Stephen Kearney – When Nick Glegg came to town

When Nick Clegg Came to Town

As the days to the 2010 general election were going down, the leader visits were going up.  Babies were being kissed in ever increasing numbers up and down the country by party leaders with the subsequent hand and mouth disinfecting rituals discreetly carried out beyond the eyes and ears of the ever present cameras, active microphones and marauding press packs – unless the microphones were forgotten about in all the rush.  Yep, we’ve all seen it a thousand times before and it’s always somewhere out there, remote, inaccessible in a corner of some foreign field that is north of Watford.  Like lottery winners, it always happens somewhere else. 

With about a week to go before the big day, I got an email from the local Liberal Democrats announcing that on Easter bank holiday Monday, Nick Clegg, their Dear Leader, their Kim Jong Il, would be doing a turn right here – in Tulse Hill / Streatham.  I was amazed.  Not only does nothing ever happen in Tulse Hill apart from the usual murders, stabbings, knee-cappings and drive-bys –  this is the cheaper side of town – it is a rock solid Labour vote.  Or at least it was.   In 2001 Keith Hill MP had a majority of 16,000.  In 2005 it had dropped to 7,000, mainly on account of the war in Iraq and now Nick Clegg was coming to town. 

Clearly the Liberal Democrats thought they were in with a chance and if the volume of their literature that was coming through my door was indicative of their election prospects, they would have a 600 seat majority.  Not content with leaflets, they were doing posters too – in fact they seemed to have a monopoly on them, at least those in peoples’ windows and balconies.  This seemed to be general throughout the constituency.  For every one Labour poster, there were 100 Liberal Democrat ones – at least. Maybe Labour felt they didn’t have to try – but maybe they should have, because Nick Clegg was coming to town. 

The appointed spot was only about a five minute walk from where I live on another council estate – the adjacent council estate, in fact – just another council tenancy as the Sex Pistols once sang in their 1976 anthem of defiance which might yet turn out to come true:  “Anarchy in the UK, it’s coming some time, maybe”. 

Before I set off, I typed up a list of the type of things I would vote for and quietly discuss with Nick – pretty sensible, obvious things such as hanging for bankers etc.  As I gazed at my manuscript I wondered why Labour had done none of this stuff in their 13 years at the helm –  their “13 wasted years”.  I could already see which way the wind was blowing. 

The wind was blowing as off I set – and it was raining sporadically too.  I knew I was closing on the appointed spot when I spotted the big TV dishes mounted on top of a number of heavy duty Transit vans.  Quite a crowd had already gathered, with a bias to being white and middle class, but this might just have been a reflection of their aspirations – being middle class, that is.   Saint Nick had yet to arrive.  People were milling around the scheduled hall carrying Liberal Democrat posters and stickers proclaiming the usual election banalities.  “I agree with Nick”, sported by a number of the pack, was the only banner slogan that caught my eye, reflecting a not quite so obvious banality.  “I agree with Nick” was, apparently, Gordon Brown’s immediate rejoinder to nearly every comment made by “Nick” in the first of the TV debates, at least that’s the way the story goes.

So this was the Liberal Democrat stall: woven among their number were others similarly equipped except their badges of loyalty and identity were those of Labour.  All the standard bearers seemed to be engaged in an exchange of banner waving with each one trying to hold his or her placard higher than his or her immediate rival’s – and there were quite a few hers.   While the Tory effort was conspicuous by its absence, there was just one other.  Some guy in strange attire topped by a Napoleon hat, carried a placard of the South African flag emblazoned with the slogan “Free South London”.  It was unclear if this was a call to action or the announcement of a political party.  For all that he seemed to engage in lively banter with all those around him.

Alas, this could not be said of the Liberal Democrat members.  Any attempt to engage them on the issues was greeted with a stony evasion.  They were not interested; they were here to see their Dear leader and were not interested in being contaminated by members of the general public.  Labour party members were just the same and they weren’t talking to the public either.  They were waiting for a leader too and probably any leader was better than no leader – even if it was the leader of the other side: after all, der Führer still commands a good following, especially among his erstwhile enemies.  The English can’t get enough of him and these Labour guys couldn’t get enough of Nick Clegg.  Clearly anything was better than talking to members of the public. While they waited, they filled their time with positioning themselves for photo opportunities for various branches of the press and that absorbed them totally, absolving them from any consideration for anyone else.  They rushed hither with and thither with their placards to line up in the predicted fire zone of any long barrelled camera as it hunted for targets.  I was roughly pushed out of the way by one woman on her way to yet another ‘opportunity’ without even an acknowledgement, let alone an apology.  She was white, middle class and Liberal Democratic – not that I saw an evidence of her professed calling.  This must be what politics does to people.  If I were that roughly handled in Brixton – and I never have been – I would have thought I was being mugged. 

The show was somewhat enlivened by an old West Indian guy waving around a document like a demented version of Neville Chamberlain.  First Napoleon and now Neville Chamberlain, though I suspect that these two – Neville and Napoleon – will be remembered long after the current shower have sloped off.  Dear Mr. Chamberlain even had a song about him, admiring, among his many qualities, his appearance:

You look swell with your umb-erella

All the world thinks you’re a wonderful fella

“First Napoleon and now Neville Chamberlain, though I suspect that these two – Neville and Napoleon – will be remembered long after the current shower have sloped off.  Dear Mr. Chamberlain even had a song about him, admiring, among his many qualities, his appearance:”

You look swell with your umb-erella

All the world thinks you’re a wonderful fella

But this West Indian guy didn’t have an umbrella, he had a document – and a grievance.  “They stole my idea” he cried loudly and frequently, interspersing this refrain with yells of “plagiarism” and “Nick Clegg stole my idea”.  He explained that he represented various West Indian cultural interests and had pioneered the Race Relations Act, among other achievements in his career of serving the West Indian diaspora.  “Diaspora” was a word he loved and he repeated it loudly and often in between his other rallying cries.  His big idea was to build a big cultural centre for his beloved diaspora and the building would be in the shape of a D.  He had written to the three main political leaders looking for support and funding.  Gordon Brown and David Cameron had politely turned him down.  Nick Clegg did not reply at all but suddenly, in a Liberal Democrat area apparently, the building started going up – in the shape of a D.    “They stole my idea”, “they stole my idea” he went on, his sense of grievance rising with each utterance of the mantra.  He scanned the milling crowd for a target of opportunity.  Any Liberal Democrat was fair game.  As he homed in on various yellow rosetted party members, he was met with that familiar wall of stony faced silence and a quick withdrawal into the party lines.

Doing a bit of independent milling myself, I suddenly came across a chap whose face had adorned a thousand leaflets, one Chris Nicholson, the Liberal Democratic candidate.   I pointed.  “At last”, I cried, having missed his many house calls. We shook hands.  “I’m torn”, I went on “between Liberal Democrat and Labour”. “You’re Stephen Kearney”, came the instant reply – and he even pronounced my name right too.  Jeez!  “How did you know?” I asked.  “One of my canvassers told me” he answered.  I was impressed.  Here was an actual Liberal Democrat talking to someone not in the party – and he knew my name too. We chatted for a few minutes and I put my question to him that I was saving for the yet to arrive Nick Clegg.  Would the government of whatever countenance maintain the value of the currency through raising interest rates and accept the consequential pain or would it abandon the currency for the sake of short term political popularity.  He replied that this was really a matter for the Bank of England as it controlled interest rates. Fair enough.  I wondered if the ol’ BofE truly stuck to its remit in the coming years and raised interest rates accordingly, would the government decide its independence wasn’t such a good idea after all?  Alas, these thoughts were to remain private as Chris Nicholson had to move around.  I believe you can tell a lot about people even in light chit chat and this was no exception.  I found him a pleasant enough fellow but, as someone else described him, “as dull as ditchwater”.  In terms of calibre, he was not a patch on his Labour rival, one Chuka Umunna.

Obviously, this was going to be a more seriously contested seat, hence the fuss.  I’d heard that Gordon Brown had been in this neck of the woods only two days before but I wanted to check.  For once I was able to get a Liberal Democrat to talk to me.  He confirmed the arrival of the Gordon Brown roadshow, saying that he had visited a very conservative Christian church in Brixton with Chuka before getting in a few jabs about Chuka’s sexuality.  Boy! Liberal Democrat turns Spanish Inquisition. I was immediately reminded of Cottrell’s comment on Hannibal’s decision to enter Carthaginian politics following his defeat at Zama: “at times, he must have longed for the cleaner air of the battlefield”.

Soon after, a big yellow coach (the big yellow coach?) pulled up at the top of the road.  The effect on the yellow rosette brigade was astonishing.  In a single flow, like a swarm of cockroaches, they ran to the coach and pressed themselves to its side as starving refugees might press against a UN relief truck.  And behind them all were the TV cameras just like in the refugee camps. There was something quasi-religious about the whole spectacle and it was equally unedifying.  Would water be turned into wine today?  These were people waiting for a leader: you got the feeling that if the designated leader had announced “black is white!” the groupies would have roared their admiration at such wisdom.  After a few minutes of the crowd pressing against the coach, hoping for deliverance but nothing much else happening, some movement became apparent.  A large knot of people began moving very slowly away from the coach and towards the hall.  I hopped up on an abandoned chair to take a few shots as the knot, of perhaps 50 people, was slowly lurching my way.  As it drew closer, I was advised to get off the chair because it would be knocked over by the tight knot of the faithful.  They were right.  You get a feeling about people and situations and I realised that not only would I have been knocked off the chair, but I could have been rendered unconscious and trodden on and the perpetrators of the foul deed would have been blissfully unaware of what they had done …. forgive them, Lord, etc.  Safely back on terra firma I watched as the knot of the faithful circled by press outriders drew slowly but steadily closer like some giant crab. As the travelling circus drew level, through all the heads, arms, placards and cameras I caught a momentary glimpse of Saint Nick.  At least he had the decency to look embarrassed.  The whole scrum wound its crab like way into the hall and, judging by the people hanging around its entrance, even several minutes later, it must have been jam packed inside.

Those who disdain such vulgar displays kept hanging around outside.  I talked to a number of people of various backgrounds – all rosette free – who were generally well disposed towards the Liberal Democrats.  One woman had gone off the Tories for their support of the war.  Several others had gone off Labour for the same reason.  I was surprised at this because, at a glance, these people did not come across as being particularly aware of wider issues.  The old West Indian guy with the document was still on the prowl for an unattended Liberal Democrat rosette who had drifted from the protection of the convoy.  Eventually he found one – a thirty something, clean shaven white guy with no line of retreat and went in with all guns blazing.  And he had acquired a second front too.  “Where are the black candidates?” he demanded of the rosette.  Like all the other yellow and red rosettes, this guy went stony faced when faced with a member of the public and tried to ignore him.  I mean, who did this guy with the document think he was – talking to members of political parties indeed!  But the old West Indian was not be dissuaded: he knew that his quarry was out of range of the convoy escorts so he kept firing.  Eventually, after twisting this way and that, the rosette, realising there was no escape, began crumbling.  He waved vaguely towards some black people, hoping they might be Liberal Democratic candidates.  Unsatisfied, the old West Indian went in closer, concentrating his fire on the big issue by jabbing his finger at a picture of a tower block under construction which formed part of his document.  “They stole my idea, Nick Clegg stole my idea” went his extremely well rehearsed line.  The rosette cracked.  He had been prised out of his stoniness.  “I’m an engineer” he began “and I’m working on that project.  The building is that particular shape to direct wind to the turbines on the roof”, helpfully pointing out said turbines on the man’s picture.  The old guy was not going to be talked out of it.  “It was my idea” he repeated “it was my idea to make the building in the shape of a D for ‘diaspora’”.  The engineer explained again about the wind turbines and the funnelling of air but by now the old guy seemed to have the idea that he had invented said letter.  It’s a wonder he wasn’t looking for royalties on every time it was used.  Communication broke down at this point and both sides retired with their honour intact.

Then the old West Indian guy came in on another strafing run, but from a different direction.  It wasn’t grand theft Delta this time, but the economy.  “There was nothing wrong with Labour”, he cried “but the bankers messed it up”.  The Lib Dem rosette suddenly found an unlikely ally: me!  We both rounded on the old guy “Labour let them do it” we stormed in a unique display of harmony.  “But bankers are meant to be honourable men” came the defensive reply “so it wasn’t Labour’s fault”.  You must, at least, admire the man’s one time faith in institutions.  By this stage there emerged a tacit agreement that we had nothing more to say to each other – so we didn’t.

I decided to try the hall.  Despite people hanging around the entrance, I was able to gain access easily enough.  It was indeed pretty full but I was still able to move around OK.  The main action seemed to be happening up on a stage at the opposite end to the entrance but a few things were happening in the pits.  The two food stands had run out of food and a deadbeat black band was playing deadbeat music in one corner but most eyes were on the stage which was full of suits – groupies to a man – or woman.  I bumped into Chris Nicholson again.  With what I hoped was a disdainful gesture towards the stage, I asked “What the heck is this supposed to be about?” “Well, it’s just for the press, isn’t it?”  We chatted for a few more minutes and in response to my invitation to speculate on the outcome, he replied “either way it will be very close”.

I wandered around some more.  Threading my way through the crowd, I was able to get close enough to the stage where the mighty Nick was talking to “a member of the public” presumably, probably supplied by central casting, though he looked very wmmc – white, male and middle class and in a suit, of course – and all recorded by an ever eager press. With Nick on high, I could view him only from below, which suited him fine, no doubt, but I was still able to get close enough to get in a few shots as he spoke with some animation to the wmmc guy while his wife – Clegg’s – gazed admiringly at her husband, though you’d wonder what was going on inside her head.   She looked just a little more aged than I was expecting, for some reason – still a spicy bag of potatoes mind, and much juicier than the rival wives – not a patch on Sarkozy’s though – but you just knew that OFT (old father time) was in the rear view mirror and about to switch on the reflector gunsight. She’d gone down after a Hun and was paying the price. Sic transit and all that.

I decided I’d had enough.  Back out in the fresh air, a stationary billboard van was exhorting the public to vote for Rahoul.  Viva Rahoul!  Viva Zapata! Viva La Revolucion! Actually this guy was not a Mexican revolutionary as his name might suggest but, get this, the Tory candidate.   The van in question was stopped because of some car towing operation in the opposite direction.  Liberal Democrats took their chance and started covering Rahoul in stickers – his picture, anyway.   Freed from the threat of having to talk to a member of the public, the rosette engineer animatedly started calling to his colleagues for some adhesive pads to mount a giant Liberal Democrat plaque on the back of the van, while he held it up over Rahoul to show what could be done.  Alas he was not in time.  The oncoming traffic cleared and Rahoul’s van moved slowly off as I moved slowly off behind it.  Fifty metres down the road, the van pulled over and out hopped the driver who proceeded to remove all the stickers.  “Do you have to have a political opinion to drive this van?” I asked him.  “No political opinion” he growled, “It’s a job” he continued “You take what you can get these days” he stated flatly in a pure Gorbals accent more suited to ordering “10 pints of heavy”.

Thus ended my involvement with the Nick Clegg roadshow.  Historians might be interested to know that the constituency was a ‘Labour hold’.  Yep, Chuka, the new guy taking over from retiree Keith Hill, held the front but, at 20,000 odd, with a majority down to just 3,000.  Ol’ Rahoul, whom I’d actually met a few months before and is or was a pal of Chuka, did surprisingly well at over 8,000.  Chris Nicholson must have been gnashing his teeth because his whole multi-leafleted ploy was to get Conservative voters to vote for him.

Well, it’s all over now – for now, anyway.  My dominant memory of that day is the weird behaviour of party members.  They were just so damn rude!  And that’s what happened when Nick Clegg came to town.

© When Nick Clegg Came to Town (r4)  Stephen Kearney July 2010

Postscript 10 Years After

The world is a very different place today. When I re-read this piece in August 2020, I was embarrassed to read that, mistaking presentation for substance, I once thought that Chuka Umunna was a man of some calibre. Mind you, it didn’t take long for my disillusion to set in. A very fluent speaker and an impressive live performer, the man quickly revealed himself to be devoid of any real political belief. It looked like he saw his party of choice as a career opportunity. He deserted Labour in 2019 for Change UK, reportedly without notice, leaving behind some very angry constituency workers. As one said to me “when I think of all the times I stood out in the rain and cold handing out leaflets for him …………..”

Still in 2019 he left Change UK for the Liberal Democrats, clearly a man who gets around or maybe a Beachboys fan and stood for them (the LDs, not the Beachboys) in another seat, still in the year 2019. It didn’t do him much good.

At the time of writing he is a man without a seat and possibly a man without a party and his old seat has reverted to Labour. In terms of local politics, he hasn’t been heard of in quite a while. Maybe he has joined the Kriegsmarine (U boat division) for he appears to have dived deep, adopting silent running procedure.

As for the other players, including Nick Clegg and Chris Nicholson, the (then) Liberal
Democrat candidate, well, as I said above back in 2010
“First Napoleon and now Neville Chamberlain, though I suspect that these two – Neville and Napoleon – will be remembered long after the current shower have sloped off.

DearMr. Chamberlain even had a song about him, admiring, among his many qualities, his appearance:”

You look swell with your umb-erella
All the world thinks you’re a wonderful fella

I’m still waiting for a songs about Nick Clegg or Chris Nicholson and I suspect I’ll be
waiting a very long time

When Nick Clegg Came to Town (r4) ©Stephen Kearney August 2020