Thande
Donor
The old man stood on the stage, trying to ignore the twinge in his back. Where have the years gone? he thought bitterly. He spared a glance for his three fresh-faced rivals, those who conventional wisdom had suggested should be leagues ahead of him in the final vote. But then, conventional wisdom had also suggested that Scotland was safe Labour territory, and that it was impossible for the Conservatives to win a majority. The usual rules of politics, it seemed, had been suspended.
He didn’t hate the young candidates. He pitied them. They had all grown to political maturity under a system of ruthless, centralised control which tolerated less public deviation from the party line than a Soviet Stalinist. That system had won elections, yes, and won them more decisively than the old Labour Party had ever dreamed of. But that had come with a price. The crushing of intellectual dissent in favour of mindlessly repeating ideological jargon meant that, when Tony was finally forced out, he left behind a generation of Labour MPs trained to be followers, not leaders. Ed had been quite bad enough in that regard, but he’d still had his good points. These three…he saw nothing in the faces of the two men and the woman who shared the stage with him. Nothing.
The Deputy Leadership result was announced. None of the old electoral college of Tony’s day, just a simple vote of members and registered supporters. All that controversy over the latter group: how many of them were Tories who’d signed up to cause chaos? The old man might have hoped that his victory would be overwhelming enough that the supporters wouldn’t make a difference. He did not, for he still couldn’t quite believe what the polls were saying. And, after all, they had already learned once this year what trusting in polls could get them. Better to assume the conventional wisdom was right and he was heading for defeat, than get his hopes up and feel them crushed.
Tom Watson took the stage, having won as decisively as predicted. Those polls were correct, at least. A bruiser who did not unambiguously belong to any faction of the party: a man that the old man could work with, perhaps. Watson was carefully avoiding commenting on the leadership directly, using his speech primarily to attack the Tories. That got some reliable cheers, but the old man knew that the party could not afford to retreat into its comfort zone like that. It was not enough merely to criticise the government: they needed to put forward a distinct and credible alternative.
Finally the time came. As the Party chairman went through the motions and the cameras of all three channels focused on the stage, the old man allowed himself a moment of self-reflection. He had always tried to focus on the future, not the past, but for a moment bitter memories threatened to overwhelm him. His first election to Parliament back in ’83, the false dawn, the final victory—but at what cost—and then the long years on the backbenches. Working hard for his constituents, yes, acting as a conscience for the body and weighing in on foreign policy with opinions that the mainstream called radical, but never being allowed anywhere near the centre of power. He would not compromise on his beliefs for the sake of petty ambition. He had never dreamed he could lead the Labour Party. This had just been ‘his turn’ to be the standard bearer for his marginalised faction, always in single figures or not allowed to stand altogether. He had only barely scraped into the contest, helped by nominations from MPs who disagreed with him on everything but believed there should be a ‘robust debate’. He wondered if they were regretting their decision now…
Finally the fateful words were spoken. The old man was consumed with shock, though he didn’t let it show on his face, already probably an unearthly shade in the TV cameras thanks to the spotlights scattering off the red background to the stage. Nearly sixty percent! And on a turnout that big! That put a lie to all of those who claimed it had all been an over-egged echo chamber on the BISF. It was not just cyberspace that belonged to the hard-working young campaigners who had emerged as though from the woodwork: it was the streets of the country itself. He was overwhelmed with emotion at the thought.
But this wasn’t the time. He took the podium. “People of Britain, we stand here at an extraordinary moment in politics. We have seen once again that it is the values of the Labour Party, of people power overcoming entrenched establishment interests, that still hold true today. The Prime Minister may think he has defeated us, but we are down but not out.”
Finally, for the first time in years, he allowed himself a smile. “For the first time in years, a flame of hope has been rekindled at the heart of the Labour Party. We will not pause to lick our wounds while the ordinary people of these islands suffer under this Tory government. We will fight! Fight, and fight again. We will fight for a fair share for our people and a fair hearing for our values. Ed—” a small cheer, “Ed Balls was not someone I agreed with on everything. But his treatment by the entrenched state media was simply shocking and unacceptable. Under my leadership, Labour will not allow others to set the narrative. We will work to ensure the national conversation is free and fair, whether it be in the British Internet Services Forum or out on your town’s street.” Let them chew on that, who complained about my online supporters, he thought. Let Tony get back on his Concorde and fly back to his clinic in Cuba.
“The Tories say we are reeling from a defeat. I say we shall be tough on defeat, tough on the causes of defeat! Our fightback begins today. And not just in the towns and cities and, yes, the villages and fields of England or of Wales. I say today to Murdo Fraser that the Scottish people have voted Conservative only out of fearmongering and that he had better watch his back! Scotland will return to Labour, and the rest of this kingdom with it. We have a new message, a progressive message that believes in the values of justice and prgoress and community, the values that have guided me all my political life. The National Health Service—” (another small cheer) “—was Labour’s proudest creation. It shall be our job and our duty now to modernise it for a modern world, working in partnership with business to create a dynamic, competitive economy for the future. Our education system must also be modernised. And, first and foremost, we shall restore trust in politics. We have already glimpsed some of the skeletons in Mr Davies’ cupboard: we will not permit the Labour Party to engage in such unsavoury links.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I would like to thank and honour the other leadership candidates,” he glanced down at the three orthodox Bennites, “and in subsequent days you will hear of my Shadow Cabinet appointments. But this day is not about me, or about any individual.
“Today I give you a New Labour Party, a Party that will lead this country out of the darkness of Tory rule and into a bright future.”
The old man stepped down from the podium. The British National News was expecting an interview this afternoon. They would be kept waiting.
Sir Anthony Blair had work to do.
He didn’t hate the young candidates. He pitied them. They had all grown to political maturity under a system of ruthless, centralised control which tolerated less public deviation from the party line than a Soviet Stalinist. That system had won elections, yes, and won them more decisively than the old Labour Party had ever dreamed of. But that had come with a price. The crushing of intellectual dissent in favour of mindlessly repeating ideological jargon meant that, when Tony was finally forced out, he left behind a generation of Labour MPs trained to be followers, not leaders. Ed had been quite bad enough in that regard, but he’d still had his good points. These three…he saw nothing in the faces of the two men and the woman who shared the stage with him. Nothing.
The Deputy Leadership result was announced. None of the old electoral college of Tony’s day, just a simple vote of members and registered supporters. All that controversy over the latter group: how many of them were Tories who’d signed up to cause chaos? The old man might have hoped that his victory would be overwhelming enough that the supporters wouldn’t make a difference. He did not, for he still couldn’t quite believe what the polls were saying. And, after all, they had already learned once this year what trusting in polls could get them. Better to assume the conventional wisdom was right and he was heading for defeat, than get his hopes up and feel them crushed.
Tom Watson took the stage, having won as decisively as predicted. Those polls were correct, at least. A bruiser who did not unambiguously belong to any faction of the party: a man that the old man could work with, perhaps. Watson was carefully avoiding commenting on the leadership directly, using his speech primarily to attack the Tories. That got some reliable cheers, but the old man knew that the party could not afford to retreat into its comfort zone like that. It was not enough merely to criticise the government: they needed to put forward a distinct and credible alternative.
Finally the time came. As the Party chairman went through the motions and the cameras of all three channels focused on the stage, the old man allowed himself a moment of self-reflection. He had always tried to focus on the future, not the past, but for a moment bitter memories threatened to overwhelm him. His first election to Parliament back in ’83, the false dawn, the final victory—but at what cost—and then the long years on the backbenches. Working hard for his constituents, yes, acting as a conscience for the body and weighing in on foreign policy with opinions that the mainstream called radical, but never being allowed anywhere near the centre of power. He would not compromise on his beliefs for the sake of petty ambition. He had never dreamed he could lead the Labour Party. This had just been ‘his turn’ to be the standard bearer for his marginalised faction, always in single figures or not allowed to stand altogether. He had only barely scraped into the contest, helped by nominations from MPs who disagreed with him on everything but believed there should be a ‘robust debate’. He wondered if they were regretting their decision now…
Finally the fateful words were spoken. The old man was consumed with shock, though he didn’t let it show on his face, already probably an unearthly shade in the TV cameras thanks to the spotlights scattering off the red background to the stage. Nearly sixty percent! And on a turnout that big! That put a lie to all of those who claimed it had all been an over-egged echo chamber on the BISF. It was not just cyberspace that belonged to the hard-working young campaigners who had emerged as though from the woodwork: it was the streets of the country itself. He was overwhelmed with emotion at the thought.
But this wasn’t the time. He took the podium. “People of Britain, we stand here at an extraordinary moment in politics. We have seen once again that it is the values of the Labour Party, of people power overcoming entrenched establishment interests, that still hold true today. The Prime Minister may think he has defeated us, but we are down but not out.”
Finally, for the first time in years, he allowed himself a smile. “For the first time in years, a flame of hope has been rekindled at the heart of the Labour Party. We will not pause to lick our wounds while the ordinary people of these islands suffer under this Tory government. We will fight! Fight, and fight again. We will fight for a fair share for our people and a fair hearing for our values. Ed—” a small cheer, “Ed Balls was not someone I agreed with on everything. But his treatment by the entrenched state media was simply shocking and unacceptable. Under my leadership, Labour will not allow others to set the narrative. We will work to ensure the national conversation is free and fair, whether it be in the British Internet Services Forum or out on your town’s street.” Let them chew on that, who complained about my online supporters, he thought. Let Tony get back on his Concorde and fly back to his clinic in Cuba.
“The Tories say we are reeling from a defeat. I say we shall be tough on defeat, tough on the causes of defeat! Our fightback begins today. And not just in the towns and cities and, yes, the villages and fields of England or of Wales. I say today to Murdo Fraser that the Scottish people have voted Conservative only out of fearmongering and that he had better watch his back! Scotland will return to Labour, and the rest of this kingdom with it. We have a new message, a progressive message that believes in the values of justice and prgoress and community, the values that have guided me all my political life. The National Health Service—” (another small cheer) “—was Labour’s proudest creation. It shall be our job and our duty now to modernise it for a modern world, working in partnership with business to create a dynamic, competitive economy for the future. Our education system must also be modernised. And, first and foremost, we shall restore trust in politics. We have already glimpsed some of the skeletons in Mr Davies’ cupboard: we will not permit the Labour Party to engage in such unsavoury links.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I would like to thank and honour the other leadership candidates,” he glanced down at the three orthodox Bennites, “and in subsequent days you will hear of my Shadow Cabinet appointments. But this day is not about me, or about any individual.
“Today I give you a New Labour Party, a Party that will lead this country out of the darkness of Tory rule and into a bright future.”
The old man stepped down from the podium. The British National News was expecting an interview this afternoon. They would be kept waiting.
Sir Anthony Blair had work to do.
.