Do we need another president for life?

Ex-foreign office minister Denis MacShane gives his analysis of the Venezuelan constitutional refere

This weekend, the world will see another president for life emerge. A referendum in Venezuela will vote to endorse changes to the nation’s constitution to allow President Hugo Chavez to stand as often as he likes to be president.

Unlike Mexico with its one-term rule or Brazil where a president has to stand down after two terms, Venezuela will now join those countries like Uganda, or the Maldives, or, if he gets his way Musharraf’s Pakistan where the people will enjoy the blessings of living under one leader for the foreseeable future.

Lieutenant-Colonel Hugo Chavez was the last expression of the golpismo – coup d’état – movement of South American militarism.

While the generals had been forced back into their barracks in Brazil after the great metalworkers’ strikes of 1978-1982 led by Lula, or been humiliated in Argentina by British soldiers on the Falklands, Lt Col Chavez saw himself as the man of destiny when he tried to stage a golpe in 1992.

He failed and had to wait a few more years before his chance came again, this time by electoral means. Still today, he wears uniforms as much as civilian clothes. Like his hero, Fidel Castro, his leadership is sartorially expressed by dressing up as a soldier and commandante, rather than the wearing the attire of civilian democracy.

What then should we make of Chavez? He is today’s idol for a global left that is looking for new bearings. Hagiographic biographies of him have appeared in several languages. For the British writers tired of the stubborn, patient search for a workable social democracy by a Cardoso in Brazil or a Lagos in Chile, the excitement and revolutionary rhetoric of a Chavez is thrilling to focus on.

To submit Chavez to the same critical analysis that other leaders have to put up with is to produce instant denunciations from those who search for the shining path to socialism in Latin America.

Probably Gabriel Garcia Marquez got it right when he wrote that there are ‘two Chavezes’. One might perform wonders for Venezuela. The other was ‘just another despot.’

For Gaba, whose left credentials are unchallenged to describe Chavez in such Jekyll and Hyde terms shows the deep doubts across the Latin American left and intellectual world about the Venezuelan president’s credentials and ambitions.

In the 19 November edition of Libération, the French left daily paper, sixty mainly Latin American intellectuals, writers, journalists and political activists, published an open letter critical of Chavez.

They argued that this weekend’s referendum would ‘abolish all controls on the powers of the state and the actions of the executive’. They further alleged that Chavez was spending a fortune on arms expenditure instead of using the golden showers of oil wealth Venezuela enjoys to develop a balanced economy based on sustainable development. The authors also claimed that Chavez was setting up his own private army, an armed militia that exceeded the size of the nation’s armed forces.

Naturally, not a word of this cry of alarm was published in the British media. Newspaper coverage of Latin America, other than in the Economist is a joke. The New Statesman, to its credit, has published reports on Venezuela which have been both supportive and critical of Chavez.

The most recent (published 15th November) showed a picture of a gunman on the back of a motorbike firing shots at students demonstrating for democracy in Caracas. As with the Mexican students in 1968, or other students movements over the years, the young men and women of Caracas are taking a huge risk in expressing concern about the slow death of democracy in Venezuela.

It does not have to be like this. Chavez presents no threat to capitalism in Venezuela. Businessmen are doing very well.

Like China, Russia, Saudi Arabia and Nigeria we are witnessing the arrival of unrestrained market economics fusing with centralised state power.

Chavez’s oil populism allows him to hand out money to the poor. In past eras of high oil prices, notably under Carlos Andres Perez (CAP) in the 1980s, a populist president acted charitably.

CAP was a hero of the global left and the international trade union movement as he supported the Venezuelan corporatist trade unions, especially the union controlling the country’s petrol industry.

In 2002, Chavez smashed the union to take full state authority over the oil industry and installed military trusties in key sectors of the economy and civil society.

It was this assault on a trade union which forced the trade union bosses into an alliance against nature with elements of the Venezuelan right that launched the abortive coup in April 2002.

I was in Caracas in the days before the coup in my then capacity as the FCO minister responsible for Latin America. The tension was palpable.

The streets were full of pro and anti-Chavez demonstrations. It was impossible to sleep at night as women lent out of their windows banging saucepans to express discontent. In the first years of Chavez’s rule, before the post-Iraq invasion oil price spike gave him more money to spend than any leader in Latin America has ever enjoyed, Chavez’s economic rule was unsteady. Poverty actually increased and growth slowed.

Since then of course Chavez has been oil rich and some of that income has found its way to the poor. Other countries like Brazil or Chile have made bigger strides in combating poverty and done so without the oil windfalls Chavez has enjoyed.

Chavez is lucky in having one of the most arrogant, elitist, disconnected rightist oppositions that it is possible to imagine.

There are some exceptions like Teodoro Petkoff, a trained Marxist now editor of Tal Cual, but for the most part the right-wing press and opposition are boorish, arrogant and unworthy of support.

Nevertheless in 2002 they came together to do to Chavez what Chavez had done ten years previously – organise a golpe against the elected government of Venezuela. I had spent hours late at night in Miraflores , the presidential residence in the heart of Caracas, speaking to Chavez.

He claimed to be a supporter of Tony Blair and a fan of New Labour. The Labour government had gone out of its way to encourage Chavez, organising high level visits to London in 2001, in the hope that he would become an effective partner of the EU and Britain in a Latin America which needs to build bridges across the Atlantic in place of the region’s fatalistic obsession with the United States.

Other than the rightist government of Aznar in Spain there was no anti-Chavez feeling in any EU government. On the contrary, Britain invested in Chavez with John Prescott laying out a red carpet to greet him and in my 18 months as Minister for Latin America I detected no hostility to Chavez from British politicians or diplomats. The sentiment was rather one of curiosity at how this charismatic but politically unclear leader would develop.

I think Chavez was happy to meet a European politician with enough Spanish to listen to his views. We finished our talk towards midnight. He signed and gave me a copy of a biography of Bolivar. I gave him one of the wind-up radios invented in Britain. I wonder if he still has it? I left for the UN in New York when news arrived of the coup.

I put out a statement calling for a return of democracy in Venezuela. Britain was the only country to react this way. Other government bided their time to await the outcome of the coup.

Chavez now calls Aznar a fascist which is a silly, inaccurate insult unless we call every conservative a fascist. He says the US was behind the 2002 coup. All I know is that there was a planned naval exercise between the US Navy and the Venezuelan navy due to take place in the week of the coup. Against the protests of the US Navy who had spent $1 billion organising their biggest southern Atlantic exercise in years, the US State Department ordered that the exercise be cancelled. In the build up to Iraq, Washington could not afford, want or need accusation of supporting golpes in Latin America.

As a minister I was a useless civil servant. I wrote an article for The Times in which I described Chavez as a demagogue. I also said I was confident he would come back to power but sub-editors on The Times cut out that prophesy. Since then the uncritical Chavez worshippers have tried to paint me as some dark agent connected to the coup. If only. I was not sure of the man but I was clear democracy should be upheld in Venezuela.

Since then, like many, I have been tracking Chavez, more through the Spanish press than the useless puff or hate pieces written about him in the English media.

Michael Reid’s new book, ‘Forgotten Continent’ (Yale University Press) has a clear and objective chapter on Chavez. Reid is the Economist’s long-standing Latin America editor.

The 20 November edition of Le Monde, had a powerful editorial of concern about Chavez. ‘The concentration of power in his hands, the absence of dialogue with the opposition, the denunciation of the student movement as ‘facist’, the green light given to armed gangs, in short the militarization of political life is matched by unparalleled corruption’ the paper declared. Le Monde is no fan of the United States but its judgement cannot be ignored.

On the international scene, Chavez has embraced Robert Mugabe and told Belarus’ dictator, Lukashenko, that he is right to put down the democratic opposition in Minsk.

He has made five high profile visits to Teheran and calls Iran’s Jew-hating, gay-hanging, nuke obsessed president Ahmadinejad ‘my brother’.

There have been unpleasant outbursts of anti-semitism in the Venezuelan press and Chavez himself has made remarks which have frightened the Jewish community in Latin America.

So inefficient is Chavez’s economic management that the country has to import most of its requirement.

Petrol is a few cents a gallon as Chavez refuses any environmental politics that would lessen dependence on oil. At some stage, the uncritical admirers and promoters of Chavez will have to adjust to reality.

He is not yet a dictator like Castro, locking up poets and journalists and throwing away the keys. There is an opposition press. Elections are held and Chavez wins just as he will win the referendum this weekend. 20th century dictators are old hat.

This century we have Mugabes, and Lukashenkos, and Musavenis, and Putins, and Musharrafs, and now Chavez who cannot give up power. We need an adequate political science to describe this new type of populist, authoritarian but elected leader. Whether it is a direction the world left should go is for all of us to decide.

Denis MacShane is MP for Rotherham and was a minister at Foreign and Commonwealth Office
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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