VIVE LA REVOLUTION? THE CLIPBOARD VS THE MOLOTOV

I have to be honest – a phrase that in political writing usually signals the imminent arrival of a carefully rehearsed falsehood – I do not think even Marine Le Pen can save France now. The statement has a certain melancholy ring to it, like a man announcing that the last bottle of decent claret in the cellar has turned to vinegar. France, after all, has spent the better part of two centuries perfecting the art of being saved, only to discover that the saviours keep mislaying the instructions. Le Pen is the latest candidate for the role of national redeemer, a woman whose supporters regard her as Joan of Arc with better hair and a more realistic grasp of border control. Yet the practical problem remains stubbornly unromantic: how, precisely, does one deport large numbers of people who have already demonstrated a lively talent for setting fire to the furniture?

The current disturbances – those charming outbreaks of civic enthusiasm in which high-school students, professional agitators, and the usual collection of opportunistic pyromaniacs convert educational grievances into urban theatre – offer a useful preview. The French have always treated a riot as a form of national conversation, rather like the British treat a queue. What begins as a complaint about overcrowded classrooms and underpaid teachers rapidly acquires Molotov cocktails, burning bins, and the sort of tear-gas fog that makes the streets of Paris look like a particularly unsuccessful Impressionist painting. The authorities respond with the usual mixture of stern communiqués and rubber bullets. Everyone feels better afterwards, or at least more exhausted. The point is not the specific cause of the present trouble; the point is the readiness with which large groups of people will take to the streets the moment they sense that the state is about to do something they dislike.

Now imagine translating that readiness into the more ambitious project of deportation. The official version, endlessly rehearsed by politicians of every stripe when the cameras are rolling, involves polite notices, civil servants with clipboards, and a series of orderly departures reminiscent of a well-run package holiday. One pictures the deportees being guided toward the airport with the gentle hand gestures one uses to hail a taxi. The reality, as anyone who has watched French urban unrest for more than five minutes will suspect, is unlikely to resemble a travel brochure. People who feel their presence is under threat do not, as a rule, form orderly queues. They form crowds. Crowds form barricades. Barricades attract the attention of the more theatrical elements of society, and before long one is back in the familiar territory of burning cars and broken glass.

Which brings us to the indelicate question of force. Will Le Pen, should she ever find herself in a position to issue orders, possess the necessary resolve – the “balls,” in the vernacular of the original observation – to authorise measures of genuine severity? Shoot-to-kill policies have a bracing clarity on paper. In practice they require a military and a police force prepared to implement them against people who may look, in the heat of the moment, rather like ordinary citizens, or at least like the cousins of ordinary citizens. The French military has historically shown itself capable of remarkable ruthlessness when the occasion demanded, from Algeria to various African adventures that polite society prefers not to discuss at dinner. Whether that capacity survives in an age of smartphones, continuous media scrutiny, and the permanent possibility of being prosecuted by the next government is another matter. Armies, like individuals, develop a sense of self-preservation. Following orders that might later be described as criminal is a career risk few officers are eager to take when the political wind can change with a single election.

The same problem applies, with only minor adjustments of accent and bureaucracy, to Britain. We flatter ourselves that our disorders are more restrained, that we riot with a certain native reserve. In truth we are simply slower to reach the matchbox stage. The underlying arithmetic remains identical: large-scale removal of people who do not wish to be removed will not be accomplished by stern letters from the Home Office and the occasional charter flight. It will require sustained, visible, and potentially violent coercion. The British public has shown itself capable of considerable toughness when it feels sufficiently provoked, but it has also shown a talent for collective amnesia once the television pictures become unpleasant. Politicians know this. They therefore prefer to speak of “robust enforcement” while privately hoping that the problem will somehow solve itself through demography, economics, or divine intervention.

There is a deeper absurdity at work here. Nations that have spent decades constructing elaborate systems of human rights, judicial review, and international obligations suddenly discover that those same systems make decisive action almost impossible. The result is a kind of political theatre in which leaders on the right promise firmness they cannot deliver, while leaders on the left promise compassion they cannot afford. The audience, meanwhile, grows steadily more cynical. France, with its genius for intellectualising its own crises, turns the whole spectacle into a seminar. Britain, with its genius for muddling through, pretends that another committee will eventually produce a solution. In both cases the essential difficulty is the same: the modern democratic state has become extremely good at describing problems and remarkably bad at solving the ones that require the actual use of power.

None of this is to suggest that the alternative – permanent paralysis – is attractive. Societies that lose the capacity to enforce their own borders eventually lose the capacity to enforce much else. The sardonic observer is left with the uncomfortable suspicion that the real choice is not between kindness and cruelty, but between controlled firmness now and uncontrolled chaos later. Whether any politician currently on offer possesses the combination of ruthlessness, legitimacy, and institutional support required to choose the former remains, at best, an open question. Le Pen may yet prove more formidable than her critics allow. Or she may discover, like many before her, that the machinery of the state has developed a quiet genius for refusing to turn when the operator most needs it.

In the end one is reminded of the old observation that the French invent a new political system every generation or so, while the British prefer to keep the old one and simply stop using the bits that no longer work. Both approaches have their charms. Neither, at present, looks equal to the task of persuading large numbers of unwilling people to leave the country without first turning the streets into a stage set for the next round of televised disorder. The taxi, it seems, will not be arriving any time soon. And the hand gestures, however elegant, are unlikely to be enough.

BURNHAM, SHAM DEALS AND THE SMELL OF MONEY

The spectacle of modern British politics has always had something of the music-hall about it, a slightly seedy provincial revue in which the leading man keeps changing his costume while the scenery collapses behind him. One watches, not so much for enlightenment, as for the pure comic timing of the next pratfall. And so, when the latest piece of Manchester City accounting news broke over the nation’s breakfast tables like a poorly aimed custard pie, a certain thought drifted unbidden across the mind: imagine if the same people who have so inventively managed the club’s books managed, by some symmetrical elegance of fate, to manage the government into a similar state of collapse. After the manner in which Andy Burnham ascended to the premiership, the ensuing laughter would be quite difficult to contain. One might even require medical assistance.

Burnham’s arrival at Number 10 possessed all the dignity of a man who has just discovered that the lift doors have closed on his coat-tails. The previous occupant having been ushered out by his own colleagues with the sort of brisk efficiency normally reserved for clearing a table after a particularly messy children’s party, the former Mayor of Greater Manchester stepped forward, northern vowels intact, to accept the keys. No general election, no tedious consultation with the electorate, just a rapid internal rearrangement of the furniture. It was democracy as practised by a committee that has already decided the result and merely requires someone to announce it in a suitably solemn voice. The phrase “disgraceful” feels almost too mild; it was more like watching a magician produce a rabbit from a hat that everyone in the audience knew had been pre-loaded.

And now, in the background, the City affair rumbles on: the independent panel’s findings about sham arrangements, inflated revenues, and the creative interpretation of what constitutes legitimate sponsorship. The club, majority-owned by interests closely associated with Abu Dhabi, faces the possibility of sanctions that could range from the merely embarrassing to the existentially awkward. Burnham, for his part, has expressed genuine concern that the owners might decide the whole enterprise is no longer worth the candle and sell up. One can understand the anxiety. The investment has been considerable; the skyline of east Manchester has been altered; a certain mutual appreciation has grown between the local political establishment and the distant sources of capital. In such circumstances, a man of sensitive disposition might naturally worry about the sudden withdrawal of so much goodwill.

It would be crude, of course, to suggest anything so vulgar as direct remuneration. The modern statesman does not accept brown envelopes; that belongs to a coarser age. Instead one imagines more refined channels: the quiet understanding, the shared interest in “regeneration,” the carefully worded expression of concern when the benefactors appear threatened. Secret backhanders, if they exist at all in this elevated sphere, would surely arrive not as cash but as the subtler currency of influence, access, and the warm glow of knowing that one’s local power base remains underwritten by parties who can write very large cheques indeed. Whether such arrangements have ever crossed Burnham’s path is a question best left to the imagination, and the imagination, once invited, can be an untrustworthy companion. It begins to notice how frequently the same names recur in conversations about Manchester’s future, how solicitous the language becomes when the subject of the owners arises, and how conveniently the national interest and the local interest appear to coincide.

Picture, then, the delicious symmetry: the same inventive financial architecture that sustained a football club through years of competitive dominance somehow transferring its talents to the national accounts. One day the books refuse to balance; the next, the government discovers that its own carefully constructed narrative of competence has developed an alarming series of unexplained transfers. The laughter would be uncontrollable. Not the crude guffaw of the partisan, but the dry, slightly despairing chuckle of the spectator who has seen this particular revue before and knows exactly how the second act ends. Burnham, who rose without the inconvenience of a popular mandate, would find himself explaining to an increasingly sceptical public why the very interests he once praised as partners in building modern Manchester had, in the end, proved rather more expensive than advertised.

Lorne Micheals, creator of Saturday Night Live, once observed that the secret of comedy is timing, and politics, when it is not careful, provides the timing free of charge. The disgraceful manner of the succession, the lingering questions about foreign capital and domestic influence, the faint but persistent aroma of arrangements that prefer to remain off-stage: all of it combines into a scene that almost writes itself. One does not need to allege the receipt of secret payments to notice that the proximity of large sums of money has a curious effect on the clarity of political vision. The eye begins to water slightly; the moral focus softens. And if, by some further comic twist, the club’s difficulties were ever to become the government’s difficulties, the resulting spectacle would be less tragedy than farce of the highest order.

In the meantime we are left with the image of a prime minister who arrived by internal arrangement, surveying a football club whose accounts have been the subject of independent scrutiny, and expressing concern that the money might leave. The rest is implication, and implication, like a good dry white, is best left to breathe. The laughter, should it ever come, will not need encouragement. It will arrive of its own accord, long, sardonic, and entirely deserved.

ONE MAN, HIS DOG, AND THE (RIGHT-WING) PUBS OF YORE

There is a certain kind of political utterance that arrives fully formed, as if it had been waiting in a drawer marked “Things One Says at Conference Fringes When One Has Run Out of Anything Useful to Say.” Jenny Riddell-Carpenter, the Nature Minister, recently produced a specimen of the type. Warm ale, local pubs, and black Labradors, she informed her audience, constitute a far-right nostalgic vision of Britain that never really existed. The rest of the country, which had been under the impression that these items formed a fairly reliable description of Tuesday evening in any number of villages, was invited to revise its understanding of reality.

The claim has a crystalline purity. It does not merely suggest that the countryside is more complicated than a postcard. It asserts that the postcard itself is a forgery, a piece of political stagecraft cooked up by people whose real interest is fox hunting and other un-progressive sports. The black Labrador, that most democratic of dogs, becomes an ideological prop. The pint of ale, traditionally served at a temperature that would not disgrace a room-temperature soft drink, is reclassified as a symbol of reaction. The pub, which has for centuries provided the British with a place to sit down, complain about the weather, and occasionally talk to one another, is revealed as a non-existent institution, a sort of rural Brigadoon that materialises only when the far right requires scenery.

One is forced to admire the ambition. Most politicians content themselves with redefining words. Riddell-Carpenter has set about redefining the contents of the average living room and the average village street. The black Labrador, according to the Kennel Club, remains among the most popular breeds in the country; pubs continue to open their doors each morning with the weary optimism of institutions that have survived worse; and warm ale, while no longer the universal default, still appears on enough hand-pumps to suggest that the vision in question has not entirely evaporated. Yet these facts are to be treated as inconvenient ghosts. The minister prefers a progressive countryside, one presumably stocked with different dogs, different drinks, and establishments that have been carefully stripped of any residual atmosphere that might be mistaken for tradition.

Picture the scene the minister finds so alarming: a wooden table, a glass of something amber and unchilled, a black Labrador of the sort that regards the floor as its natural estate. Around them, the usual traffic of human beings who have decided, for the evening, that the great questions of national destiny can wait until after closing time. This tableau, we are told, never really existed. It is a nostalgic confection, a far-right fantasy. One wonders what the minister makes of the photographs that appear regularly in local papers showing precisely this arrangement, or of the large number of citizens who return from walks with dogs of the offending colour and then, without apparent political intent, stop for a drink.

There is a fine tradition in British public life of metropolitan figures discovering the countryside and immediately declaring that it has been doing itself all wrong. The countryside, for its part, has long since learned to receive these revelations with the patience of a farmer listening to a town planner explain soil. Riddell-Carpenter’s contribution is distinguished mainly by its willingness to classify ordinary pleasures as extremism. The man who takes his Labrador into the local, orders a pint, and sits down without once mentioning the need for a progressive vision is, on this reading, participating in a dangerous myth. The myth, of course, is that such a scene is normal. Reality, according to the new dispensation, is something else entirely, something that must be constructed rather than merely observed.

One is tempted, in the face of such confident historical revision, to mention a particular black Labrador that managed to exist with inconvenient clarity. Wing Commander Guy Gibson’s dog, a male Labrador Retriever and official mascot of No. 617 Squadron, went by a name that modern ears find unspeakable and that the wartime generation, less burdened by the future’s sensitivities, used without ceremony. The animal was run over and killed on the eve of the Dambusters raid; its name became the code word for the successful breaching of the Möhne dam. Here, then, was a black Labrador thoroughly entangled with one of the more celebrated episodes in British military history—hardly the invention of a far-right public-relations committee, and even less a vision that “never really existed.” It simply existed, walked about, waited outside the officers’ mess, and died at the wrong moment, leaving behind a footnote that no amount of progressive countryside planning has yet managed to erase.

The minister has since clarified that she does not, in fact, believe country pubs and black Labradors are far-right. The clarification arrived with the slightly strained cheer of someone who has noticed that the audience is no longer laughing with her. She has even produced images of her own dogs, as if to prove that affection for animals can survive contact with progressive thought. The damage, however, is already done. Once a politician has described everyday British life as a far-right fantasy that never existed, the subsequent insistence that she meant something more subtle tends to sound like a man explaining that when he said the bridge was closed he was speaking metaphorically.

What remains is the original proposition, delivered with the confidence of someone who has mistaken a fringe meeting for the real world. Warm ale, local pubs, and black Labradors are not symbols of a vanished past. They are simply what a great many people continue to like. The attempt to rebrand them as political pathology says rather more about the speaker than about the objects under discussion. The objects, after all, are still there: the dog on the floor, the glass on the table, the low murmur of conversation that has never required a progressive vision in order to continue. The far right did not invent them. It merely failed to abolish them. That, in the end, may be the real offence.