In Defence of Swivel Eyed Lunacy

Obsessive, narrowly-focused activists are exactly the kind of people you want in your party's grassroots, argues Alan Martin.

 

Did a senior Conservative aide call grassroots Tory campaigners “swivel eyed loons?”  Number 10 says no, the newspapers that broke the story continue to say yes, but at this point it doesn't really matter: the damage has been done. But is swivel eyed lunacy really a bad thing? Obviously the phrasing is deliberately insulting, but the qualities hidden inside are pretty much inevitable in your grassroots activists. In fact I'll go one step further and suggest they're actively desirable.

Let's start with the “loon” part. To a politically apathetic country that only really takes notice of party politics at election time, grass roots activists are clearly lunatics. People who actively take time out of their daily lives to volunteer, canvas and operate phone banks on behalf of their political party of choice may as well be another species. Their enthusiasm has gone a step beyond normality: not only are they deeply passionate about their politics of choice (in this case aspects the Tory frontbench would very much like to go away: gay marriage and Europe), they want everyone they come into contact with to share their weird enthusiasm, and will happily give up their free time to make that happen.

“Loon” in this context means “obsessive”. And who would you want arguing your position more than someone who is obsessively passionate about the issues? The loons themselves are also relatively free of vested interests, which is more than can be said for the candidates they represent. Without salary or commission, these activists are the best people to get the message out in days when trust in politicians is at absolute zero.

“Swivel eyed” is slightly harder to defend. Depending on the definition, it can either be interchangeable with “loon”, doubling down on the original insult, or mean “untrustworthy”, “devious” or “Machiavellian”. Sure, you don't want to distrust your activists, but there are two parts to that:

  1. They're fuelled by passion about your party. If they're scheming, it's because they want what's best for the party they represent, not personal gain.
  2. Would you rather have a bunch of volunteers scheming against you, or the people who want to take your place?

And that's the thing about Machiavellian intent: it's only really dangerous in people with the power to use it, like the swarms of suitors surrounding Mr Cameron for the Conservative Party leadership. Grassroots activists are exceptionally loyal: they will grumble and moan about purity of policy and ideology, but their attachment is so great that they'll rarely turn their back on the party completely, no matter how overlooked they feel by its pronouncements.

Just look at Labour's trade union base for evidence of that. Over the New Labour years, Blair and Brown spent a great deal of time distancing themselves from their traditional activists, amongst other things no longer speaking at the Durham Miner's Gala (a trend that Ed Miliband has bucked), but for the most part Labour's activist base has stayed strong. Loyalty and resilience is as much a part of the activist's DNA as obsessiveness, no matter what their party colours.

Which is just as well, because there's an inevitable disconnect between grassroots support and parliamentary democracy. The former is based on idealism and genuine belief, while the latter is based on the more grubby realities of pragmatism and compromise. The MPs are protecting their position as well as their constituents, and so have to appeal as widely as possible, polluting the ideological purity demanded by the grassroots. In crude, broad strokes: Tory grassroots aren't enthusiastic about gay marriage, but the public at large is broadly in favour, so the party has to ignore its biggest fans. Generally, these fans grumble and moan privately, but keep knocking on doors and spreading the word publicly.

The one thing they won't take lying down is being insulted by their party, which is why this is such a spectacular own-goal. Grassroots activists don't ask for much, and they deliver a lot – including the undecided swing voters who you need in order to win elections.

These normal voters – with static eyes and a comparatively sane air – will come and go, but the loons are the foundations of your support. They may sometimes be embarrassing, they may be obsessive to the point of lunacy, but they're a loyal and resilient asset. David Cameron needs to sweeten the "loons", before they join the "fruitcakes" – and a little bit more tact at the top of the party wouldn't go amiss either. He's already getting a reputation for riding roughshod over his party's wishes in his hunt for more voters than he managed in 2010, the last thing he wants to do is lose the loyal footsoldiers that got him the keys to Downing Street in the first place.

David Cameron. Photograph: Getty Images
Qusai Al Shidi/Flickr
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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war