, shuffling steps, he has a long beard and retains a certain dandyish glamour. His silver hair is swept back from a high, smooth forehead. He remains a stubborn defender of the aristocracy – “Superiority is a dread word, but we are in very short supply of superiority because no one likes the word” – but the old hauteur has gone, replaced by humility and a kind of wonder and bafflement that he has endured so long and seen so much: a journalistic Lear, but one who is not raging against the dying of the light.

On arrival, I am shown through to the drawing room, where Perry sits quietly near an open fire, a copy of that morning’s Times before him. He moves to a corner armchair and passes me a copy of his book Democracy Needs Aristocracy (2005). “It’s all in there,” he says. “I’ve always thought the English aristocracy so marvellous compared to other ruling classes. It seemed to me that we had got a ruling class of such extraordinary historical excellence, which is rooted in England
almost since the Norman Conquest.

“Just read the 18th-century speeches – the great period – they’re all Whig or Tory, but all come from that [the aristocracy]. If they didn’t come directly from the aristocracy, they turned themselves very quickly into people who talk in its language. Poetic. If you read Burke, who’s the best in my view, it’s difficult not to be tempted to think what he says has a lot of truth in it . . .”

His voice fades. He has lost his way and asks what we were talking about. “Oh, yes,” he says. “It survived when others – the French and Russians and so on – were having revolutions. It was absolutely crazy to set about destroying that. There was something magical . . . the parliamentary speeches made by Burke and so on – this is a miracle! No other country has it apart from America in the early days. And I thought to get rid of it, to undermine it, was a mistake.”

I ask how exactly the aristocracy was undermined. Even today, because of the concentration of the ownership of so much land among so few and because of the enduring influence of the old families, the great schools and Oxbridge, Britain remains a peculiar hybrid: part populist hyper-democracy and part quasi-feudal state. The Tory benches are no longer filled by aristocrats but the old class structures remain.

“Equality was the order of the day after the war,” Worsthorne replies. “And in a way it did a lot of good, equalising people’s chances in the world. But it didn’t really get anywhere; the ruling class went happily on. But slowly, and I think unnecessarily dangerously, it was destroyed – and now there are no superior people around [in politics]. The Cecil family – Lord Salisbury, he was chucked out of politics. The Cecil family is being told they are not wanted. The institutions are falling apart . . .

“But there were people who had natural authority, like Denis Healey. I’m not saying it’s only aristocrats – a lot of Labour people had it. But now we haven’t got any Denis Healeys.”

Born in 1923, the younger son of Alexander Koch de Gooreynd, a Belgian banker, Worsthorne (the family anglicised its name) was educated at Stowe and was an undergraduate at both Cambridge (Peterhouse, where he studied under the historian Herbert Butterfield, the author of The Whig Interpretation of History) and Oxford (Magdalen College). “I have always felt slightly underprivileged and de-classed by having gone to Stowe, unlike my father who went to Eton,” Worsthorne wrote in 1985.

Yet his memories of Stowe remain pellucid. There he fell under the influence of the belle-lettrist John Davenport, who later became a close friend of Dylan Thomas. “He was a marvellous man, a famous intellectual of the 1930s, an ex-boxer, too. But in the war he came to Stowe and he was preparing me for a scholarship to Cambridge. He told me to read three books, and find something to alleviate the boredom of an examiner, some little thing you’ll pick up. And I duly did and got the scholarship.”

Can you remember which three books he recommended?

“Tawney. Something by Connolly, um . . . that’s the terrible thing about getting old, extremely old – you forget. And by the time you die you can’t remember your brother’s name. It’s a terrible shock. I used to think old age could be a joy because you’d have more time to read. But if you push your luck and get too far, and last too long, you start finding reading really quite difficult. The connections go, I suppose.”

Was the Connolly book Enemies of Promise (1938)?

“Yes, that’s right. It was. And the other one was . . . Hang on, the writer of the book . . . What’s the country invaded by Russia, next to Russia?

Finland, I say. Edmund Wilson’s To the Finland Station (1940)?

“Yes. Wilson. How did you get that?”

We both laugh.

***

Worsthorne is saddened but not surprised that so many Scots voted for independence and his preference is for Britain to remain a member of the European Union. “What’s happening is part of the hopelessness of English politics. It’s horrible. I can’t think why the Scots would want to be on their own but it might happen. The youth will vote [for independence]. This is part of my central theme: the Scots no longer think it’s worthwhile belonging to England. The magic of England has gone – and it’s the perversity of the Tory party to want to get us out of the European Union when of course we’re much more than ever unlikely to be able to look after ourselves as an independent state because of the quality of our political system.

“The people who want to get us out are obviously of an undesirable kind. That the future should depend on [Nigel] Farage is part of the sickness. I mean the real horror is for him to have any influence at all. And when you think of the great days of the Labour Party, the giants who strode the stage – famous, lasting historical figures, some of them: Healey, Attlee, who was probably the greatest, [Ernest] Bevin. I’m well aware that Labour in the good days produced people who were superior.”

He digresses to reflect on his wartime experience as a soldier – he served in Phantom, the special reconnaissance unit, alongside Michael Oakeshott, the philosopher of English conservatism who became a close friend, and the actor David Niven, our “prize colleague”.

“I remember Harold Macmillan saying to me, after the Second World War, the British people needed their belt enlarged; they’d done their job and they deserved a reward. And that’s what he set about doing. And he wasn’t a right-wing, unsympathetic man at all. But he didn’t – and this is what is good about conservatism – he didn’t turn it into an ‘ism’. It was a sympathetic feel, an instinctive feel, and of course people in the trenches felt it, too: solidarity with the rest of England and not just their own brotherhood. Of course he didn’t get on with Margaret Thatcher at all.”

Worsthorne admired Thatcher and believed that the “Conservatives required a dictator woman” to shake things up, though he was not a Thatcherite and denounced what he called her “bourgeois triumphalism”. He expresses regret at how the miners were treated during the bitter strike of 1984-85. “I quarrelled with her about the miners’ strike, and the people she got around her to conduct it were a pretty ropey lot.

“I liked her as a person. I was with her that last night when she wasn’t prime minister any more, but she was still in Downing Street and had everything cut off. The pressman [Bernard Ingham] got several of us to try to take her mind off her miseries that night. There’s a photograph of me standing at the top of the stairs.”

In the summer of 1989, Peregrine Wors­thorne was sacked as the editor of the Sunday Telegraph by Andrew Knight, a former journalist-turned-management enforcer, over breakfast at Claridge’s. He wrote about the experience in an elegant diary for the Spectator: “I remember well the exact moment when this thunderbolt, coming out of a blue sky, hit me. It was when the waiter had just served two perfectly poached eggs on buttered toast . . . In my mind I knew that the information just imparted was a paralysingly painful blow: pretty well a professional death sentence.”

He no longer reads the Telegraph.

“Politically they don’t have much to say of interest. But I can’t put the finger on exactly what it is I don’t like about it. Boredom, I think!”

You must read Charles Moore?

“He is my favourite. Interesting fellow. He converted to Catholicism and started riding to hounds in the same week.”

He has no regrets about pursuing a long career in journalism rather than, say, as a full-time writer or academic, like his friends Cowling and Oakeshott. “I was incredibly lucky to do journalism. What people don’t realise – and perhaps you don’t agree – but it’s really a very easy life, compared to many others. And you have good company in other journalists and so on. I was an apprentice on the Times, after working [as a sub-editor] on the Glasgow Herald.”

How does he spend the days?

“Living, I suppose. It takes an hour to get dressed because all the muscles go. Then I read the Times and get bored with it halfway through. Then there’s a meal to eat. The ­answer is, the days go. I used to go for walks but I can’t do that now. But Lucy’s getting me all kinds of instruments to facilitate people with no muscles, to help you walk. I’m very sceptical about it working, but then again, better than the alternative.”

He does not read as much as he would wish. He takes the Statesman, the Spectator and the Times but no longer the Guardian. He is reading Niall Ferguson’s biography of Kissinger, The Maisky Diaries by Ivan Maisky, Stalin’s ambassador to London from 1932 to 1943, and Living on Paper, a selection of letters by Iris Murdoch, whom he knew. “I get these massive books, thinking of a rainy day, but once I pick them up they are too heavy, physically, so they’re stacked up, begging to be read.”

He watches television – the news (we speak about Isis and the Syrian tragedy), the Marr show on Sunday mornings, and he has been enjoying War and Peace on BBC1. “Andrew Marr gave my book a very good review. He’s come back. He’s survived [a stroke] through a degree of hard willpower to get back to that job, almost as soon as he came out of surgery. But I don’t know him; he was a Guardian man.” (In fact, Marr is more closely associated with the Independent.)

Of the celebrated Peterhouse historians, both Herbert Butterfield (who was a Methodist) and Maurice Cowling were devout Christians. For High Tories, who believe in and accept natural inequalities and the organic theory of society, Christianity was a binding force that held together all social classes, as some believe was the order in late-Victorian England.

“I was a very hardened Catholic,” Worsthorne says, when I mention Cowling’s book Religion and Public Doctrine in Modern England. “My mother was divorced [her second marriage was to Montagu Norman, then the governor of the Bank of England] and she didn’t want my brother and me to be Catholic, so she sent us to Stowe. And I used to annoy her because I read [Hilaire] Belloc. I tried to annoy the history master teaching us Queen Elizabeth I. I said to him: ‘Are you covering up on her behalf: don’t you know she had syphilis?’

“Once I felt very angry about not being made Catholic. But then I went to Cambridge and there was a very Catholic chaplain and he was very snobbish. And in confession I had to tell him I masturbated twice that morning or something, and so it embarrassed me when half an hour later I had to sit next to him at breakfast. I literally gave up going to Mass to get out of this embarrassing situation. But recently I’ve started again. I haven’t actually gone to church but I’ve made my confessions, to a friendly bishop who came to the house.”

So you are a believer?

“Yes. I don’t know which bit I believe. But as Voltaire said: ‘Don’t take a risk.’”

He smiles and lowers his head. We are ready for lunch. 

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 11 February 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The legacy of Europe's worst battle