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How the left lost its language

The global crisis exposed the intellectual hollowness of our politics. Despite signs of renewal, the

Fifty years ago, the novelist and philosopher Iris Murdoch wrote a rather gloomy essay about the state of the “socialist movement” in Britain. There was, she said, a “moral void in the life of the country”, and on the left in particular. Where the left had once been the source of an animating vision of the good society, now it was the repository of a drearily technocratic utilitarianism. An obsession with central planning and the streamlined organisation of social relations had triumphed over older, more explicitly ethical traditions: Christian socialism, say, or the critique of injustice that had driven early Marxism (before it, too, had gone technical and scientific).

It is sobering to reread Murdoch’s piece now, for the landscape she described is instantly recognisable: a mainstream left intellectually hollowed out, this time by the lingering intoxications of historic election success rather than, as then, the satiation and dissipation of reforming energies by that great achievement, the creation of the welfare state.

As Andrew Gamble observes on page 50, one of the most striking things about the period since 15 September 2008 – the day that Lehman Brothers filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection in the United States – has been the lack of any concerted intellectual response to the financial crisis on the left. A “sort of deathly hush” has descended, when the conditions might have led one to expect increasing “ideological polarisation”.

There are signs, however, that the intellectual and ideological pack-ice may at last be about to break. However, it has taken a political, rather than an economic or financial, crisis for that to happen. Following the electoral catastrophe suffered by Labour on 4 June, the left-of-centre think tank Demos rushed out a little pamphlet entitled What Next for Labour? Ideas for the Progressive Left.

The director of Demos, Richard Reeves, argues that the crisis facing Labour runs so deep that the next general election is a write-off. So the volume’s contributors are not trying to figure out how Labour might win in 2010 but are setting about the altogether more arduous business of beginning the “longer-term intellectual and political renewal of the progressive left”.

Sunder Katwala, general secretary of the Fabian Society, argues in his contribution that what the centre left needs is a new “route-map”, and that means not just new policies (though several interesting proposals are canvassed here), but, as Murdoch put it all those years ago, a new “vision”. She wrote of the need for socialists and social democrats to elaborate “an autonomous moral conception, independent of, and ultimately sovereign over, the mere notions of efficiency and rational ‘tidying up’ of capitalist society into which socialism is in danger of degenerating”.

Similarly, Katwala says that the left ought to become newly attentive to its highest values, values it had neglected during the long boom when, to paraphrase Murdoch, its ambitions had amounted to not much more than smoothing the edges of a thoroughly deregulated and highly financialised neoliberal capitalism.

Murdoch recommended that the left rediscover its taste for moral, rather than mechanical, reform, and reach back beyond welfarism and utilitarianism to ideas that could be found in William Morris as well as Marx. This prescription is echoed here by the MP Jon Cruddas and the academic Jonathan Rutherford (who also write in this week’s magazine, see page 49). For, as they point out, the crisis of neoliberalism is also a crisis of a certain conception of the individual human being – as “financialised subject” or “rational” preference-maximiser. Faced with the precipitous collapse of this model, they argue, we ought to return to the arguments of the late 19th century between social liberals and ethical socialists over the weight we accord liberty and equality, and out of which the “modern spirit of the left” was forged.

New Labour, Cruddas and Rutherford imply, has worried too much about individual liberty and not enough about equality. The key “fault-line” in the coming debates on the left, they argue, will be between those who see the market as the best mechanism for delivering the autonomy so prized in modern societies, and those who think that genuine freedom is a collective achievement. Or, as Katwala puts it, between those for whom autonomy is the ultimate end (call them “liberals”) and those whose principal concern is with how autonomy is distributed (call them “social democrats”).

During his stirring closing speech to a recent gathering of the Labour fringe group Compass, Cruddas reiterated the scale of the intellectual challenge facing the centre left. “We have lost our language,” he said. Without it, we won’t be able to tackle the big questions. For too long, he went on, Labour has assumed the “worst of the British people”, and in doing so has forgotten how to speak the language of fairness and solidarity. Its best hope lies in getting it back – and quick.

“What Next for Labour? Ideas for the Progressive Left” is published by Demos (priced £5). Available from:

Jonathan Derbyshire is Managing Editor of Prospect. He was formerly Culture Editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 22 June 2009 issue of the New Statesman, Iran

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An English hero for the ages: Ian Botham at 60

Botham blends his sportsmanship and deep-seated passion for cricket with a lust for life.

Begging W H Auden’s pardon, it is possible both to honour and to value the vertical man, and in the case of Ian Botham, who turned 60 on 24 November, it is our bounden duty. No sportsman has given Britons so much to enjoy in the past half-century and no sportsman is loved more. Two decades after he retired from first-class cricket, his reputation as one of life’s champions remains unassailable.

No mere cricketer is he, either. Botham is a philanthropist, having raised more than £12m for various charities, notably Leukaemia and Lymphoma Research. In December, 30 years after his first walk from John o’Groats to Land’s End, he will set off again, in South Africa, where England are on tour. And he really does walk, too, not amble. As somebody who accompanied him on one of his dozen walks said: “You can’t keep up with him. The man is a phenomenon.”

Of all postwar sportsmen, only Bobby Charlton and, at a pinch, Henry Cooper come close to matching Botham’s enduring popularity. But Charlton, a shy man who was scarred by the Munich plane crash of 1958 (and may never have recovered from its emotional effects), has never comfortably occupied a public stage; and Cooper, being a boxer, had a solitary role. Botham, by contrast, spoke for England. Whenever he picked up his bat, or had a ball in his hand, he left spectators in no doubt.

Others have also spoken for England. Bobby Moore and Martin Johnson, captains respectively of England’s World Cup-winning football and rugby teams, were great players but did not reach out to people as naturally as Botham. Nick Faldo, Lester Piggott, Sebastian Coe and, to bring us up to date, Lewis Hamilton have beaten the best in the world, but they lacked those qualities that Botham displayed so freely. That is not to mark them down. They were, and are, champions. But Botham was born under a different star.

It was John Arlott, the great cricket commentator, who first spotted his uniqueness. Covering a match at Taunton in 1974, he asked the young colt to carry his bags up the rickety staircase to the press box, where Arlott, wearing his oenophile’s hat, pulled out a bottle of red wine and invited Botham to drink. Forty years later Botham is a discriminating wine drinker – and maker. Along with his friend and fellow England great Bob Willis, and their Australian wine­making pal Geoff Merrill, he has put his name to a notable Shiraz, “BMW”.

Arlott, with his nose for talent and good company, saw something in the young Botham that Brian Close, his captain at Somerset, was beginning to bring out. Later, Mike Brearley, as England captain, drew out something even more remarkable. As Rodgers and Hammerstein wrote, you’ve got to be carefully taught. And Botham, a fine team man as well as a supreme individual performer, has never withheld praise from those who enabled him to find his voice.

If sport reveals character, then cricket is the game that reveals it most clearly. In no other sport is the individual performance rooted so firmly in a team context. Every over brings a contest of skill and intelligence between batsman and bowler but only a team can win the match. “A cricketer,” as Arlott said, “is showing you something of himself all the time.”

Cricket also reveals national character more than any other sport. Football may be the most popular game in the world but cricket, and cricketers, tell us far more about England and Englishness. It is instructive, in this regard, to hear what Philippe Auclair, a French journalist and author long resident in London, has to say about Botham: “He is essentially an 18th-century Englishman.” In one! It’s not difficult to sense a kinship with Tom Jones, Fielding’s embodiment of 18th-century life, who began his journey, as readers may recall, in Somerset.

A country boy who played for Worcestershire after leaving Somerset, and who lives by choice in North Yorkshire, Botham is an old-fashioned Englishman. Although nobody has yet found him listening to the parson’s sermon, he is conservative with a small and upper-case C, a robust monarchist, handy with rod and gun, and happiest with a beaker in front of him. He represents (though he would never claim to be a representative) all those people who understand instinctively what England means, not in a narrow way, but through something that is in the blood.

Above all, he will be remembered for ever as the hero of 1981. Even now it takes some believing that Botham bowled and batted with such striking success that the Australians, who were one up after two Tests, were crushed. Some of us who were actually at Headingley for the famous third Test – thousands who claim to have been there were not – recall the odds of 500-1 on an England victory going up on the electronic scoreboard that Saturday evening.

Botham made 149 not out as England, following on, beat the Aussies by 18 runs. For three hours the country seemed to stop. In the next Test, at Edgbaston, Botham took five wickets for one run as Australia fell under his spell. Then, at Old Trafford, on a dank Saturday afternoon, he played the most memorable innings of his life and one of the greatest innings ever played by an Englishman: 118 magnificent, joyful runs. Joy: that’s the word. Botham brought joy into people’s lives.

Yet it was the final Test at the Oval, which ended in a draw, that brought from him a performance no less remarkable than those from before. He bowled 89 overs in that match, flat out, continuing to run in when others withdrew with injury. That was the team man coming to the fore. Little wonder his comrades thought the world of him.

Modest, loyal, respectful to opponents, grateful to all who have lent him a hand, and supported throughout a turbulent life by Kath, his rock of a wife, and their three children, this is a cricketing hero to rank with W G Grace, Jack Hobbs, Wally Hammond and Fred Trueman. A feature in the lives of all who saw him, and a very English hero. 

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State