Blairism and the War
of Persuasion
LABOUR’S PASSIVE REVOLUTION
Deborah Lynn Steinberg and
Richard Johnson (eds)
Lawrence & Wishart
LONDON 2004
Contents
Acknowledgements
6
INTRODUCTION
Distinctiveness and Difference within New Labour Richard
Johnson and Deborah Lynn Steinberg
Blairism and the War of Persuasion: Labour’s Passive Revolution
Deborah Lynn Steinberg and Richard Johnson
7
23
PART 1: CITIZENSHIP, THE STATE AND THE NEW
MANAGERIALISM
1. A New Past, an Old Future: New Labour Remakes the English 38
School Ken Jones
2. Governing in the Modern World John Clarke and
Janet Newman
53
3. Labour’s Loves Lost? The Legacies of Moral Conservatism
and Sex Reform Jeffrey Weeks
66
4. New Directions, or ‘The Same Old Story’? New Labour’s
Policies on Race Relations, Immigration and Asylum
Liza Schuster and John Solomos
81
PART 2: THE SOCIAL POLITICS OF BLAIRISM: ALLIANCES,
IDENTITIES, MODERNITIES
5. Thrice Told Tales: Modernising Sexualities in the Age of
Consent Debbie Epstein, Richard Johnson and Deborah
Lynn Steinberg
96
6. Transformations under Pressure: New Labour, Class, Gender
and Young Women Valerie Walkerdine and Richard Johnson
14
7. Blair’s Men: Dissident Masculinities in Labour’s New Moral
Economy Chris Heywood and Mairtin Mac An Ghaill
133
PART 3: SPIN, STYLE AND PASSIVE DEMOCRACY
8. Virtual Members: The Internal Party Culture of New Labour 146
Estella Tincknell
9. Summer of Discontent: New Labour and the Fuel Crisis
Lisa Smyth
161
10. ‘Our Radius of Trust’: Community, War and the Scene of
Rhetoric Joe Kelleher
173
11. A Sympathy for Art: The Sentimental Economies of New
Labour Arts Policy Michael McKinnie
186
PART 4: NEW LABOUR ECONOMIES, THE GLOBAL AND THE
NATION
12. Balancing Acts? Empire, Race and Blairite Discourses of
Development Pat Noxolo
204
13. Mowlam, Mandleson and the Broken Peace: Northern Ireland 221
and the Contradictions of New Labour Beatrix Campbell
14. Washington’s Favourite: Blairism and the Blood Price of the
International Richard Johnson with Deborah Lynn Steinberg
226
Notes on Contributors
254
5
Acknowledgements
We owe considerable gratitude to a number of people who have
supported us through the preparation of this book. We would firstly like
to thank our contributors and our editor Sally Davison from Lawrence
and Wishart for their kind patience and continued enthusiasm for the
project during the unavoidable delays to this book caused by Deborah¹s
illness. We would like to thank Stuart Hall and Debbie Epstein for the
formative discussions that resulted in the shape of the current collection.
We would like to thank members and associates of the Birmingham
School (the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies, the Department
of Cultural Studies and the Department of Cultural Studies and
Sociology, formerly hosted and, in the summer of 2002, decimated by the
University of Birmingham, England), for the intellectual and political
approaches, debates, insights and values that helped form this book.
Richard would like to thank Mariette Clare, Bob Bennett, Becky
Johnson, Paul Johnson, Jean-Pierre Boulé, David Jackson, Dan McEwan,
Parvati Raghuram, Stephen Chan, Ranka Primorac, Mercedes CabayoAbengozar, Nigel Edley, Christopher Farrands, and Nahed Selemen Baba
for personal and intellectual support over a period of particular ‘pressure’.
Thanks also to the members of several groups who have shared – and
helped to develop – ideas in this book including the Aging Men’s Group
(who will never be ‘dinosaurs’), the Narrative Group (the last of the
Birmingham Sub-Groups?), and the Postgraduate Seminar in Sociology
and Women’s Studies at the University of Lancaster (especially Bob
Jessop, Jane Mulderrig, Maureen McNeil and Jackie Stacey). Some ideas
and interpretations in this book have been tried out – and sometimes
bounced back – by members of the MA course group on Globalisation,
Identity and Technology and of the Research Practice Programme for
beginning Ph.D. students in the Faculty of Humanities at the
Nottingham Trent University and, differently, at teach-ins and day
schools on the Afghan and Iraq Wars at the same university, and at meetings of the Stop the War movement and of the Campaign for Nuclear
Disarmament in the cities of Leicester and Nottingham.
For their kindness, intellectual and moral support, in many forms,
Deborah would like to thank Gillian Bendelow, Tony Elger, Robert
Fine, Joan Haran, Christina Hughs, Cath Lambert, Terry Lovell, Mike
Neary, Andrew Parker, Ian Proctor, Jonathan Tritter, Simon Williams
and Caroline Wright (and her other colleagues in the Department of
Sociology at Warwick University); Cyndy Fujikawa, Beau L’Amour,
Debbie Epstein, Elizabeth Ettorre, Cathy Humphries, Gillian Lewando
Hundt, Eléni Prodrómou, Peter Redman, Maxine and Irwin Steinberg;
members of the DCSS action group and participants in the ‘Whose
University?’ day of discussion; and members of the Narrative Group.
6
Distinctiveness and difference
within New Labour
Richard Johnson and Deborah Lynn Steinberg
W
hat is distinctive about the politics of New Labour or Blairism?
This was the question we set the contributors to this volume
when we first commissioned the chapters that follow. When the book
was conceived – before the election of 2001 – there was little convincing
critical analysis of New Labour’s politics and a strong tendency, on the
political left especially, to identify New Labour with Thatcherism, with
‘Thatcherism rebranded’ or ‘Thatcherism plus spin’. The nature and
meaning of Labour’s ‘modernisation’, impelled by four successive electoral defeats, was far from clear; nor were the differences between Blair
and his predecessors as Labour Party leaders, Neil Kinnock and John
Smith, both in their different ways ‘modernisers’. During Blair’s first
term, from 1997 to 2001, the euphoria of 1 May 1997, when Thatcherite
Conservatism was so soundly trounced, and the seductions of Blair’s
progressive-sounding language, could still bolster hopes of something
better, perhaps more ‘socialist’, in the second term. Even today, critics
like Stuart Hall (2003) and Alan Finlayson (2000, 2003) have to work
hard to show that Blairism is a distinctive project, different from, or
more than, Thatcherism, and that it has not, as Hall puts it, ‘simply like
Topsy grown higgledy-piggledy of its own accord’. If it is widely recognised, today, that New Labour has acquired a political character of its
own, the question remains what kind of politics has it become?
INTERPRETATIONS OF NEW LABOUR AND BLAIRISM
Four main lines of interpretation, some referring to the earlier
modernising moments, some specifically to the Blairite phase, have
been offered to date. We can summarise these schematically as follows:
•
•
•
•
New Labour as Thatcherism in disguise
New Labour as a Labour’s latest phase of modernisation
New Labour as a response to social change and electoral imperatives
Blairism (note the shift of agent) as the dominant fraction within a
New Labour’s ‘broad church’.
7
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Blairism and the War of Persuasion
While it is useful to lay out these interpretations abstractly at this
stage, they are in practice often combined, especially in the most recent
accounts (e.g. Hall, 2003; Finlayson, 2003; Kenny and Smith, 2001).
Perhaps New Labour is new in its combinations or ‘articulations’ of
elements, apparently contradictory, previously opposed?
The first strategy, adopted in most critical analysis, has been to focus
on the relation of Blairism to Thatcherism – the coinage ‘Blairism’ itself
suggesting significant analogies if not strong continuities between the
two. Usually the continuities are stressed. Early left analysis, including
the ‘New Left’ currents at first, sought to ‘demystify’ New Labour by
showing, that despite the webs of deceit spun by spin, New Labour
was fundamentally Thatcherism by other names, despite its socialdemocratic inheritance and ‘centre-left’ posture (e.g. Hall et al., 1998).
In academic analysis (e.g. Hay, 1999), this tendency was strengthened by the quality and extent of good critical analysis of Thatcherism
itself. This had been undertaken both from the angle of a cultural politics (e.g. Hall et al., 1979; Hall and Jacques 1983; A.M. Smith, 1994) and
from the perspective of political economy or theories of the state
(Gamble, 1988, 1994; Jessop et al., 1989). Both types of analysis were
complex: Thatcherism had a main transformative dynamic – the installation of a neo-liberal or market-led system – but was also politically
mixed, typically split between an individualistic neo-liberal side and a
neo-conservative stress on nation, family and traditional morality. Its
transformative if not hegemonic character was widely recognised. How
could it be overlooked when institution after institution was demolished or changed under our very feet? This included the institutions of
organised labour and the Labour Party. More generally Thatcherism
was seen, correctly, as a major break from the political consensus that
had dominated the post- World War II decades, up at least until Labour
made its own breaks in the 1970s (e.g. CCCS, 1981).
One way to make the argument about Blairism-as-Thatcherism
more careful is to distinguish between neo-liberalism on the one hand
and both Thatcherism and New Labour or Blairism on the other.
While Thatcherism and Blairism are political and ideological formations, each of which has a ‘project’ for social change and conservation,
neo-liberalism can be seen both as a doctrine or theory and as a larger,
slower tendency to transformation, which Gramsci would have called
‘organic’. This transformation is affecting, in fundamental ways, the
nature of social and economic relationships in our world, and also the
forms of subjectivity or individuality in relation to collective life and
social solidarities. ‘Neo-liberalism’ expresses both an ideology (or an
‘ism’) and, rather abstractly, a major dynamic of social change, much
larger than the project of any party or political grouping. It is a
dynamic in which every national formation and every kind of social
provision becomes entangled, though in different ways and through
different political means.
8
Distinctiveness and difference within New Labour
9
From this perspective, Thatcherism was a set of discourses, social
alliances and forms of politics that inaugurated a first or early phase of
a longer neo-liberal transformation.1 It became organic or hegemonic,
connecting up especially with key capitalist dynamics – with the transition from Fordist to post-Fordist production for instance. Like all
political formations, including New Labour, however, it held together
or ‘articulated’ many other elements. These often contradicted the
drive towards marketisation and privatisation. How organic to neoliberalism, for example, was the stress on heterosexual familial
conformity and the attack on gay and other dissident sexual identities?
Certainly, as the studies of sexual politics in this volume suggest, some
consistently neo-liberal MPs within the Conservative Party never
subscribed to this part of the programme. Neo-liberalism, it seems, can
come in different and ‘impure’ combinations, both across different
national formations, but also in different historical phases.
According to this line of argument, then, New Labour’s hegemony
and the hegemony of Blairism within New Labour are best seen as a
new or different phase within the drive towards a neo-liberal world. The
breaks between New Labour and Thatcherism are therefore as significant as the continuities: Blairism is not ‘Thatcherism by another name’.
We can now re-pose our original question. What is distinctively new
about Blairism (or aspects of New Labour) as a type of neo-liberal
politics? We can conceive of its project for example as the deepening
and extending of neo-liberal social relations and individualism, as the
bringing of all spheres of social life into market and commodity relations and as the expansion of these relations globally. We can ask how
such a project, focusing on labour and ‘the knowledge economy’,
transforms the regimes of management, state power and citizenship
(see Part I below; Jessop, 1994; Gamble and Kelly, 2001); and how
cultural questions in the largest sense – ways of living, forms of subjectivity as well as attitudes to creativity and art – might be central to this
politics (Bewes and Gilbert, 2000; Finlayson 2000; 2003; and see especially Parts I and III below).
The second interpretative strategy is to view New Labour, somewhat more narrowly, within a longer history of the Labour Party and
of social-democratic political traditions more generally. (For an excellent review of these approaches up to the end of the first term see
Kenny and Smith, 2001.) Particularly important for some commentators is the long history of Labour’s attempts at ‘modernisation’, the
repeated patterns, especially post 1945, of attempts to take account,
particularly, of the apparent successes of capitalist economic life and
social organisation
Key moments in this history were not only the monetarist moves of
the mid-1970s under Callaghan – predating the arrival and naming of
Thatcherism – but the systematic 1950s revisionism of Hugh Gaitskell
and Anthony Crosland, and the technophiliac modernising rhetorics of
9
10
Blairism and the War of Persuasion
Harold Wilson in the 1960s. The question then arises of whether there
is anything fundamentally new about New Labour, or whether, for
example, it takes up again, perhaps more effectively, the enduring problems of older Labour. More immediately, the recent drive to modernise
the party is dated not from Blair’s own accession to the Labour leadership in 1994 but from the party’s earlier responses to the succession of
electoral defeats from 1978 to 1992 (e.g. Ludlam, 2001).
Different versions of this perspective are critical or appreciative of
New Labour. Some academic analysis comes close to repeating the selfanalysis of New Labour itself. In the more apologetic writing, the
meanings and necessity of modernisation are not questioned. The
general mood is pragmatic or ‘realist’. It is not recognised that there are
different possible models of modernisation, nor that, beyond this, there
are deeper problems deriving from modernisation if it is viewed as neoliberal deregulation – environmental deterioration, increasing social and
political polarisation, and a systematic intensification of worldwide
struggles for resources and therefore over strategic and military control.
Nor is it recognised that these are signs that the dominant models of
economic growth and social progress are open to fundamental doubt.
More critical versions of the novelty of New Labour stress the extent
to which it has departed from traditions of social-democratic politics in
Britain and Europe especially, on such questions as public state social
provision, the protection of labour and even human rights. For some
writers, Labour has never been a socialist or even a social-democratic
party but rather a particular kind of alliance between ‘social reformers’
(as likely to be Liberals as Socialists) and ‘reforming socialists’. Within
this context, more recent modernisations – including those of Kinnock
– are seen as moving the party nearer to the US Democratic Party rather
than to a (weakened) European social democracy (e.g. Elliott, 1993).
A third interpretative strategy, with a long history, is to stress
Labour’s ‘broad church’. Labour has always contained elements of
working-class trade unionism and a kind of socialist professionalism or
‘Fabian’ expertise, a pragmatic defence of working-class interests and a
zeal for the ‘efficient’ and reformed social institutions, as well as tendencies of the anti-capitalist left and the social-reforming centre. Even those
authors who have stressed, correctly in our view, the long conservative
under-tow of Labour’s attachments to electoral politics and to
‘Parliamentaryism’, and its lack or loss of educational or counter-hegemonic popular potential, have stressed that it is not a unified politics
(e.g. Miliband, 1973). Although it is arguable that Labour is a more
homogeneous (and certainly more disciplined) political formation now,
under Blair, than ever before, distinctions within the party and its social
constituencies are an important strand of argument within this book.
Several chapters in this book insist, for example, that Blairism is a
narrower and a more specific political agency than New Labour generally. Blairism refers to the hegemonic fraction within New Labour, and
10
Distinctiveness and difference within New Labour
11
to a particular project with strong transnational features, associated
with the Prime Minister, his (expanded) office and his closest associates
and political allies (see especially the chapters by Campbell, Epstein,
Johnson and Steinberg, Steinberg and Johnson, Tincknell). By comparison, the drive to change the party was a broader project, including
demands not so much to streamline it as to make it more democratic, as
a first step in democratising a deeply hierarchical and ‘traditional’ political system. This version of the project could involve those politicised
by the new social movements and cultural currents of the 1970s. From
this perspective Blair has hijacked a process already underway under his
predecessors, but not necessarily headed in the same directions. Under
his Prime Ministership, it could be argued, both party and governments
have become more and more ‘Blairite’, subordinating or shedding many
of the currents that contributed to both optimism and success in 1997.
The fate of gender politics, in and around the party and the political
system, is a salient example here. It may be that sexual politics, by
contrast, is an area where modernising options have remained more
open (see Weeks in this volume).
Fourthly, there are a number of interpretative moves that have in
common the identification of an underlying rationale for Labour’s
modernisation. They are usually employed to defend New Labour’s
‘newness’ even in its Blairite version. They hinge on the practical conditions of electoral and political success. The first, most obvious, argument
is that modernisation was a necessary response to the four electoral
defeats from 1979 onwards. A second, more structural, argument stresses
how Labour’s traditional constituencies, the manufacturing working
class concentrated in its cultural redoubts in the Midlands and the North,
has been in serious demographic decline, so that some adaptation,
including re-negotiation of the historic link to trade unionism, was
inevitable. Third, it is argued that a necessary electoral strategy was to
occupy the centre of British electoral politics by wooing a (different kind
of) ‘middle England’. Finally, it is argued that contemporary capital and
especially global financial networks can destroy or blow off course any
socially-radical government that seems likely to challenge its economic
interests or its continued political weight. Labour, like all other national
parties, has therefore to come to terms with what is all too accurately
described as ‘ the world of business’.
CRITICAL PERSPECTIVES: ‘PASSIVE REVOLUTION’
From a more critical perspective, these arguments about the necessity of
particular modernisations presuppose an equally particular conception
of the relation between political agency and social change. A sharp separation is made between underlying tendencies and dynamics and the
pursuit of political strategies. Politics is then seen less as constructing a
particular social order, more as reflecting or expressing social change. At
most politics is seen as giving birth to or ‘delivering’ changes already
11
12
Blairism and the War of Persuasion
matured. It follows social change and does so with a logic that it would
be irrational to gainsay. This closes off arguments about the full
complexity of causes and the possibility of different solutions. Similarly,
in the realm of ‘values’ these are likely to be derived from the reading of
existing social ‘realities’. These types of explanation are typical of Blair’s
own rhetorics and the social theories on which he draws.
Many of the chapters in this book are posited on different assumptions: that there are different versions of possible futures, even of
‘modernisation’; that politics always plays a part in constituting the
realities with which it deals; and that popular mobilisations may shift
the relations of force in favour of the marginalised and unregarded
majorities. Moreover, all political and economic projects can be questioned for their cultural definitions and their preferred forms of human
identity. The kind of cultural analysis pursued in many chapters in this
book is therefore crucial in actual processes of social change, showing
how relative to values and conceptions of social interests all political
actions are. A major question, for example, concerns the political work
of extending and developing neo-liberal forms of individuality – ‘individualism’ in that sense.
In Gramscian political theory this difference is expressed in two key
terms: ‘passive revolution’ and ‘counter-hegemony’.2 Hegemony
involves not only the winning of consent, by political and ideological
contestation, but also the development of particular social relationships, forms of economic production and their ‘corresponding’ forms
of human life. For Gramsci, the communist counter-hegemony
involved going beyond existing social relationships, towards the possibility (that nonetheless lay within them) of a more co-operative and
egalitarian future. It necessarily involved the leading agency of popular
social groups, in the Italy of his time, first industrial workers and
second peasants and other rural social groups. This was an agency
always present in social life, but which could be organised politically
into a ‘collective will’ for a better world. Really ‘organic’ change, in this
sense, involved programmes that were based in the conditions of everyday life and in the ‘common sense’ or ‘good sense’ of those
subordinated groups who were also necessary to capital’s reproduction
and (and here is one of Gramsci’s limits) to the life of the nation.
‘Passive revolution’, by comparison, was Gramsci’s term for ‘revolution from above’ or ‘revolution without revolution’ (see especially 1971:
59-60, 105-20). It was a key category in his understanding not only of
Fascism in Italy, but also the Risorgimento, and Napoleonic solutions
in post-revolutionary France. The term has a historical reach well
beyond the circumstances of interwar Italy. In political terms, passive
revolution is the demobilisation or disorganisation of forms of popular
agency and therefore of the possibility of organic change. This can be
achieved, for instance, by what Gramsci calls ‘transformism’, in which
elements of the programmes or the leaderships of popular movements
12
Distinctiveness and difference within New Labour
13
are incorporated into those of the ruling alliance (see especially 128 note
4, 227-8). Transformism does not, however, develop or ‘educate’ these
currents, does not ‘bring out the best in them’, as it were. It does not
base itself within them. Rather it seeks to contain and control popular
forces from outside. This may involve making real concessions, but
always within the limits of existing social arrangements. At this more
‘structural’ level, involving socio-economic relations and whole ways of
life, passive revolution is an attempt to solve structural problems within
the terms of existing structures. An example today might be trying to
solve environmental problems without curtailing the production of
commodities or contesting the power of big corporations.
Passive revolution is, therefore, a political strategy with many
contradictions. It is ‘revolution’, but also ‘restoration’. It often involves
grandiose national projects – unifying the nation, ‘purifying the race’,
defending the national culture, fighting a war on behalf of civilisation,
generally achieving national ‘greatness’. Yet at the same time, it puts a
premium on ‘politics’ in its narrowest and ‘dirtiest’ meaning: striking
deals, presenting issues cleverly, not giving too much away, a certain
instrumentality or ‘realism’ in the ‘machiavellian’ sense.
Although several authors in this book make direct use of the idea of
passive revolution (see especially Jones, Johnson and Steinberg, Smith
below), we have not tried to construct a whole book around this idea.
Our contributors have pursued the brief of New Labour’s distinctiveness in different ways. Gramscian notions have been taken up
alongside other overarching themes.
THE PLAN OF THE BOOK
We begin this book with an attempt to distil the key tendencies, often
very contradictory, of Blairism and New Labour. We draw on the other
chapters, but we also attempt our own substantive synthesis, providing
an interpretation of the overall character of a complex political formation. The chapters that follow, while often developing general
arguments of their own, are also case studies of specific aspects or
themes. We group these contributions into four main parts.
First, in Part I, we explore the distinctiveness of New Labour by
analysing different aspects of its reconstructions of citizenship and the
state. Active state intervention is often seen as a key feature of Blairism
as distinct from Thatcherism. Many of New Labour modes of state
action have their origins in the Thatcherite recasting of local and
national government, but the targeting of particular social groups, their
‘inclusion’ then their regulation, the setting of tightly specified ‘standards’ for citizens, especially for public workers and state
professionals, the enhancement of many different forms of managerial
auditing and control, and the stress on responsibilities as qualifying
citizenship rights are all distinctive New Labour features.
Clarke and Newman’s overview (as well as the more particular stud13
14
Blairism and the War of Persuasion
ies of race relations and migration policies, education, and sexuality)
suggests, however, that New Labour’s practices of governance are
particularly contradictory. Again, New Labour embraces different
political elements and possibilities, even if the Blairite elements are in
dominance. These studies also suggest a certain ‘passivity’ in relation to
changes in economic organisation and social life. New Labour’s most
active or ‘revolutionary’ side smoothes the paths of the global capitalist
economy, and acceptance of its main dynamics is the most constant
feature of Blairite definitions of the modern. On other, more ‘social’,
matters, especially on race relations, refugee policy and sexuality – as
also on issues of European union – New Labour follows rather than
forms public opinion. While in ‘race relations’, as in so many other areas
of policy, Labour began in a progressive mood – the uptake of aspects
of the Macpherson report on the murder of Stephen Lawrence for
instance – in its dehumanising treatment of refugees and asylum seekers
it reacted to popular conservative media campaigns in a deeply mistaken
attempt to pre-empt racist campaigning. In sexual politics, however, it
has certainly responded to liberal pressure groups, especially where its
central projects of global-economic projects are not threatened by
reforms. These two features – the fitting up of citizens for a global capitalist future, and uneven performances, often sliding into a certain
conservative passivity, on social reform – augur badly for another
apparent goal, the reduction of overall levels of social inequality.
In assessing New Labour’s prioritisation of education, Ken Jones
(Chapter 2) takes his cues, explicitly, from Gramsci’s ‘passive revolution’.
He sees parallels between the defeat of progressive educational movements in England – though not in Scotland and Wales – and the situation
of the Italian Communist leader in the period of fascist insurgency.
While many progressive educators saw education as means of emancipation, New Labour’s educational policies are centrally a pacification and
intensive regulation of the previous agents of educational reform, including parents, working-class pupils and teachers. The teachers’ new
position is especially contradictory: ‘they are operationally central but
strategically marginal’. They are pressured by a battery of controls that
reorder their everyday working lives. The spaces that opened up in the
1960s and 1970s for teacher-led curriculum innovation and creative
cultural negotiations with working-class pupils have been closed down.
Labour’s main educational alliance, however, is with business, as shown
in its commitment to economic globalisation, to economically driven
educational goals and to public-private ‘partnerships’. Jones identifies ‘a
managerial-regulatory bloc that drives change and comprises both public
and private elements’. The alienation of the grassroots agents of education and promotion of major educational differences renders New
Labour’s English model of educational modernisation vulnerable to
‘damaging comparisons with Edinburgh or Belfast’.
‘Modernisation’ has been a keyword in New Labour’s transforma14
Distinctiveness and difference within New Labour
15
tion of public institutions and the state. In Chapter 3, a wide-ranging
review of the literatures and aspects of ‘governance’ and ‘governmentality’, Clarke and Newman stress that there are many versions of what
a modern society and state should be, and that Labour’s version is
highly contradictory, in its policies and ‘narratives’ of progress. There
are tensions between the ideal of ‘a consensual inclusive society’ and
‘the agenda of neo-liberal economic reform’, between the drive for
central control and the encouragement of devolved local initiatives,
between ‘management’ and ‘participation’, and between responding to
citizens’ claims and setting conditions for citizenship itself. New
Labour’s modernising project centres on this change in citizenship, the
insistent emphasis on ‘hard-working families’ and enforcement of
moralistic criteria of national belonging and exclusion.
In ‘Labour’s Loves Lost?’, Jeffrey Weeks assesses Labour’s record
on sexual reform in relation to three main contexts: the longer history
of the Labour Party’s policy on issues of sexual citizenship; the ‘long
revolution’ in sexual mores; and the emergence of new sexual
discourses today. Weeks finds that the Blair governments have been
more radical on sexual issues than any previous Labour government,
but also subject to the same confusions and ambiguities as found
among citizens generally at a time of rapid change in sexual mores.
New Labour has been cautious not to alienate the ‘middle ground’
which it courts so assiduously, but it has responded to well-focused
campaigning. This emphasises the importance of making the case ‘from
the grassroots upwards’. Weeks’s relatively optimistic picture of sexual
reform illustrates New Labour’s continued power to attract activists in
some socially progressive causes.
Lisa Schuster and John Solomos consider another contradiction of
New Labour’s policies: the tension between modest but real movements towards ‘racial equality’ and the increasingly draconian
treatment of asylum seekers and would-be refugees. The authors see a
shift away from the promises of opposition and of the first years in
government, which included the first reception of the Macpherson
Report, and the subsequent reform of the Race Relations Act of 1976.
While the 2000 Race Relations Amendment Act may help to tackle
institutional racism, there has been no real shift in the terms of the
debate around immigration. Latterly Labour ministers and others have
employed the racist and xenophobic language of ‘swamping’, and are
also demanding that national minorities should ‘integrate’ or assimilate. This is a long way from the celebration of an achieved
multiculturalism in other strands of Labour’s rhetoric. Again, we see a
pattern of early promise and of later reactions, which coincide with the
increasing dominance of the Blairite wing within New Labour.
The chapters in Part II look at aspects of New Labour’s social politics, or how it interacts with key social divisions, especially those of
gender, class and sexuality. New Labour is approached through ques15
16
Blairism and the War of Persuasion
tions of social difference. This perspective is especially important since
New Labour’s own rhetorics, and an important strand of commentary,
construct New Labour’s politics in socially very generalised terms. It is
either a politics of social inclusion/exclusion, or it is about ‘the making
of the neo-liberal subject’, a new type of autonomous citizen, freestanding, self-educating, reflexive, mobile and infinitely adaptable (see
Johnson and Walkerdine below). Here it is argued, rather, that the
effects of New Labour also depend on social formations and processes
which precede it; they do not depend uniquely on its own dynamics.
The ideal neo-liberal subject implied by New Labour policies encounters historically formed subjects already embedded in social relations.
These prior belongings affect how concrete individuals respond to neoliberal models and managerialist incentives and sanctions. This
perspective allows a more critical take on New Labour, drawing attention to its social boundaries, its inclusions and exclusions, its
constructions of legitimate citizens and others. New Labour may offer
greater levels of ‘equality’ and ‘justice’, but it certainly extends regulation, enforces new kinds of ‘choice’, and limits citizenship agency in
important ways, often without a corresponding social equalisation.
As we have seen, sexual difference and citizenship is a domain where
New Labour’s claims to social progressivism have a certain seductive
appeal and practical credibility. It is also a field where the view of New
Labour as a ‘broad church’ embracing many differences can be seen
most clearly, perhaps because party disciplines are relaxed. Here too its
reforming impulses overlap with those of a still wider liberal alliance,
including neo-liberal Conservatives. Focusing, in Chapter 6, on the
reform of laws which discriminated against gay sex by setting a higher
age of consent, Epstein, Johnson and Steinberg argue that Labour’s
1997 victory secured a new hegemony, within the main legislative body,
of different kinds of liberalism. These stretched from neo-liberal individualism and a discourse of rights, through Labour’s mainstream
‘social liberalism’, to a more radical embracing of sexual diversity and
interchange as a social good. The debates also reproduced, however,
now in a more subordinated position, more conservative – and potentially homophobic – themes centred on the protection of the young, a
component also within Labour’s own ranks. Overall, the debates
showed the limits of New Labour’s reforming zeal, especially when
liberalisation and sexual equality appear to threaten the privileged position of the heterosexual marriage. On the other hand, they also
illustrate once more the potential for change in New Labour’s early
years, especially in an area relatively removed from its neo-liberal
economic orthodoxies, but consistent with some neo-liberal concerns
for individual rights and privacy.
Reading about these debates today suggests two rather different
observations. First, it becomes clear just how different the political
world of 1997 was compared with that of today, a major difference
16
Distinctiveness and difference within New Labour
17
being the decisive turn of New Labour in the direction of its more
Blairite variant. In 1997, pre-Blairite continuities can still be seen.
Second, it also seems that some versions of lesbian and gay rights, and
especially the acceptance of different but relatively separate ‘communities’, is far from incompatible with the main neo-liberal dynamics of
possessive individualism and consumerist lifestyle.
In Chapter 7, Johnson and Walkerdine assess some of the social costs
of neo-liberal policies by drawing on detailed research on the lives of
young women in contemporary Britain. They show a continuation,
perhaps a deepening, of social inequalities, which inevitably affects
young women’s ‘opportunities’. Through the theme of the feminisation
of both labour and the professions, they draw attention to the centrality
of the construction of class-specific femininities in Blairite social politics.
These more organic tendencies are considered in relation to Blairite
social rhetoric, especially its redefinitions of key social-democratic or
socialist terms: ‘equality’, ‘social justice’, ‘civic society’, even ‘culture’.
These redefinitions, they argue, amount to an active reinvention of all the
key terms of an older socialist politics, and disorganise a politics based in
a recognition of class and other inequalities, while attempting to retain
the loyalty of some of these elements in New Labour’s electoral coalition. Blairite redefinitions, however, make it still more difficult to
address the more structural inequalities. Indeed, by encouraging a bland
meritocratic disregard for ‘failure’, they help to reproduce them.
In Chapter 8, Haywood and Mac An Ghaill characterise New
Labour through the forms of masculinities that it approves and, especially, disapproves. New Labour politics is defined in part by its
promotion of a type of middle-class masculinity that they describe as
‘protective paternalism’. This form of meritocratic respectability for
men is juxtaposed to its ‘others’, who are the constantly reiterated
sources, equally, of its own definitions. Thus protective paternalism
and its forms of responsible fatherhood are defined particularly against
working-class laddism, as a form of disorderliness and pleasure-seeking behaviour. Haywood and Mac An Ghaill also seek to relate the
heightened social anxieties over paedophiles and ‘stranger danger’ to
the privileging of forms of fatherhood that are far from always innocent of different forms of abusiveness.
Again this chapter provokes interesting reflections about the way we
evaluate New Labour, especially in its ‘broad church’ versions. On the
one hand, in the later Blairite phases especially, there is a stress on
socially regulative interventions which impose strongly normative
conceptions of what it is to be a man. On the other hand, the content of
these norms, the characteristic emphasis on fathering for example, while
invariably contradictory and often (middle-) class based, nonetheless
show advances on more oppressive and predatory masculine models.
There is a general agreement among commentators that the distinctiveness of New Labour lies at least in part in matters of political style
17
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Blairism and the War of Persuasion
and the ‘cultural’ character of its project. The essays in Part III focus
on New Labour’s cultural politics and style. Spin, rhetoric, the art of
politics and the politics of art are not trivial or superficial aspects of
New Labour’s repertoire. They involve, centrally, the type of relationships it seeks with ordinary citizens and with ‘popular politics’ – that
is the active, collective political participation of ordinary citizens. From
the angle explored in Michael McKinnie’s chapter, they involve different allocations and definitions of ‘creativity’. The relationship between
representative democracy, with its institutions and elites, and participatory or direct democracy with its creative forms of citizenship, is
critical in modern political systems. So are official attitudes to critical
artistic or intellectual practice. Active and responsible citizenship is a
key theme in New Labour’s rhetoric. These chapters show, however,
that its governing conception is not very democratic and that it is positively adverse to social criticism and alternative imaginings.
In her essay on ‘Virtual Members’, Estella Tincknell argues that
specifically Blairite party ‘reform’ involves a particular conception of
membership. This she places historically within Labour’s positive relationship to modernity and its alliance with a masculinised and largely
white industrial working class. In its pragmatism and stress on being
modern, Blairite reform fits the longer history of Labour; it departs
from it in constructing a ‘post-modern politics’. In its earlier Kinnockite
phase, modernisation promised a less exclusive, more democratic and
more culturally sensitive political style, attractive to activists, who, like
Tincknell herself, joined in the early 1980s, influenced by feminist and
anti-racist movements. By the later 1990s, however, party members
were being redefined as supporters, to be wooed and rewarded, rather
than activists with convictions of their own. This redefinition affected
all aspects of the party: the management of annual conferences, communications between centre and locality and the forms of electioneering
and policy-making. The outcome has been ‘an emptying out of the politics from the political’ which is having disastrous effects, even, on the
baseline practice of voting, helping to explain, perhaps, the startlingly
low poll in the General Election of 2001.
Lisa Smyth approaches similar questions by analysing the relation
between Blairism in government and grassroots movements of active
citizens. Her main example – the People’s Fuel Lobby of September
2000 – provides fascinating points of comparison with the government’s later treatment of the much bigger movements against the Iraq
war and US/British occupation. In the fuel strike, local activists, mainly
drawn from transport businesses, and allied with sections of the media,
mounted a sharp but short-lived challenge to a previously popular
government – vulnerable however to charges of ‘softness’ on law and
order matters. Smyth shows how much Labour’s hegemony depends
on the disorganisation and marginalisation of alternative forms of
popular politics. In this case, the government worked hard to appear to
18
Distinctiveness and difference within New Labour
19
be listening to complaints about fuel tax, insisted it must govern ‘in the
round’ for all the people, and presented the fuel strikers as a minority
threat to democracy and law and order. It did not draw on the environmental arguments that might have mobilised opposed forms of the
popular. Its defensive strategies were, in this sense, passive, or pacifying, not hegemonic in a more expansive sense.
Joe Kelleher’s close examination of Tony Blair’s political rhetoric
centres on his bids to ‘win trust’. ‘Trust me’ is, he argues, a characteristic Blairite figure, but insistence upon it also marks a point of
vulnerability. Much more than narrowly ‘spin’, this political rhetoric is
a kind of drama or theatre, which prepares set roles for citizens and
achieves crucial inclusions and exclusions. It defines in fact the parameters of politics, typically excluding an independent popular agency.
Thus, while Blair’s rhetoric asks us to sympathise with a parade of
victims of ethnic cleansing in Kosovo, it excludes the same or similar
people as refugees or asylum seekers in Britain. More generally, as
Kelleher puts it, ‘this is a rhetoric that already knows best’ and does not
hesitate to speak on other’s behalf. His analysis of the vulnerabilities of
this style, especially when faced by forms of independent witness,
anticipates the profound crisis of trust, the cracks in consent and hegemony, that opened wide during and after the Iraq war.
The issue of policies for ‘the arts’ is critically positioned within the
general question of political style. As Michael McKinnie argues, cultural
critics have distinguished between forms of artistic practice that affirm
the existing limited forms of ‘community’ and those that critically open
up alternative social possibilities. Although New Labour has a more
positive view of the arts than its Conservative predecessors, it values
them in very particular ways: as ‘creative industries’ and parts of ‘the
new economy’, as sources of inclusion, and, especially, as instruments
for creating social consensus, identity and belonging. These criteria
guide Labour’s evolving and distinctive management of the public arts,
as neither old-style marketisation or the Reithian promotion of ‘civilisation’, but as a particular version of the civic arts which is affirmative,
disciplinary and regulative – though there are still evidently anxieties
that a more subversive form of art might surface.
The chapters in Part IV focus on Blairite views and Labour legacies
of the nation, and of international relations within a post-imperial, postCold-War context. Overall, the three studies reveal the conservative
nature of Blairism as a form of international relations – its steady alignment, that is, with the main forms of military power and economic
privilege within the world. One important aspect of this is the persistence of colonial structures of thinking and discourse at the heart of
Labour’s policies of development, its international alliances, and, in the
case of Ireland, even in its forms of attempted de-colonisation. As Pat
Noxolo argues very clearly, this is not so much a matter of explicitly
racist or imperialist discourse, but rather of the ways in which agency
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Blairism and the War of Persuasion
and passivity are defined and distributed internationally. Blairism’s
appreciative alignment with the spaces of the powerful applies to the
alliance, even fusion, with US power; and it also influences Blair’s
wholehearted endorsement of the worldwide projects of transnational
capital, and, more domestically, his side-taking with forces of law, order
and the unionist status quo in Northern Ireland. The other side of this
stance is a refusal to listen to, and learn from, let alone ally with, the
struggles of the subordinated, or the less powerful. This is most striking
in the refusal to take anything for Britain or for England from the radically democratic forms of the Northern Ireland peace process, or to see
anything admirable in the independence struggles of Third World states,
even ‘rogue’ ones, or to qualify a terroristic anti-terrorism with some
attempt to understand how violence and counter-violence interbreed.
A second shared theme in this part of the book, however, is a reemphasised stress on differences within New Labour. It is Blairism,
and especially the figure of the Prime Minister himself, that announces
the most grandiose post-imperial themes. Other elements within New
Labour have been carried by the reforming Northern Ireland Secretary
Mo Mowlam, or by the wavering internationalist Clare Short, or the
resigning ex-Foreign Secretary, Robin Cook, as well as by many
Labour MPs who rebelled on the issue of the Iraq war. Here a less
patrician notion of the party is often allied with a less accepting stance
towards transnational big business and the Super Class, and a belief in
a more pacific, more environmentally aware, and less imperialist insertion into the world’s disorder.
Pat Noxolo’s account of Labour’s early policies of development and
aid focus on the continuity of an imperialist division of the world
between active, developing parts and passive circumscribed regions
where all impetus to improvement must come from outside. This
repeats the spatial and temporal organisation of the world as envisaged
from the metropolis in late empire, and especially perhaps under that
form of liberal imperialism which stressed the civilising mission of the
colonial powers. The persistence of imperial ambition can be seen in
the figure of Britain as a ‘pivot’ or ‘fulcrum’ nation, and in the reduction of the Caribbean or Africa to the status of passive victims in the
need of aid, but prone to squandering it. The grandiosity and superiority of ambitions in ‘aid and development’ are matched by Blair’s own
assumption of transnational mission, his sustained evocation and
wooing of ‘the international community’. Such claims to influence are
themselves an aspect of continuing rivalries, for they coincide with
heightened competition with international agencies and other ‘donor’
states, not to say a loss of independence (from the USA) in military and
other matters. As in earlier imperial moments, claims to influence are
associated with decline.
The mixed fortunes of the peace process in Northern Ireland throw
as much light on New Labour as on contemporary Irish history. By
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Distinctiveness and difference within New Labour
21
comparing the strategies and styles of Mo Mowlam and Peter
Mandelson as successive Labour Secretaries of State for Northern
Ireland, Beatrix Campbell exposes the inner diversity of New Labour,
as well as the deep complicities of the British state in histories of assassination. Mowlam’s alliance with democratic and egalitarian forces in
Northern Ireland is contrasted with Mandelson’s colonial alignment
with the law and order preoccupations of the Northern Ireland Office;
and her willingness to go among the people (on both, or all sides) with
his patrician stance. Thus while Mowlam protected and pursued of the
Peace Agreement of Good Friday 1998, Campbell shows, in detail, how
Mandelson stymied the early movement towards its implementation.
By stressing the potential of the equality aspects of the Agreement as a
‘dialogue between direct and representative democracy’, Campbell also
strengthens the argument that Blairism consistently opposes popular
claims that threaten to escape its direction and control. Along with failures to learn from the different experiences of Scotland and Wales, the
stalling of the Northern Ireland peace process shows how Blairism fails
to learn from its own margins, or dares to challenge the powers of the
secret state.
As several essays in this volume argue, globalisation is a keyword in
Blairite vocabulary. In the final chapter of the book, Richard Johnson
argues that the service of transnational or global power is another
distinctive feature of Blairite politics. Blair’s own circle and the Prime
Minister’s Office have a very particular role in the internationalisation
of parts of the British state, including the military. So whose globalisation might this be and how does it impact on ‘national’ policies? In
some ways, as Noxolo argues, this ‘global’ is an old British universality which has fallen on hard times, but, it is also an American
universality, with Blair’s Britain in a subaltern role. Though it continues to surprise even his critics, Blair’s American loyalty, latterly so
risky to his national hegemony, is a heavily over-determined or
‘inevitable’ aspect of his politics, consistent with his neo-liberalism, his
commitment to ‘bridging’ the United States and Europe, and matching
his conception of British national interests. His critics can exploit the
considerable ‘blood price’ to the nation of supporting of a neoConservative President, but it is more important, perhaps, to construct
an alternative globality, in opposition to the policies of permanent war
and worldwide domination.
NOTES
1. We are especially grateful to Bob Jessop for discussion concerning the
phases of neo-liberalism as a way of understanding both Thatcherism and
Blairism.
2. The adoption of a Gramscian framework as one key editorial feature of
this collection grew out of our preliminary discussions with Debbie
Epstein and Stuart Hall. We are especially grateful to Stuart for his early
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suggestion that we look closely at ‘passive revolution’ as a way of making
sense of New Labour.
REFERENCES
Bewes, Timothy and Gilbert, Jeremy (eds) (2000) Cultural Capitalism: Politics
After New Labour London: Lawrence and Wishart.
Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies (1981) Unpopular Education:
Schooling and Social Democracy in England Since 1945, London:
Hutchinson.
Elliott, Gregory (1993) Labourism and the English Genius: The Strange Death
of Labour England?, London: Verso.
Finlayson, Alan (2003) Making Sense of New Labour, London: Lawrence and
Wishart.
Finlayson, Alan (2000) ‘New Labour the culture of government and the
government of culture’ in Timothy Bewes and Jeremy Gilbert (eds) (2000)
Cultural Capitalism: Politics After New Labour, London: Lawrence and
Wishart.
Gamble, Andrew (1988) The Free Economy and the Strong State, Basingstoke:
Macmillan.
Gamble, Andrew (1994) Britain in Decline (4th Edn.), London: Macmillan.
Gamble, Andrew and Kelly, Gavin (2001) ‘Labour’s New Economics’, in
Timothy Bewes and Jeremy Gilbert (eds) (2000) Cultural Capitalism:
Politics After New Labour, London: Lawrence and Wishart
Gramsci, Antonio (1971) Selections for the Prison Notebooks (edited and translated by Geoffrey Nowell-Smith and Quintin Hoare), London: Lawrence
and Wishart.
Hall, Stuart (2003) ‘New Labour’s Double Shuffle’, Soundings No 24
(Autumn), pp10-24.
Hall, Stuart et al (1979) Policing the Crisis: Mugging, The State and Law and
Order, Basingstoke: Macmillan.
Hall, Stuart et al (1998) ‘Wrong’: Marxism Today Special Issue, London:
Marxism Today.
Hall, Stuart and Jacques, Martin (1983) The Politics of Thatcherism, London:
Lawrence and Wishart.
Hay, C. (1999) The Political Economy of New Labour: Labouring Under False
Pretences?, Manchester: Manchester University Press.
Jessop, Bob (1994) ‘The transition to post-Fordism and the Schumpeterian
workfare state’, in Brian Loader and Roger Burrows (eds), Towards a PostFordist Welfare State?, London: Routledge.
Jessop Bob et al. (eds) (1989) Thatcherism, Cambridge: Polity.
Kenny, Michael and Smith, Martin J. (2001) ‘Interpreting New Labour:
constraints, dilemmas and political agency’, in Steve Ludlam and Martin J.
Smith, New Labour in Government, Basingstoke: Macmillan.
Ludlam, Steve (2001) ‘The making of New Labour’, in Steve Ludlam and
Martin J. Smith, New Labour in Government, Basingstoke: Macmillan.
Miliband, Ralph (1973) Parliamentary Socialism (2nd Edn.), London: Merlin.
Smith, Anna Marie (1994) New Right Discourse on Race and Sexuality,
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
22
Blairism and the war of persuasion:
Labour’s passive revolution
Deborah Lynn Steinberg and Richard Johnson
A
t the time of writing, we are approaching the completion of a
second term of New Labour government in Britain, with a third
term very probable. This is a significant cultural moment: the hegemony of the party, of Tony Blair himself and of the modernising
project of Blairism are arguably at their least stable, and most unpopular on the domestic front, yet seem secure for the foreseeable future.
This security exists against rather daunting odds, threatened not least
by what has been widely perceived as an ethical minefield, if not fiasco,
with respect to the recent war in Iraq. The contestatory tensions accruing to the Blairite project make this a particularly fruitful moment for
reflection on the cultural politics of New Labour.
Following the substantive case studies undertaken by the authors in
this collection, several things about the British political landscape
become manifestly clear.
First, New Labour has clearly broken the ‘curse’ of single terms of
office that haunted ‘old’ Labour. Not only does there continue to be an
overwhelming New Labour parliamentary majority, but the possibility
of meaningful opposition has been undermined by two key accomplishments of the new politics. One is New Labour’s success at
appropriating the political centre, which includes a significant portion
of the terrain that used to be dominated by the Conservative Party and,
indeed, by the New Right, including: the definition of national morality; the ready deployment of the means to war; the preoccupation with
discipline and regulation; and the embracing of market-led discourses
and solutions. The second is New Labour’s skilful appropriation of
much of the language of progressive liberal traditions, including those
that have underpinned the liberal-social democratic alliance (that is, the
old centre-left middle ground of British politics).1 These include their
oft-cited preoccupations with social inclusion, community and fairness. This latter phenomenon has been compounded by a long-term
contraction and dispersal of both old and new lefts, notwithstanding
some arenas of vigorous contemporary revival and emergence.2 Indeed,
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Blairism and the War of Persuasion
Blairism has effectively transformed the terrains of both moral traditionalism and social progressivism.
Second, ‘Blairism’ has emerged as a definite political-cultural formation. As time moves on it is becoming dramatically less tenable to
suggest that New Labour/Blairism are simply Thatcherism rebranded
or distinguished only by their dependence on ‘spin’ – claims that
continue to overshadow some analyses of the emergent features of the
current regime. At the same time, Blairism/New Labour are far from
being entirely new. Rather they represent a site of reinterpretation and
re-articulation of a range of pre-existing political tensions and tendencies. Indeed, Blairism has foundationally involved an extension and
deepening of neo-liberal political economy as well as a re-visioning of
the subjectivities it requires.
Third, New Labour is not one politics, but rather a political
constellation, of which ‘Blairism’ is the dominant fraction. Like
Thatcherism before it, it can be argued, the hegemonic dominance of
the new politics is shored up by its tensions and contradictions. The
seductions (for some) of Blairite social progressivism, for example
(which refer in part to earlier social democratic projects), seem to
underpin a ‘period of hope’ described by Gramsci that both distracts
from and fuels popular investments in the State appropriation of ‘the
struggle for renewal’ (Gramsci 1986 [1930]: 105). Hope, in other
words, has been fuelled (even as it has been, in significant ways,
betrayed), not just by rhetorical practices aimed at persuasion, but by
the ways in which the Blairite project has pursued (appropriated)
projects of popular progressivism. As both the Weeks & Epstein and
Johnson & Steinberg studies suggest, this is perhaps most concretely
in evidence on the terrain of sexuality and the widening of certain
citizenship rights.
Finally, there are the twin themes of modernisation and (neo)modernity that underpin a number of key elements of the Blairite/New
Labour project. First is the distinctive brand of managerialism characterising what might be described as the statist neo-liberalism of New
Labour domestic policy. This is a ‘modernisation’ that is explicitly
invested in a ‘big’ state apparatus rather than the residualised state of
Thatcherism. Modernisation, secondly, also refers to a re-visioned
moral discourse of nation, invested, on the one hand, in an assimilationist social liberal repertoire of community, most evidently directed
to the arenas of sexuality and ethnicity, and, on the other, in the
eschewing of popular forms of political dissent. This informs, in part,
the exclusionary subtext of the new inclusivity – that is, as Kelleher &
Epstein and Johnson & Steinberg argue, the summoning of ostensibly
expansive constituencies often relies on both old and new terms of
disassociation – along lines of political ideology, as well as disapproved/approved social identities/lifestyles (within and outside the
party; within and outside the nation). Finally, modernisation involves
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Blairism and the War of Persuasion
25
the redefinition of the place of the nation in the world in several
respects: as a nation whose ‘third way’ is a model for others; as a
fulcrum around which pivots the cross-Atlantic alliances of the richest
nations; and as a managing agent in the service of corporate branding
and global capital. At the same time, the global is often opposed to the
nation, with the former in the ascendant as a main source of ‘reforming’ dynamics. This, as will be discussed further below, is the obverse
of Thatcherite post-Empire nostalgia in which nation and nationalism
were always superordinate.
In this chapter we shall attempt to further distil and map out the
emergent themes of Blairism identified by the authors of this collection. We shall focus particularly on the points of distinction
highlighted above: the Blairite reworking of neo-liberalism, drawing
on and in distinction from Thatcherism; its simultaneous appropriation
of the political terrain of ‘left’; and the contestatory factions of Blairism
and the oppositional currents of New Labour – the terrain on which a
new war of position (in Gramscian terms) or effective counter hegemonic challenge has failed, so far, to consolidate. Finally, there is the
question of persuasion, arguably the most powerful marker of what we
shall argue is Labour’s passive revolution.
NEW NEO-LIBERALISM
These objectives are clear, right and achievable. They define our national
purpose. They mean a politics no longer scarred by the irrelevant ideological battles of much of the 20th century. Most of the old left/right tags
today are nothing but obstacles to good thinking. We have to concentrate on the things that really matter – what I call the big picture – not
the periphery (Blair, Speech at the Lord Mayors Banquet, 10.11.02).
All of the authors in this collection argue that Blairism/New Labour
are not Thatcherism, rhetorically repackaged. What emerges strongly
from the studies explored here is that we are witnessing the composition of a new political formation that deepens and transmutes already
existing processes and discourses and, at the same time, forges significant shifts of both political style, and the material relations that this
summons, suppresses and supports. What can be claimed legitimately
is that the common terrain of this constellation of consistencies and
distinction between the previous and current regime is neo-liberalism.
Indeed, it might be useful to interpret Thatcherism as neo-liberalism
phase 1 – what might be termed social authoritarian neo-liberalism; and
Blairism as neo-liberalism phase 2 – statist (or managerialist) neo-liberalism. These points of continuity-rupture emerge in relation to a
number of themes including: the nexus of work, discipline and class;
the relationship between the state and the market, and between the
nation and the world; the dis/investments in populism and the popular
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Blairism and the War of Persuasion
in the production of the neo-liberal subject; and the meanings of
‘modernity’ and ‘modernisation’.
New Labour discipline: re-making the middle class
As has been widely acknowledged, Thatcherism was characterised by a
number of distinct tendencies and tensions that were quintessentially
‘New Right’. In the context of questions of class and labour discipline,
this included a sustained drive to decimate and disorganise traditional
working class occupations and the structural referents of working class
identity. This was effected by, among other things, the radical restructuring of the economy away from manufacturing; the razing of trade
unionism and ‘left’ leaning political activism (through a combination of
legislative restriction and militaristic policing); and the reversal
(through the radical residualisation of state services through wholesale
privatisation) of the post-war social democratic ‘consensus’ which
favoured a strong welfare state. These tendencies, among other effects,
produced a profound swell of unemployment (composed largely of
redundant workers from heavy industries and their collateral service
industries as well as from former state service sectors). The Thatcherite
ethos was captured in a brutalist, neo-Darwinian discourse of competitive individualism and entrepreneurialism. The new underclass was
exhorted to stop ‘whinging’, to pull themselves up by their bootstraps,
to start their own businesses (if they were male) or, if they were female,
to absorb (unpaid) the service work formerly provided by the state.
As the authors of this volume have pointed out, in many respects,
Blairite/New Labour domestic policies have intensified the neo-liberal
economic trajectories of the Thatcher years. Certainly the emphasis on
public-private funding initiatives for services once delivered by the
state has, as discussed by McKinnie in relation to arts policy, been
extended (indeed very aggressively fought for). So too has the driving
deregulatory ethos that has embedded and reshaped the domestic economy in the globalising trends of mega-capitalism. Moreover, discourses
of labour discipline and individual initiative (intimately linked to
notions of social (il)legitimacy) continue to pervade the current
cultural vernacular. But at the same time there are marked distinctions
between the Blairite political economy (and political-economic vision)
and that which characterised the previous government.
For example, and as many of the authors in this volume note (Clarke
& Newman, Jones, McKinnie, Walkerdine and Johnson), there has been
a marked shift in the configurations of class and labour. Where the disciplinary economies of Thatcherism were pointedly directed to the major
industrial working-class occupations and identities (a state-led unmaking of the working class), those of New Blairism/New Labour are
focused on middle class labour, and driven with particular vehemence
toward public sector professionals and skilled/autonomous labour: (e.g.
fire-fighters). The consequence of this, it can be argued, is a fracturing
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Blairism and the War of Persuasion
27
and re-composition of the conditions of middle-class life, labour and
subjectivities. Indeed, it might be further argued that Blairism has
signalled a new phase of class reconstruction, grounded in part in
tendencies set in motion under the previous regime. The hallmarks of
this transformation include firstly, the radical innovation of forms of
institutional audit and surveillance. The administrative authoritarianism
of New Labour projects to ‘reform’ across public sectors (schools and
higher education, social services, health, transport, the fire service, the
police and so on) differ from the Thatcherite willingness to rely on
marketisation, virtually on its own, to deliver new subjectivities. New
Labour’s project is not one of state sector residualisation, notwithstanding the intensification of private finance initiatives.
Intimately interlinked with the inflationary machinery of audit is
the ‘standards crusade’ (Blair 28.8.97) described by several authors in
this volume (Clarke and Newman, Jones, McKinnie). This crusade is
characterised by the pursuit of perpetual self-improvement with the
criterion of ‘excellence’ continually reset higher as projected indicators
and outcomes are (seen to be) achieved. Further, there is a radical and
progressive intensification of workload and the reliance on the selfdiscipline (and expertise) of professionals/skilled labour to assertively
invest in and enact the industrialising tendencies embedded in the New
Labour reformation of professional life. Underpinning this crusade is a
compact of distrust and disenfranchisement that undercuts the privilege and qualified autonomy formerly accorded to professional and
skilled worker status: in particular rights of professional self-governance and the presumption of expertise and competence on the part of
individual professionals.3 At the same time, it must be noted that the
extent to which these presumptions have characterised the range of
professions targeted for reform has significantly differed: the conditions of labour attending ‘lower status’ professions like nursing (which
was targeted for the residualising and the labour-discipline discourses
of the Thatcher years) cannot be equated with those for doctors. Thus,
what seems particularly significant about the current regime is its
assertive incorporation of the more powerful professional sectors into
disciplinary regimes from which they were, formerly, relatively
protected. Yet at the same time that proletarianised labour practices
have been expanded in this way, the cultural identities formerly associated with them have continued to be marginalised.
It is interesting, in this context, to consider why public sector
professions/skilled labour have been such particular targets for
‘modernisation’ in these terms, and how Blairism/New Labour have
come to be so preoccupied with the reconstruction of middle-class life.
As suggested above, one of the most significant ‘achievements’ of the
previous government was to radically alter not only the material conditions but also the available social and cultural referents for working
class identities. In this context, it could be argued, there is little work27
28
Blairism and the War of Persuasion
ing class life to be remade that has not already been conscripted into the
orbit of neo-liberal political economy. As Estella Tinknell notes, moreover, this period witnessed the decimation of the traditional sectors of
alliance, particularly trade unionism, that had previously shaped the
centre of Labour Party politics. The ‘new realist’ transformations
within the party that have emerged have progressively shifted away
from working-class alliances and agendas. Moreover, as the studies in
this collection suggest, one of the key currents in common between
Thatcherite Conservatism and the Blairite project is a visionary authoritarianism – although each is invested in distinctive constellations of
morally authoritative discourse – that is characterised by aggressive
investment in quelling (or overriding) dissent.4 What has emerged is a
party that is foundationally re-orientated to middle-class identities
(even as it is subjecting key sectors to regimes of labour discipline that
run contrary to traditional middle-class forms of privilege and responsible autonomy); and one that is at war with its own new
constituencies, and – as we shall discuss further below – with those
aspects of the state and grassroots social alliance that can be said to have
social democratising or non-affirmative tendencies.
Transforming the gender/class nexus
As many commentators of the period have noted, the neo-liberal class
and economic transformations of the Thatcher/Major era were held in
considerable tension with a social authoritarian gender/sexual morality,
foundationally inflected by an ethnocentric tribalism – the ‘new
racism’ as termed by Barker (1982). The period witnessed the resuscitation of Victorian domestic ideology, emphasising the radical
separation of public and private along traditional gender lines and
figuring its ideal citizen in aggressive, jingoistically masculine terms.
The period also witnessed the invocation of a panoply of folk devils
(‘unfit mothers’, beggars, muggers and so on) that explicitly referred
back to early eugenics/moral purity ideologies. Thus, as noted by
Weeks and Epstein et al, even as the state was residualised in terms of
service provision (and the increasing reliance on the unpaid labour of
women to take up the slack), it was significantly expanded in relation
to the regulation of private moralities.
Blairite/New Labour politics has witnessed a significant reworking
of the nexus (and contradictory currents) of gender and class relations.
New Labour modernisation has, on the one hand, explicitly incorporated a discourse of ‘equal opportunity’, particularly in relation to
gender and work. If we consider the discussions of Heywood/Mac An
Ghaill and Clarke/Newman together, the ostensibly egalitarian notion
that everyone has a right (and duty) to work translates into an expectation that both men and women will be managing paid and unpaid
labour. At the same time, the post-fordist transformations of paid work
(which have actively been pursued under New Labour economic
28
Blairism and the War of Persuasion
29
policy) in which women have figured as ‘ideal’ (contingent, flexible)
workers are held in tension with a competitive, meritocratic, work
ethic historically figured as masculine. In both public and private,
moreover, the intensification of work alongside the inflationary standards against which work is measured and valued are normative. This
normative expectation of excellence (Walkerdine and Johnson) incorporates both traditional feminine (self-abnegating and altruistic) and
conventional masculine (striving, hierarchically orientated) values.
Thus it can be argued that the New Labour work ethic does not so
much transcend traditional gender divisions, as devolve and disperse
the labours of traditional masculinities and femininities to both men
and women, who are expected to serve and embody the contrary
tensions of traditional masculinities and femininities.
Reworking state and market
Blairism/New Labour has, it can be argued, explicitly re-invested in
‘big’ statism, but with many of the previous marketised trajectories of
political-economic reform still much in evidence. For instance, during
the past two terms, the managerial apparatus of the state has grown,
and notwithstanding continued drives to co-opt private finance into
public services, the regulatory jurisdiction of the state over those
services has been unambiguously reasserted. Sub-contracting rather
than selling off is the Blairite version of privatisation. The Thatcherite
privatisation drive was marked by an underpinning and prima facie
denial of both the social and the public as a site of collective popular
ownership. The Thatcherite policy of selling off public utilities by
means of mass-share offers was essentially selling people what they
(e.g. as taxpayers; as citizens) already owned – and persuading them
that they did not.5 Blairism, by contrast, has clearly acknowledged the
existence of both society and of the public sphere and public institutions as, legitimately, sites of popular ‘stakeholding’. But in the Blairite
vision of ‘public’, commodity relations and marketisation must be
pervasive, must progressively define and structure all aspects of public
and civic life. This is what marks the new formation as a politics
emphatically on the side of big business and expansive capital; and, as
Johnson with Steinberg notes, the relationship between the government and business constitutes New Labour’s only egalitarian form of
‘partnership’.6
This arrangement retains the work of moral visioning (ideology) as
the province of the state (notwithstanding its intimate incorporation of
marketised values) as distinct from operationalising functions, which
are contracted out. At the same time, the Blairite formation has
retained the hard line (‘big state’) approaches to law and order and to
militarism cultivated under Thatcherism. Under both regimes, the State
has been invested in (and with) the values of the market. However the
parochial ethnocentrism of Thatcherite entrepreneurialism has given
29
30
Blairism and the War of Persuasion
way to an explicitly globalised corporate orientation. Moreover, both
Blairism and Thatcherism have figured moral regulatory states – but on
the basis of significantly different moral repertoires and different
means of compliance. In this context, the terms (and qualifications for)
citizenship are perhaps one of the most salient points of both continuity and departure.
RE-ARTICULATIONS OF SOCIAL DEMOCRACY: POPULISM,
POPULAR AGENCY AND NEW CITIZENSHIP
Perhaps the most powerful distinction between Blairite politics and the
previous regime is its explicit investment in and reworking of a range
of concepts associated with, in loose terms, the ‘left’. The liberal/social
progressivist rhetorics of community, social inclusion, partnership,
devolution and so on describe a different neo-liberal constellation. If
Thatcherism was invested in a monocultural, social authoritarian, ‘little
Englander’ chauvinism, this has been rejected explicitly in Blairite
repertoires of multicultural cosmopolitanism.7 Beatrix Campbell
suggests, however, that key strands of this aspect of Blairite ‘modernisation’ have been – at best – reluctant (and profoundly limited)
concessions to wider shifts in popular values. She includes within this
the early claimed investments in gender equalisation (within and
beyond the Labour Party itself), as sought for by New Labour
modernisers such as Mo Mowlam and Clare Short; and moves, early in
the new regime, to ‘devolve’ power in Scotland and Wales, and to
pursue (under the leadership of Mo Mowlam, later undermined by
Peter Mandelson) a peace agreement in Northern Ireland.8 Solomos
and Schuster note a similarly contradictory commitment to anti-racist
and aggressively racist policy (emblematised in the contrary tendencies
of the Stephen Lawrence enquiry and New Labour’s draconian antiimmigration policies, with their particular hostility to refugees).
Weeks, and Epstein, Johnson & Steinberg point up real if significantly
limited liberalisations of government policy towards sexual/lifestyle
choices and multiple family forms (and the rights, at least of affirmatively orientated (pro-Blairite), gay and lesbian constituencies), while
family policies (for example sex education in schools) remain deeply
invested in familiar forms of compulsory heterosexuality.
It could be argued, however, that there is significantly greater
duplicity in the invocation of these terminologies than a simple watering down of radical political values. As suggested throughout this
collection, in the New Labour approach, ‘rights’ (invoked as inalienable) are often in practice qualified by a duty not only of work, but of
aggressive conformity to the new disciplinary economies of labour, and
to market values; political dissent is derided and overridden; ‘stakeholding’ is dispensed, like favours,9 to the self-including; and
‘partnership’, as suggested by both Noxolo and Johnson with
Steinberg, defines relationships of gross inequality (including on ques30
Blairism and the War of Persuasion
31
tions of military alliance with the USA and economic alliances with
mega-corporate interests). Blairism (like Thatcherism before it) is a
profoundly anti-democratic politics, that has successfully taken up
(and redefined) terminologies and concepts across the spectrum of left,
anti-Conservative, and anti-conservative movements.10 The seductive
(or at the least as we shall suggest below, disorganising) sense of social
progressivism attached to New Labour/Blairite rhetoric has, moreover,
been lent substance – it is not just spin – by its occasional concessions
to social democratic/democratising values.11
The popular subject: the new citizen
It could be argued that what Thatcherism both addressed and
summoned were subjects (of a monarchical state). The mode of address
combined a hectoring dogmatism with a ‘knowing’ recognition (and
summoning) of particular constituencies of the already converted, who
understood (and did not aspire to transgress) their place in a fixed
social hierarchy.12 As argued by many commentators, the ideal subject
of the Thatcher period was parochial, nationalistic, defensive and
exclusionary; invested in the nostalgia of Empire and Victorian values;
and in tribalised monocultural Britishness, and particularly
Englishness. Such subjects included business sections of the middle
class, lower middle-class aspirants and skilled, better-paid workers –
not the professional middle classes and the rich (who most profited
from the political economies of the period). Perhaps the most paradoxical objects of Thatcherite populism and spin were working-class
masculine subjects – those, precisely, who had been contained, beaten
back, and disinherited by the decimations of industrial/manufacturing
occupations – with their resentments and defeats reconscripted in legitimated, abjecting (racialised, homophobic, misogynistic) aggression
toward the myriad ‘others’ of the time.
Blairism, by contrast, addresses citizens.13 And the mode is movement: as suggested above, the redefined discourses of social inclusion,
democracy, justice, devolution and so on signal a meta-narrative
(Epstein, Johnson and Steinberg) of social progress. Interestingly, the
constituencies addressed are often the resistant rather than the
converted (particularly the resistant on the left, including, as noted by
Tincknell, those in the Labour Party itself) – the socially marginalised
rather than the centre, and the sceptical rather than the already
persuaded. The Blairite citizen is invited, rather than exhorted, to
affirm, to assimilate, to include him/herself in the (neo)modernising
project of state allied to market. This is the consumer citizen, who
harnesses his/her own active agency in the exercise of market choices
and branded identities; proletarianises his/her own labour; inserts
him/herself into the marketised collectivity. This is the worldly, globalised citizen, of an intellectually muscular, arbitrating and moral
nation, who does not hanker back to former glory in empire, but
31
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Blairism and the War of Persuasion
forward to a world of nations, a world community of markets and
assimilationist values. This is the passive revolutionary citizen; who
accepts (or will be persuaded of) the inevitability of both global capitalism and neo-liberal politic futures, even as s/he invests in the
languages of (and is content with limited gestures toward) social
progressivism, and who is prepared to continually up the ante in a
perpetually inflationary economy of qualification (work) for (the
rights of) citizenship.
BLAIRISM AND THE WAR OF PERSUASION
Much continues to be made of the question of ‘spin’ in relation to the
current government, particularly as this is embodied in the figure of
Tony Blair himself. Indeed, the (perceived) preoccupation with representation and (its potential to legitimate desired forms of)
governmentality is, it can be argued, a specifically Blairite rather than
more generalised New Labour phenomenon. Certainly there is much to
substantiate this appraisal. As Joe Kelleher notes, the Blairite agenda of
persuasion is articulated through a panoply of rhetorics and semiotic
labour that constitute a foundational ‘bid for trust’, most prominently
enacted by the figure of Blair himself. Thatcherism did involve notable
strands of spin – perhaps most famously in the bid to motivate ordinary
people to buy shares in privatised utilities, but also in strategic moments
of story ‘leaks’ to fuel what seemed a never-ending stream of moral
panics in the popular press (Hall et al, 1978; Epstein, 1997), in its party
political broadcasting, and in its various mediatised educational
campaigns.14 However, as Kelleher argues, the intensity, prominence
and character of the Blairite bid for trust reveals a relationship to popular representation and a hegemonic orientation that are distinct from the
dictatorial-exhortative authoritarianism of the previous regime.
Blairism clearly takes the work of culture and the arenas of mediated
meanings as a primary task and terrain, of government and of party. But
perhaps more importantly, the impetus to persuade carries, in itself,
seductive connotations of democracy – of a contract perhaps – of not
only the rights and responsibilities of citizenship but of reciprocities
between ‘the people’ and the people’s representatives.15 Persuasion is,
intrinsically, dialogic. Certainly the need to persuade not only offers
recognition to oppositional currents, but an obligation to engage. There
is a certain suggestive egalitarianism in such a bid for trust, a connotative construction of the political field as a democratic terrain, in which
(all) dissenting contestants have a legitimate claim. That this runs
counter to the substantive one-wayism of Blairite ‘Third Way’ politics,
and to the passive revolutionary construction of the New Citizen, is,
perhaps, the key paradox underpinning Blairism’s achieved hegemony.
How important is the ‘war of persuasion’ in Blairite politics overall?
It can certainly be argued that the material shifts in the political
economies of nation, state and market that Blairite policies achieve or
32
Blairism and the War of Persuasion
33
permit are decisive, and that they therefore somewhat moot the need
for persuasion. Yet the relation of discursive redefinitions and persuasive rhetorics is crucial.
For example, the deskilling and partial proletarianisation of professional work which is currently underway, often experienced as a loss of
autonomy, depends on the imposition of the audit culture and on the
pressures of closer surveillance and administration. Consistently, these
Blairite ‘facts of life’ are taken up by those of us working in public
sectors, in our actual practices, whatever our conscious objections may
be. (This is in part an effect of the dependence of these sectors on public
funds.) The totalising tendencies of audit culture discipline erodes the
potentialities for (imagination for, investment in) alternative ways of
thinking and acting, so that objections increasingly seem ‘impractical’
if not dangerous. In this respect, the relationship of labour to the political field has taken on taylorised quality: what is done is (often
radically) de-sutured from the values and beliefs of those doing the
doing. If it is the case that to comply is to enact (at least a certain
measure of) trust, the bid would appear to have been substantively won
before it is offered.
PERSUASION, POSITION AND PASSIVE REVOLUTION
The unabated progression of its ‘modernising’ programme, and the
continued re-confirmation of its hegemony, would seem to attest to the
strategic success of Blairism’s war of persuasion, notwithstanding
considerable resistance from the ideologically (if not materially) unpersuaded. The fractures within the Labour Party itself, as Tincknell and
Campbell discuss, mirror key moments and wider constituencies of
protest (both within and – in the wake of the recent Iraq war – beyond
Britain). Perhaps most painfully, these predominantly include
constituencies most invested in the progressivist elements of the
Blairite repertoire – whether these are carried within the Parliamentary
Party, party activists in the country, or indeed a wider ‘left’ public.
Considered in this context, it can be argued that Blair’s war of persuasion is integral, not primarily to the immediate trajectories of
institutional transformation described above and throughout this
collection, but to the containment of tensions, to the disorganisation of
a consolidated counter-hegemonic struggle. It is a project of seduction,
of ideological interpellation, directed primarily to the range of
constituencies who have historical alliances with the ‘left’ and who
might be regarded as the ‘natural’ constituencies of a party ostensibly
opposed to ‘little englander’, social authoritarian Conservatism and to
the constellation of New Right politics that Thatcherism so significantly forged.16 One very clear instance of the disorganising effects of
the seductive promises of progressivism that come (though rather
thinly now) from the Blairite wing is the continued difficulty for party
(and other left) activists of deciding whether to try to re-reform Labour
33
34
Blairism and the War of Persuasion
or to try to create a new left alternative from the small parties and
wider movements. The war of persuasion is, in other words, integral to
the foreclosing of an opposed war of position, which might otherwise
emerge from the disparate currents of protest within and outside the
Labour Party.
The distinctions outlined above witness a palpable and dramatic
reorganisation of the political field, extending to the terms of citizenship; to the political economies of state and market and of nation and
its place within the world; to alliances and oppositions in domestic and
international spheres; to forms of subjectivity as they are materialised
through shifting processes and networks of production and consumption; to the cultural repertoires of social (including national and global)
identity; and to the meanings that accrue to (and parameters that
delimit) democratic practice, popular agency and regimes of representation. As the studies in this book suggest, notwithstanding its intimate
continuities with many strands of the previous regime, Blairism is
‘revolution’. But it is a revolution that abhors popular activism, or,
indeed, any active agency that is not affirmative of its own pre-defined
values or purposes. It is a project that sutures and serves the fundamentally incompatible tendencies and values of right and left politics.
And it is a foundationally anti-democratic project, that wields the
hopeful languages of social progressivism in a bid for trust that seems,
so far at least, to have secured its future against even globalised
moments of protest.
NOTES
1. It has been well established by historians and political scientists that the
post-world war two period in Britain was characterised by a cross-party
consensus on the necessity of a welfare state, Keynsian economic policies
and some incorporation into the state of trade union interests. It was
precisely this post-war settlement that was decimated in Thatcher years, as
well as the assumptions underpinning it about the potentialities and obligations of the state to compensate for, or provide a safety net against, the
inequalities and waste of the market (see for example, CCCS Education
Group, 1981).
2. The widespread and organised opposition to the Iraq War, which was
distinctive for the ways in which it was institutionally validated and circulated – for example being televised virtually unedited on BBC News 24 (a
phenomenon that would have been unimaginable under Thatcherism) –
represented a significant revival of mass protest, involving a constellation
of political-oppositional currents. The public mourning following the
death of Diana in 1997, coinciding with the victory of New Labour, was
also taken by some theorists to represent not only a revival of mass
demonstration, but a significant shift in their form and potentiality (see for
example Kear and Steinberg, 1999; Gilbert et al, 1999). Further examples
include global justice and anti-globalisation movements, as well as forms
of new unionism (harkening back in some respects to ‘old’ Labour’).
34
Blairism and the War of Persuasion
35
3. This, of course, has varied depending on the public professional sector in
question. Some groups, for example nurses, have arguably benefited under
New Labour, with improved recognition and working conditions.
4. This was painfully brought home in Blair’s singular justification for war in
Iraq –without UN sanction, and notwithstanding overwhelming dissent
on the part of the British people (and wider international communities) –
in terms of the conscientious obligations of leadership (to be unpopular, to
make the ‘moral’ decision, as he perceives it, notwithstanding democratic
oppositions).
5. This was perhaps one of the most successful moments of Thatcherite spin:
the British public were exhorted to purchase shares, on the (implicit) basis
that what was public was not really public. I remember thinking to myself
at the time, newly arrived myself in Britain, that the slogan for this process
should have been: ‘privatisation: because you don’t really own it unless
you’ve bought it twice’.
6. As Blair put it in the first months of the new government: ‘The third way
is to try to construct a partnership between Government and business to
help us cope with change and success in the face of its challenge’ (Blair
11.11.97).
7. Indeed, in his speech at the Lord Mayor’s Banquet, Blair declared pointedly that: ‘…there is no place [in the New Britain] for misguided little
Englander sentiment’ (Blair, 10.11.02).
8. The reform of the House of Lords (in terms that many have regarded as
significantly compromised) and the stated intention to pursue proportional representative voting in a reform of British electoral politics can also
be included here.
9. This is captured poignantly, on a globalised stage, in Tony Blair’s speech to
the UN General Assembly Special Session on the Environment and
Sustainable Development. He stated: ‘First, we must give everyone a
stake …’. This use of the possessive ‘we’ (who legitimately own and control
both stakes and stakeholding), versus the ‘they’ (who are passive recipients
of their own interests, and who must be educated into their constructive
investment), is characteristic of the Third Way rhetoric of citizenship.
10. Thatcherism also radically conscripted social-democratic and otherwise
oppositional concepts. A notable example was the rewriting of the term
‘reform’. (See discussion of the reactionary anti-feminist use of this term
in the wake of the 1988 Alton (Unborn Children Protection) Bill in the
Science and Technology Subgroup 1991). But Thatcherism never claimed
to be a party of social progressivist values (rather it was explicitly in opposition to these).
11. In addition to certain liberalisations as discussed by Epstein, Johnson &
Steinberg, Weeks and Solomos and Schuster, these include, for example,
tax policies favouring poorer working parents and new initiatives to assist
young people.
12. This is notwithstanding the narrative of social elevation attending
Margaret Thatcher herself, whose relatively modest origins as a shopkeeper’s daughter, and transformation into the social elect of traditional
Englishness and social conservatism, was a pervasively cited allegory of the
regime. (A certain element of social/economic mobility also attended the
popular discourse concerning the rise of John Major.)
35
36
Blairism and the War of Persuasion
13. This is not to suggest that either Thatcherism or Blairism were/are singular modes of address. Rather, both were/are composite ‘voices’, composed
of the varying styles (sometimes oppositional) of prominent figures close
to the leadership. Blairism, for example, is an admix of brutalist political
stylings reminiscent of the ‘iron’ politics of Thatcher herself (for example
Home Secretary David Blunkett, Education Secretary Charles Clarke), the
intellectual muscularities of Peter Mandelson, the muscular pragmatism of
Gordon Brown, and the ‘softer’ (more marginal) political stylings of
Robin Cook (now stepped down in his opposition to the Iraq war) and
(even more marginally) Clare Short. It is interesting how, in both contexts,
the personal styles of the leaders seem(ed) to embody (to contain, in both
senses) contestatory constituent voices, signalled in the eponymous figurations of the political regime they front(ed). John Major was never able to
replace ‘Thatcherism’ with ‘Majorism’ in this sense. It is also significant
that both Blairism and Thatcherism were/are composite masculine styles –
as oft parodied in figurations of Margaret Thatcher as a man in drag; and,
as Beatrix Campbell suggests, this is emblematised in the jettisoning of Mo
Mowlam from the peace brokering process in N. Ireland, and in so doing
from the dominant axis of the Blair government.
14. The apocalyptic, fear-mongering AIDS education campaign (which
exhorted that we ‘Don’t Die of Ignorance’, against the image of a crashing
tombstone, without providing any substantive and corrective information
about HIV/AIDS transmission or safe sex) was a salient moment of
Thatcherite spin (and euphemism) being brought into the service of its
social authoritarian agenda.
15. It is no coincidence that the possessive form, ‘the people’s’, became the
early catch phrase of the new government, beginning with the significantly
oxymoronic appellation of ‘people’s princess’ (a term used by Tony Blair
to describe Diana Princess of Wales in the wake of her death in 1997); it
was deployed shortly thereafter in a perhaps similarly contradictory
rhetorical ‘leftism’, to describe the ‘people’s fuel lobby’ (Smyth) (see also
Kelleher 1999).
16. As Kelleher suggests, the rhetoric and political stylings of Blairite persuasion summon ‘us’ into their dramaturgical terrain of moral agon and
affirmative values.
REFERENCES
Brown, Phillip and Richard Sparks (eds.) (1989) Beyond Thatcherism: Social
Policy, Politics and Society, Milton Keynes: Open University Press.
Campbell, Beatrix (1987) The Iron Ladies: Why do Women Vote Tory?,
London: Virago.
CCCS Education Group (1981) Unpopular Education: Schooling and Social
Democracy.
CCCS (1982) The Empire Strikes Back: Race and Racism in 70s Britain,
London: Routledge.
Cohen, Philip and Harwant S. Bains (1988) Multi-Racist Britain, Basingatoke:
Macmillan.
Epstein, Debbie (1997) ‘What’s in a Ban? The Popular Media, Romeo and Juliet
and Compulsory Heterosexuality’, in Steinberg, Deborah, Debbie Epstein
36
Blairism and the War of Persuasion
37
and Richard Johnson, Border Patrols: Policing the Boundaries of
Heterosexuality, London: Cassell.
Franklin, Sarah, Celia Lury and Jackie Stacey (1991) Off-Centre: Feminism
and Cultural Studies, London: Harper Collins.
Gilbert, Jeremy et al (eds) (1999) ‘Diana and Democracy’, New Formations
Special Issue, No.36.
Gilroy, Paul (1991) There Ain’t No Black in the Union Jack, London:
Routledge.
Gramsci, Antonio (1971) Selections from Prison Notebooks, London: Lawrence
and Wishart.
Hall, Stuart et al (1978) Policing the Crisis: Mugging, the State and Law and
Order, Basingstoke: Macmillan.
Kear, Adrian and Deborah Lynn Steinberg (eds.) (1999) Mourning Diana:
Nation, Culture and the Performance of Grief, London: Routledge.
Kelleher, Joe (1999) ‘Rhetoric, Nation and the People’s Property’, in Kear,
Adrian and Deborah Lynn Steinberg (eds.), Mourning Diana: Nation,
Culture and the Performance of Grief, London: Routledge.
Loney, Martin (1986) The Politics of Greed: The New Right and the Welfare
State, London: Pluto Press.
Oakley, Ann and A. Susan Williams (eds.) (1994) The Politics of the Welfare
State, London: UCL Press.
Riedman, Lester (ed.) (1993) British Cinema and Thatcherism, London: UCL
Press.
Science and Technology Subgroup (1991) ‘In the Wake of the Alton Bill’, in
Franklin et al, Off-Centre: Feminism and Cultural Studies, London: Harper
Collins, pp147-221.
Solomos, John (1989) Race and Racism in Contemporary Britain, Basingstoke:
Macmillan.
Steinberg, Deborah, Debbie Epstein and Richard Johnson (eds) (1997) Border
Patrols: Policing the Boundaries of Heterosexuality, London: Cassell.
Tony Blair Speeches
Press conference in Denver, 21.6.97.
H. Morpeth School, Tower Hamlets, 28.8.97.
CBI Conference, Birmingham, 11.11.97.
Council of Europe Summit, Strasbourg, 10.10.97.
The Lord Mayors Banquet, 10.11.02.
37
1. A new past, an old future: New
Labour remakes the English school
Ken Jones
T
here are four systems of schooling in Britain: those in Northern
Ireland, Scotland, Wales and England. In three of them devolution
post 1997 has strengthened tendencies that are broadly inclusive – a
bias in favour of non-selective secondary schooling, a scepticism about
market forces as drivers of worthwhile educational change (Jones
2002). This chapter is about the fourth system – the English system, in
which the legacies of Conservatism are strongly felt, and in which
government still ferociously pursues the war against public sector
professionalism launched by its predecessor.
England is the exception, then. But it is a big exception, and a
complex one. Much the largest of the four countries, it is also the most
strongly linked to a new global policy community and to the emergent
discourses which provide rationales for educational change (Hatcher
2001). So what from the viewpoint of Belfast or Cardiff may appear as
something shaped by peculiarly English traditions, from an international perspective looks like a paradigmatic example of a system
geared to the stratified societies of the knowledge economy – something which is better understood in terms of novelty rather than
continuation.
This chapter attempts to understand New Labour’s programme for
English schooling in a way that grasps both its conservative and its
radical elements. Doing so, it borrows from the insights gained by
Antonio Gramsci, as he reflected from prison on the defeat of the
insurrectionary left in the early 1920s, and the rise of fascism. These
developments he set in the perspective of Italian and European history
post-1789. Fascism for Gramsci was the latest episode in a long tradition of ‘passive revolution’ or ‘revolution-restoration’ – a process in
which the ruling social groups, through state intervention rather than
popular mobilisation, sought to promote sweeping institutional change
and ‘national renewal’; and in which reform was linked not to the
extension of democracy but to the preservation of existing power
structures in the face of a radical challenge which had been defeated,
38
A new past, an old future
39
but had not been eradicated, either as memory or potential (Gramsci
[1934] 1971: 59; 105).
Perhaps this summary is already enough to suggest how ‘passive
revolution’ is a concept useful to the analysis of an educational
programme in which dynamism and conservatism are closely linked,
and which is haunted so powerfully by the possibility of a re-emergent
opposition. It has further layers of meaning, also, that relate not so
much to the substance of analysis as to the stance of the analyst.
‘Passive revolution’, in Gramsci’s usage, is the basis of something difficult and unusual in any politics, and perhaps especially from within
marxism: a recognition of the rationality and success of your antagonist’s programme, and a coming to terms with the weakness of your
own. In this sense, it is a concept self-consciously devised from the
vantage-point of the defeated. Something of this sense of aftermath,
together with a certain admiration for the scope and energy of the
victorious party, shapes this chapter’s evaluation of New Labourism in
education. But, in the spirit of Gramsci, the piece aims to identify the
limits and breaking-points of the new programme; its analysis –
however subdued it appears in relation to the immediate prospects of
the defeated – is directed towards that end.
DEFEATS
Like Gramsci’s, my account of ‘passivity’ relates to once-influential
forces that have ceased, in any strong sense, to be agents of social change.
But where he had in mind the defeat of insurrection, I am concerned
with setback and retreat among forces which were at one time powerful
agents of social reform. Since New Labour is organised around a
comprehensive ‘re-agenting’ of policy, aimed at the sidelining of forces
which previously had a role in the design, implementation and contestation of change, the field for analysis here is a wide one. We can begin with
the Labour Party itself. Since its 1922 pamphlet Secondary Education for
All, the party has been committed to institutional reforms intended to
broaden equality of opportunity. In the immediate post-war years, party
conferences opposed the Attlee government’s preference for tripartite
education and called for non-selective (comprehensive) secondary
reform. When in 1965 Harold Wilson’s government encouraged local
authorities to move in this direction, it was the – diluted – culmination
of the Party’s long-standing support for universal comprehensivisation
(Simon 1992); and the same principle underpinned the party’s opposition
to the Conservative transformation of schooling in the 1980s. The point
here is not to glorify a tradition whose shortcomings have often been
noted (CCCS 1981), but to indicate the existence until the middle 1990s
of a kind of policy baseline, underwritten by constituency parties and
affiliated unions, and operationalised by Labour-controlled local authorities, below which the party’s programme could not slip. What has
enabled the radicalism of New Labour’s present educational project is, in
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the first instance, the eclipse of these forces. Unions and local authorities
were defeated by Thatcherism in the conflicts of the 1980s. The antiunion laws and the rolling back of the public sector which were the
marks of Tory victory were ratified by New Labour in the 1990s;
changes to Labour’s constitution that lessened union influence and
strengthened the party centre at the expense of local activism implanted
the consequences of defeat deep inside the party itself. New Labour’s
programme for educational change is built upon this defeat – as much
material as ideological – of the old.
The position of other agencies of reform has likewise been changed.
When Labour left office in 1979, teachers possessed statutory rights of
bargaining over pay, and exerted a growing influence in negotiations
over their conditions of work. They had a majority on the Schools
Council, the government-established body that promoted curriculum
reform; and their members were active in a host of associations, initiatives and networks that promoted a ‘molecular’, ground-level
development of curriculum and pedagogy. Conservatism changed all
this. The Schools Council was abolished, as were national negotiating
rights; a strict regulatory regime – a national curriculum, and intensified school inspection – curtailed classroom autonomy. New Labour
built on these foundations. From 1997, performance-related pay,
stronger management regimes, and a system of ‘professional development’ linked closely to the priorities of national government, ensured
that teachers would be limited to being only weak agents of change.
There have also been wider shifts. Post-war reformers envisaged
mass education as involving not just institutional change but a cultural
encounter between the formal curriculum of the school and the experience of working-class students. This envisaging took many forms,
from theoretical to intuitive. It was sociologically present in the writings of Bernstein and Halsey on learning and social class (Bernstein
1971; Halsey et al 1972). It also formed the troubled background of
official reports: the Newsom Report of 1963 begins with the reflections
of a school-leaver on educational reconstruction: ‘It could all be
marble, sir, but it would still be a bloody school’ (Newsom 1963: 2). In
meditations like these there was expressed a kind of politics of recognition: it wasn’t that the working class was an emancipatory force, nor
the embodiment of a potential for higher things, but it was nevertheless
a presence which neither policy nor practice could ignore. The ferocious disciplinary regimes of the secondary modern school, students’
participation in strikes and walkouts, the mass truancy that accompanied the raising of the school leaving age in 1972, and the publication
from the late 1950s onwards of texts that aimed to bring ‘working-class
experience’ into the secondary classroom, were all in some sense
aspects of this recognition; and these were indicators that in cultural as
well as political terms there was a baseline to the project of mass education: it was about students who were understood as belonging to a
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41
particular class, who were shaped by that belonging, and whose agency
the school had somehow to take into account.
Here too something has changed. The pre-1979 system was marked
by low levels of certification, and by an encounter between the routines
of the school and youth cultures that sometimes displayed overtly
resistant elements. In contrast, the present population of the school is
much more heavily certificated than its predecessors; it has experienced
since the age of seven an almost annual battery of national tests and
exams; its destination is not the youth labour market but some further
form of education and training, followed by entry to a working population that is occupationally more diverse, and in large measure locked
into further, post-school systems of lifelong learning. In these circumstances, ‘recognition’ is no longer central to the mentality of
policy-makers or of significant numbers of teachers. More common is
a can-do emphasis on ‘individual empowerment’ and the growth of a
performance culture among school-students, underwritten by the
increasing numbers entering and passing public examinations. In this
context, public displays of identity are more likely to be centred upon
the August celebrations of exam success than on spectacular forms of
dissent; meanwhile the ‘resistance’ documented in the sociology of the
1970s (Willis 1977) comes to be seen as the pathological symptom of a
dying social order, that of working-class masculinity.
‘REVOLUTION’
These then are the forces and circumstances which have been politically sidelined or socially eclipsed, without whose passing the rise of
New Labour would not have possible. What is replacing them?
Gramsci wrote of the ‘revolutionary’ element of ‘passive revolution’
thus:
There is a passive revolution involved in the fact that – through the
legislative intervention of the state – relatively far-reaching modifications
are being introduced into the country’s economic structure in order to
accentuate the ‘plan of production’ element; in other words, that socialisation and co-operation in the sphere of production are being increased,
without, however touching … individual and group appropriation of
profit (Gramsci: 119).
Substitute, here, ‘education’ for ‘economic structure’ and the comment
applies to the topic of this chapter. For education is central to the ‘plan
of production’ – the interventionist element – in New Labour. Blair’s
government has no intention in intervening strongly to shape either the
production or the distribution of wealth. But Blair’s famous listing of
his priorities – ‘Education, education, education’ – gives some indication of where he thinks government can act to economic effect. As he
argued in 1995:
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Globalisation is changing the nature of the nation state as power
becomes more diffuse and borders more porous. Technological change
is reducing the capacity of government to control a domestic economy
free from external influence. The role of government in this world of
change is to represent a national interest, to create a competitive base of
physical infrastructure and human skills. The challenge before our party
is … to educate and retrain for the next technologies, to prepare our
country for new global competition, and to make our country a
competitive base from which to produce the goods and services people
want to buy (Blair 1995).
From this perspective, if government can create an effective education
system – ‘modernised’ and ‘world-class’ in New Labour terminology –
it can thereby, despite having withdrawn from core areas of economic
life, contribute crucially to Britain’s success in a more competitive
global market-place. Education must be lifelong and it must be technologised, and if this is accomplished then Britain will be transformed
not only into a country of ‘innovative people’ but also into the ‘electronic capital of the world’, capable of responding to the ‘emergence of
the new economy and its increased demands for skills and human capital’ (Blair 1996; DfEE 2001).
This is New Labour’s big idea – the transformation of education to
serve a knowledge economy. It is a vision largely free both of the
nostalgic cultural sentiments of Toryism, and of what are seen as the
producer ideologies and impossible emancipatory expectations of Old
Labour. It focuses insistently on international competitiveness. The
school is repositioned: its spatial context is global and its performance
is constantly measured in terms of international league tables of
achievement (Lindblad 2001). Temporally, there is an insistence on
short time-horizons and on the urgency of change. The emphasis on
competition and speed of response produces a narrowing of educational focus: performativity in relation to ‘hard’ criteria of test and
exam results, rather than the mixed and less precise objectives of earlier
periods, becomes key. Performativity is managed by active national
government, and by a system of educational governance that is more
intensive and more extensive than under previous regimes. Here, the
processes of ‘socialisation and co-operation’ to which Gramsci refers,
and which I try to capture in the term ‘re-agenting’, take new forms:
passive revolution involves not only the sidelining of some political
and social forces but also the calling into being of others.
ALLIANCES
Around the project of transformation, New Labour seeks to create new
kinds of educational alliance, although ‘alliance’ is perhaps too politicised a term for the new networks by which education is governed and
through which change is organised. There is no place in this system for
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43
the forces associated with earlier periods of reform, nor do the relationships through which it is constructed make much allowance for the
negotiation of different pre-existing or potentially conflicting interests:
the often tense and certainly unequal ‘partnership’ between unions,
local authorities and national government that influenced educational
change between 1944 and 1979 has not been restored. The rhetoric of
parent power that accompanied the Conservative programme reform
has likewise diminished: parents retain the formal right of school choice
that they obtained through Conservative market-based reforms, but
school ‘accountability’ is envisaged by New Labour more in terms of
the meeting of government targets than in responding to parent demand
or community need. Instead, ‘partnership’ has acquired a new meaning,
which relates primarily to the operational accomplishment of strategies
devised by a single, powerful agency – national government (Jones and
Bird 2000). In this sense the field of education policy has been
reworked, so that the development of policy through an explicitly political process of encounter between different social interests becomes less
important than its elaboration through networks of agencies, local and
national, whose origins and points of reference lie in the priorities of
national government. Indeed, New Labour – with some assistance from
its Conservative forebears – has itself brought into being some of the
forces with which it now seeks to build ‘partnerships’.
First among the partners are those operationally powerful but not
strongly autonomous agencies that, through mechanisms of targetsetting, resource allocation, programme specification, training, audit
and inspection, penetrate deeply into the everyday procedures of
educational institutions and the lifeworld of those who work and study
in them. Taylor and her colleagues noted the emergence in the 1990s of
a consensus, shaped in particular by the Organisation for Economic
Co-operation and Development (OECD), around the idea of a ‘performance-orientated’ public sector, with a focus on ‘results, efficiency and
effectiveness’, and with a bias towards a strengthening of the ‘strategic
capacities of the centre’ at the expense of local units, ‘which possess
operational autonomy but only within firm national guidelines’
(Taylor et al 1997: 81). Following this model, New Labour has retained
the agencies of Conservative centralisation and added others of its own
making: the school inspection agency OFSTED, the Teacher Training
Agency, the Standards and Effectiveness Unit at the Department for
Education and Skills, and the Qualifications and Curriculum
Authority are complemented by major conjunctural initiatives –
notably the Literacy and Numeracy Strategies – which are nationally
directed and locally pervasive.
Via such bodies, New Labour has installed a regulatory system
aimed to ensure high average levels of attainment within a pattern of
schooling marked by increasing diversity of provision. In this climate
schools have perforce developed management regimes that can achieve
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the targets required of them by government and its regulatory agencies.
These regimes have produced some immediate successes: primary
school leavers achieve ever-higher standards of literacy and numeracy,
as measured by the national testing system; 16+ examination results
continue to improve (DfEE 2001: 13). More widely, because they have
been much more attentive to the detail of educational process than any
previous government, they have transformed the lives of learners and
teachers. They link the micro-world of classroom interactions to
macro-level objectives of standards and achievement and in so doing
create new roles for old ‘partners’ – not least for teachers.
Teachers are ambivalently placed in this process of change. They are
operationally central but strategically marginal; they have become
accustomed to innovation, and have acquired, through their participation in the drive to raise standards, new kinds of skill. Yet in terms of
the management of the school they are thoroughly subordinate. Their
involvement in change proceeds not along the classic avenues of
teacher professionalism – representative pressure or classroom autonomy – but rather through a variety of organisations, projects and
procedures which are designed to secure by means of directive and
incentive their incorporation within a government framework of priorities. The National College for School Leadership is intended to create
a cadre of heads and deputies capable of raising standards of performance and of promoting the new kinds of co-operation, and new
practices of teaching and learning, that can make this possible. The
General Teaching Council has been designed by government, in a style
similar to inter-war Italian corporatism, to ‘represent’ the interests of
teachers, and simultaneously to act as a transmission belt for the policies of government. At the same time, a nationally-directed programme
of ‘Continuing Professional Development’ connects the in-service
education of teachers to national priorities, while performance-related
pay provides another link between the work of classrooms and the
concerns of government; and a clutch of government and governmentinstigated initiatives – ‘Best Practice Research Scholarships’, ‘Teacher
of the Year’ ceremonies – create new forms of recognition.
BUSINESS
A further strand that runs through these dense networks of change is
constituted by private ‘edubusiness’. In contrast to much of the post1944 period, in which private sector involvement in education was
mostly limited to the ‘independent’ sector, it is now extensively
entwined with state schooling itself: the managerial-regulatory bloc
which drives change comprises both ‘public’ and ‘private’ elements.
Before 1997, public/private sector partnerships had already become a
feature of the institutional landscape, as ‘mixed economies’ of welfare
were created (Butcher 1995). New Labour took up and amplified these
initiatives. Education Action Zones, launched in 1998, were presented
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as ‘a new crusade uniting businesses, schools, local authorities and
parents to modernise education in areas of social deprivation’ (DfEE
1998). Transnational companies – Shell, for instance, and various ICT
firms – were recruited, with some difficulty and no great effect, to
support a cautious programme of locally-based innovation, within
DfEE guidelines.
From 2000, this aspect of ‘partnership’ was less in evidence. Parts of
the private sector had an interest in the development of e-learning, and
the construction industry benefited from the Private Finance Initiative,
which subsidised it to build schools and lease them back to local
authorities (Whitfield 1999). But these issues apart, big business was
not keen to become directly involved in state education, and later
initiatives relied less on reluctant transnationals than on the small but
growing edubusiness sector. Private educational companies won
contracts to run failing LEAs, and New Labour sought business sponsorship for ‘City Academies’, in which the private sector would play a
central managerial role. The government Green Paper of 2001 envisaged more extended private involvement: companies would be
encouraged to take over failing – or even successful – schools (DfEE
2001). Hatcher (2002) calls this a process of ‘exogenous marketization’
– education-for-profit companies entering the school system. He notes
that the Education Bill of 2002 takes the process further: it seeks to
empower school governing bodies to invest in or themselves form
companies that can provide services and facilities to other schools.
This, Hatcher suggests, is a significant move towards a marketisation
that is ‘endogenous’, driven by the entrepreneurial activity of schools
themselves. As Stephen Ball noted of the reforms of the 1990s, the
importance of these changes lies in the ethical as well as the economic
privatisation which they effect (Ball 1998). Private companies inspect
schools, broker the services of supply teachers, organise in-service
training, and evaluate the success of government initiatives. At the
same time, the spread of practices such as ‘Best Value’, in which the
provision of local authority services is bench-marked against criteria of
efficiency and value derived from private-sector practice, means that
the public-private distinction is in important senses erased. New
Labour argues that in this mixed economy the ‘public interest’ will be
secured by government-specified protocols and outcome targets. But
as we shall see this suggestion that the ‘public interest’ can be defined
and guarded from a central point – rather than developed through a
process in which local experiment, political and cultural diversity, and
professional practice all have a part – creates important problems for
the New Labour revolution.
HISTORIES AND FUTURES
Gramsci suggested that part of the impact of passive revolution lay in
its ability to ‘create a period of expectation and hope’. In this area,
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where discursive productivity and the ‘busyness’ of policy are important in sustaining a sense of change, New Labour has been especially
active. Discursively, this is a copious government, ever-willing to
explain its own historical significance in relation to the failures of the
past and to celebrate the futures it is creating.
New Labour demarcates itself from its social-democratic predecessors along several fronts. The 2001 Green Paper begins with an
overview of the post-war period. For some historians, notably Eric
Hobsbawm (1994), these were the ‘golden years’ that post-1976 were
swept away. New Labour does not share this view. The governments of
Attlee and Wilson presided over a largely ‘unskilled’ working population that had possessed ‘jobs for life’ in local industries (2001:4). In the
supposedly static society of 1944-76 there was no strong demand for
certification and there was a ‘general acceptance that only a minority
would reach the age of 16 with significant formal skills and qualifications’ (ibid). Comprehensive reform had not done enough to challenge
this acceptance, and by setting ‘social’ as opposed to ‘economic’ goals
– emphasising inclusion at the expense of standards – it had contributed
to stasis. It had failed to differentiate among students, and to ‘link
different provision to individual attitudes and abilities’ (2001:5).
This is the ‘organic’ element, as it were, in Labour’s explanation of
the problems of the past: an undynamic economy produces a school
system in its own image. But alongside it are accusations about a different kind of failure. New Labour sees the teaching force and the
educationalists who provided teachers with their pre-1979 rationale as
what could be termed an ‘intellectual bloc’, that shared a common
material position, and worked with a common understanding of the
educational talents and needs of the mass of the student population.
Again adapting Gramsci, and looking through New Labour eyes, we
could term this bloc a ‘traditional’ one: the post-war welfare state
created teachers in their hundreds of thousands, managed them only
lightly, allowed them to develop associational cultures both radical and
inertial, and set them to work in a system of low-level mass schooling.
The bloc’s coherence was assured by a government disposition that
New Labour has caustically summarised as ‘support without pressure’:
schooling increased its share of national resources; teachers were seen
as the central source of educational change; government kept its
distance from the working of the system, and tolerated low levels of
attainment. Discursively, the bloc was shaped by two kinds of orientation: low expectations of students on the part of some teachers
co-existed with a world-view held by others in ‘which schools made no
difference and were essentially agents of social control’ (Barber 1998a).
New Labour tells a different story about Conservatism.
Conservatism lacked social concern and under-estimated the potential
of active government. But it still accomplished much necessary,
destructive work. The reforms of the 1980s obliterated the old educa46
A new past, an old future
47
tion system and ‘dismantled collective power’ – Blair refers appreciatively to this process as ‘picking out weeds’ (Blair 1996: 216). New
Labour’s first major legislation – the 1998 School Standards and
Frameworks Act – took as its starting point the inviolability of much
Conservative law-making: it retained testing, league tables, the national
curriculum and local management of schools. Beyond these specific
agreements, there are larger debts: New Labour’s interests in differentiation and specialisation perpetuate Conservative themes; its attempts
to remake the teaching force likewise have Conservative antecedents. It
has also inherited an appreciation of the capacities of the private sector.
In 1998, Labour’s leading education adviser Michael Barber told educationalists that they should learn from the experience of ‘successful
companies’ which were ‘uniquely capable of managing change and
innovation’ (1998b). Since then New Labour has complemented its
stress on the virtues of active government, freed from the entanglements and alliances of Labour’s past, with a tendency to present
‘business’ as a source of creativity and renewal in education
(DCMS/DfEE 1999).
But Conservatism, in this account, had one major failing: it did not
‘plant new seeds’ (Blair 1996: 217). Limited both by its own traditionalism and by the need to focus on immediate political conflicts, it could
not establish a system responsive to the complexities of social, cultural
and economic change. It relied too much on the market to promote
dynamic leadership. It overlooked the importance of social inclusion.
It failed to develop ways of connecting desirable policy outcomes to
detailed, classroom-level processes of change. New Labour insists that
it has, in contrast, met these challenges and in doing so has synthesised
the right’s programme of diversity with the left’s aspirations to social
justice. Its policy elite stresses the ‘fusions’ at the heart of its educational programme, that resolve the political conflicts and discursive
polarisations which have afflicted educational change. Thus, for
Michael Barber, ‘pressure’ on teachers can be fused with ‘support’,
‘innovation’ with organisational stability and, most important of all,
‘equity’ with ‘diversity’ (Barber and Phillips 2000); and if these ‘apparent opposites’ can be made to work in concert, then New Labour,
reconciling the aspirations of left and right, will have rescued English
education.
SHAPES AND TENSIONS
Gramsci writes that the remaking of societies and institutions that
passive revolution effects is brought about by the ‘cautious and moderate’ work of government, and not by ‘popular intervention’ (105).
Elaborating Gramsci, we might say that the reforms it creates always
possess something of an exclusive character. Accomplished in the name
of progress and the common good, they operate in practice to distribute agency and to achieve social outcomes in ways that favour only a
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limited range of social interests. In the process, they perpetuate old
tensions and give rise to newer ones.
From this viewpoint, several features of New Labour schooling
stand out. First, there is its highly differentiated character, in which the
model of the inclusive comprehensive school has no part. What distinguishes the English secondary system from those of Wales, Scotland,
Ireland and many countries in continental Europe is an institutionalised diversity of provision, around which differences in status,
material resources and educational outcomes have solidified (Croxford
2001; Green 1990). Old Labour to some extent challenged this system,
especially through comprehensive reform. But New Labour has
created a new institutional settlement, and a symbolic order of schooling, in which ‘ability’, ‘aptitude’ and hierarchy are unchallenged
principles. The elements of this settlement are many: the preservation
of ‘independent’ schools and grammar schools; the status distinction
between ‘foundation’ and ‘community’ schools; the strengthening of
‘faith-based’ education; and most recently the envisaged expansion of
specialist secondary schools – which are able to select 10 per cent of
their students on the basis of ‘aptitude’, and enjoy higher levels of
funding (DfEE 2001). Within these separate institutions, government
‘wants teachers to consider express sets, fast-tracking and more early
entry to GCSE and advanced qualifications’. New Labour calls all this
‘moving beyond old arguments to create a system appropriate for the
21st century … built around the needs and aspirations of individual
pupils and their families’ (DfEE 2001: 5, 15); in Gramsci’s terms, its
mixing of energetic reform with a logic of divisiveness would exemplify a project of revolution-restoration which would leave egalitarian
needs unsatisfied.
Second, there is the emphasis on ‘inclusion’, a term which counterbalances the system’s divisive logic with a variety of programmes. In
some of them, especially those connected with ‘special needs’, there is
a strong and welcome emphasis on the human rights of pupils whom
schools have traditionally excluded (Dyson and Slee 2001). ‘Inclusion’
in this case is motivated on grounds of equality – however much it may
be inhibited by lack of resources or by market pressures that place a
premium on schools admitting the academically ‘able’. But ‘inclusion’
does not necessarily imply ‘equality’ (Levitas 1998). It is premised on
an acceptance of the market as a basis for social organisation, and its
intention is to reintegrate the market’s casualties into productive and
cohesive forms of social life. It is in this light that many New Labour
initiatives, targeted at the inner cities, should be seen. They do not
address the patterns of advantage and disadvantage that underlie educational failure; and they tend to identify the sources of failure in the
cultures of the communities that are targetted by inclusion schemes
(Whitty 2001). When Education Secretary Blunkett declared that ‘we
need parents who are prepared to take responsibility for supporting
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49
their children’s education and we need a culture which values education
and demands the best’, he revealed much about the values of government (Blunkett, cited in Gewirtz 2001). His later call for migrants to
observe ‘norms of acceptability’ indicated more precisely the conflict
in which government was engaged with delinquent cultures – without
giving any sense that this was a conflict government could win
(Blunkett 2001).
The third tension lies in the system’s unsustainable mix of managerialism and creativity. New Labour’s system is self-consciously an
innovative one, ever in search of new institutional forms and new
curricula that can achieve its multiple aims – it is under Labour, after
all, that ‘creativity’ has re-emerged as a educational principle
(Buckingham & Jones 2001). But innovation is of both a pressured and
a shadowed kind: pressured by New Labour’s insistence that schooling
has rapidly to create, with levels of spending still less in 1999 than the
OECD average, a much higher level of human capital (OECD 2001);
and shadowed by New Labour’s anxiety that a system not tightly
managed will see old problems – teacher influence, a more radical and
unfocused climate of ideas – recur.
The new managerial emphasis discounts unofficial forms of school
culture and knowledge as at best misguided, at worst obstructive. In an
earlier period, ‘culture’ designated the space where the formal curriculum and procedures of the school encountered and to varying extents
negotiated with the cultures of students; the work of teachers from this
point of view had an essentially cultural character, and to a significant
– albeit minority – extent drew from the knowledge and identities
created by social movements. This has been replaced by an international set of norms that focuses on the improvement of organisational
culture without reference to a wider perspective, or to the possibility of
diversity. If ‘creativity’ is based on an emerging notion of the school as
a space in which new social needs can be flexibly explored, and the gulf
between social and economic life and education bridged over, then
managerialism expresses a very different attitude to social change,
based on a conception of the school as a force that through an act of
will can repair a multi-faceted social crisis.
Finally, there is the question of pressure. For New Labour, each
phase of education, from nurseries to adult reskilling, is seen in terms
of learners’ continuous redevelopment of themselves in terms of the
‘knowledges, competences and motivation’ required by technological
and occupational change, and audited by a battery of tests, exams and
personal portfolios. The home – through personal computers, electronic learning and the purchase on a massive scale of study guides and
testing booklets – becomes itself a site of formal learning. For teachers,
there exists a similar network of pressures – inspection, performancerelated pay, the operationalisation of constant change – that has greatly
decreased the space for classroom autonomy.
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It is at this final point that the problems of the system are becoming most evident. Chronic problems of recruitment and retention are
signs of a wider malaise in which questions of morale, fatigue, underinvestment and lost autonomy are all present. As New Labour’s
policy-makers know, their ‘modernisation’ of schooling depends upon
the commitment of teachers. The withholding of such commitment
has not reached the spectacular heights attained at some points in the
Conservative years, and teacher trade unionism is still weak, but the
extent of teachers’ involvement in reform is nonetheless limited. There
is little support among teachers for central aspects of the government’s
programme – especially privatisation – and their participation in
projects of change is heavily dependent upon the directives and incentives of an over-managed system. According to two New Labour
advocates, ‘sometimes it is necessary to … consciously challenge the
prevailing culture … and to have the courage to sustain the challenge
until beliefs shift … The driving force at this critical juncture is leadership’ (Barber and Phillips 2000). But as Gramsci knew, a project of
leadership, pursued without regard either to a proportionate understanding of the depth of the problems it confronts, or to securing the
consent of the governed, is fraught with difficulty. In this sense, the
pressured, de-autonomised, under-resourced work of teachers
expresses not just an occupational situation. A system that is both
hierarchical and pressured develops many tensions, some of which
display themselves at the level of politics, others as pathology. It seems
reasonable to predict developing conflict at both levels – perhaps
through action against a testing regime that is increasingly seen to
contribute both to individual stress and to patterns of differentiation
and inequality.
What is more difficult to discern is the articulation of such conflicts
with the wider tensions of New Labour’s education system. It is a
divided system, which continues to make universal promises. It is a
public system, but one that seeks justification in its ability to service
what are ultimately private interests, and which is edging ever closer to
full partnership with profit-orientated forces. In terms of pedagogy
and curriculum it is less tolerant and encouraging of difference than
some of the systems that have preceded it. Finally, it is not one system
but four, and though New Labour has consistently presented a diagnosis of English problems as if it contained the key to the future of
British schooling systems, these claims do not lessen the exposure of
the English system to damaging comparisons with Edinburgh, Belfast
and Cardiff, where hostility towards teachers and enthusiasms for
formal processes of differentiation are much less in vogue. There are
ample grounds in all of this for thinking that, despite all its drive and
ingenuity, New Labour’s programme will encounter the unyielding
questions of social division that no project of passive revolution has yet
been able to move away.
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REFERENCES
Ball, S.J. (1997), ‘Markets, Equity and Values in Education’, in R. Pring and G.
Walford (eds), Affirming the Comprehensive Ideal, London: Falmer.
Barber, M. (1998a), ‘Dark Side of the Moon’, in K. Myers and L. Stoll (eds), No
Quick Fixes.
Barber, M. (1998b), The Guardian North of England Conference, 7 January.
Barber, M. & Phillips, V. (2000), ‘How to Unleash Irreversible Change’, Paper
to conference of Directors of Education Action Zones, March.
Bernstein, B. (1971), Class, Codes and Control: Volume 1, London: Routledge
and Kegan Paul.
Blair, T. (1995), New Statesman, 29 September.
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10 December.
Buckingham. D., and Jones, K. (2001), ‘New Labour’s Cultural Turn’, Journal
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52
2. Governing in the modern world?
John Clarke and Janet Newman
M
odernity is a New Labour hallmark. Being modern both defines
the New Labour project and is its shield against criticism. In its
first term of office, modernity was a central thread of New Labour’s
approach to governing – it defined the project of realigning state and
society in new ways in order to enable Britain to ‘catch up’ with modernity and to take its place in a new global order. Our aim here is to explore
the ways in which New Labour has sought to realign the relationships
between the state and society in pursuit of ‘living in the modern world’
(Miliband, 2000). The project of modernisation (or ‘neo-modernisation’,
as Johnson and Steinberg argue, in chapter 15 of this volume) has aimed
to create a system and process of government adapted to the demands
and expectations of a modern society and a modern people:
My passion is to continue the modernisation of Britain, in favour of hardworking families, so that all of our children, wherever they live, whatever
their background, have an equal chance to benefit from the opportunities
our country has to offer and to share in its wealth … It is as if a glass ceiling has stopped us fulfilling our potential. In the 21st century, we have the
opportunity to break through that glass ceiling because our historic
strengths match the demands of the modern world (Tony Blair, in Labour
Party, 2001, p3).
New Labour – and modernisation – has been both a political project
and a process of electoral calculation. Both of these are dynamic, rather
than static, so it is hardly surprising that the visibility, content and
strategies of modernisation have shifted considerably. The fortunes of
modernisation can be traced in a number of ways. For example,
modernisation evolved from ‘sticking to Conservative spending
pledges’ (1997) to ‘invest and reform’ in the NHS (2002). It is reflected
in the shifting New Labour representations of public service staff
(angels and heroes, or blockers and forces of conservatism). It is embodied in the recurring dependence (despite disappointments) on major IT
initiatives and public-private partnerships as the motors of reform.
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We view the project of modernisation as articulated around major
fault lines in Labour’s political project – a set of contradictions that the
project aimed to manage and reconcile, but which nevertheless recurrently disrupts the process of reform. These fault lines have formed
around the contradictions between Labour’s ideal of building a consensual, inclusive society (addressing the divisions, conflicts and
inequalities produced and deepened by the policies of Conservative
governments) and its determination to continue the agenda of neoliberal economic reform based on the presumed requirements of a
global economy. Other, related, fault lines have surfaced in Labour’s
attempt to reform the state, its focus on reshaping the processes of
governance, and its approach to transforming the social in the images of
citizenship and community that informed its view of a ‘modern’ nation.
These issues have been explored in a number of studies of Labour’s
route to power and performance in government (e.g., Driver and Martell,
1998; Dwyer, 2000; Fairclough, 2000; Newman, 2001; Levitas, 1998;
Lister, 1998, 2001). Here we treat modernisation as a practical project:
producing a series of reforms of the economy, the state, public service
organisation, welfare policy and practice, and of social/community relationships. We also view it as a narrative form that gives coherence to a
profoundly uneven and often contradictory series of interventions and
initiatives by Labour (see the fuller discussion in Epstein, Johnson and
Steinberg, this volume). As a narrative, modernisation clothed the
actions of government with a sense of movement, progress and purpose,
overcoming the mistakes and outdated forms inherited from the past
(Clarke and Newman, 1997). It has also provided a legitimating framework for specific changes. To be ‘un-modern’ is an uncomfortable place
to be: critics have been dismissed as ‘old thinking’ or the ‘forces of
conservatism’. Modernisation has defined a specific politico-cultural
project, concerned not only with reforming the state, but with installing
a modern society through remaking state-society relationships and
inculcating new modes of citizenship. New Labour’s political project has
articulated new forms of governing with an imagery of modernity that
has identified the combination of globalisation, work and consumerism
as the elementary forms of a ‘modern’ nation.
MODERN GOVERNANCE: REMAKING THE STATE
New Labour’s programme has aimed to remake the relationships and
processes of governance in the image of a ‘modern’ state (Cabinet Office,
1999a). Devolution in Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland (albeit in
very different constitutional forms), experiments in regional governance,
and attempts to remake local government (such as directly elected
mayors), all suggest a significant shift in architecture, powers and
processes of the nation state. New Labour has pursued a commitment to
reduce or dissolve the boundaries between public and private sectors
(most notably through public-private partnerships), disentangling
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Governing in the modern world?
55
Labour from its historic association with statism and collectivism. At the
same time, their emphasis on public service reform has been underpinned by a marked increase in the centralisation of power, enacted
through the plethora of goals, targets and standards, coupled with an
unprecedented expansion of audit and inspection regimes. The relationship between state and people was to be revived through a commitment
to public consultation and participation. The style of policy-making has
also been reformed – albeit only at the margins – around the imperatives
to become joined up, holistic, problem solving and inclusive (Cabinet
Office, 1999b). Above all, the reforms have been underpinned by an
intensely managerial style and form of governance – one based on quasiscientific pragmatism, legitimated by a philosophy of ‘what counts is
what works’ (Davies, Nutley and Smith, eds, 2000). The belief that it is
possible to discover, once and for all, ‘what works’ in public policy has
marked a new height in the valorisation of scientific rationalism as the
basis for public decision-making. It has also registered the managerialisation of politics itself (Clarke, Gewirtz and McLaughlin, eds, 2000;
Muncie, 2002; Newman 2001a).
This claimed pragmatism has masked deep contradictions in
Labour’s approach to governance. Modernisation is not a coherent,
unified project. It has deployed conflicting models of governance,
overlaid on each other in complex configurations. Some have emphasised a tightening of top down control, others a more collaborative,
consensual style of governance. Some have reflected a focus on conformity to externally specified standards; others have stressed the need for
innovation and entrepreneurship. Some have been based on a rational,
managerial form of knowledge and power, others on a partial move
towards participative democracy. Each model of governance rests on a
distinctive set of assumptions about power and authority, a view of the
‘proper’ relationship between government and the governed, and a set
of images of how change can best be brought about. Each also establishes different claims to legitimacy. For example, there have been lines
of tension between Labour’s goals of modernising mainstream services
– especially hospitals and schools – and those relating to the desirability of ‘joining up’ government to co-ordinate long term policy
approaches to issues such as social exclusion, child poverty, ill health.
The overlaying of different models has produced deep contradictions
within the modernisation programme that impact on practitioners
charged with delivering Labour’s agenda (Newman, 2001, 2002).
The project of modernising the state and public services has tried to
reconcile conflicting pressures. One tension emerged where Labour’s
commitment to devolution and the decentralisation of power ran up
against its dependency on highly centralising forms of political
management. This has been visible in New Labour’s ambivalent
approach to running the party, the government and the public services
(see also Tincknell, this volume). A second has been produced by the
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disjuncture between Labour’s emphasis on consensual governance and
social inclusion on the one hand, and the sharpening of conflicts
around who is to be included as citizens and the intensification of social
divisions on the other. The focus on citizen involvement through new
technologies of participation has been accompanied by new strategies
for regulating citizens, policing non-citizens and new apparatuses for
managing the distinction between the two groups. The presentation of
modern politics as post-ideological and pragmatic has been central to
New Labour’s attempt to build a new political settlement, but it has
been regularly interrupted by social, cultural and, more occasionally,
political challenges to New Labour’s vision of a consensual unity.
There is an ambivalent relationship between the project of
modernising governance and New Labour’s conception of a modern
society. New Labour has represented the modernisation of governance
as bringing the institutions, relationships and processes of governing
into alignment with a society that is already ‘modern’. This society has
undergone changes (for example, in working patterns, gender roles and
the experience of consumerism) that have required government to
‘catch up’. This pressure for change has been embodied in the figure of
the ‘sceptical citizen-consumer’ who expects an ‘active, enabling
welfare state’ (Department of Social Security, 1998). However, the New
Labour project has extended beyond the modernisation of the apparatuses of government to the production of a particular version of social
modernity. Modernisation has also meant an attempt to enforce a (relatively) coherent direction in the face of the diverse forces, trends and
trajectories that create divergent possibilities of being modern.
This relationship between state and society has been one of the most
important and difficult issues for contemporary social and political analysis. Many approaches to new forms of governance have addressed the
withdrawal, rolling back or hollowing out of the state as processes of
governing and co-ordinating spread beyond the institutional confines of
the state into (civil) society (see, for example, Kooiman, 1993; Pierre,
2000; Pierre and Peters, 2000; Rhodes, 1997). Alternatively, Foucauldianbased approaches to changing governmentalities have emphasised the
new forms of subjection that have been developed in post-welfarist, neoliberal governing strategies (see, for example, Dean, 1999; Rose, 1999; and
Kingfisher, forthcoming, for a comparative analysis for neo-liberal
approaches to welfare ‘reform’). Our analysis here differs from these two
views. We want to emphasise rather more the particular complexity of
political formations and strategies, and we want to see the reforms of
governance as attempts to remake the state-society boundaries and the
relations of power that flow across them. Elsewhere, we have argued that
it may be better to view state power as being dispersed through new relationships within civil society, rather than being diminished or surrendered
(Clarke and Newman, 1997; Newman, 2001). In the process, new social
agents are sutured into positions of power, effectivity and dependency.
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57
A MODERN SOCIETY: REMAKING COMMUNITIES
New Labour’s political success has owed much to its promised difference from the period of neo-liberal Conservative rule. A core
difference has been the perception that there is, after all, such a ‘thing
as society’ and that the ‘public’ is a meaningful term to use in thinking
about how social life might be organised and ordered. To be sure, these
have been very limited claims – no return to an ‘older’ socialism or even
social democracy was ever intended (indeed, Blair once famously
inserted a careful hyphen into the word ‘social-ism’ to indicate New
Labour’s philosophical grip on the existence of social interrelationships). Nevertheless, this encounter with the social/public has
recognised residual and emergent cultural and political commitments
to the social as a site of struggle, contestation and possibility.
New Labour may have consistently tried to manage expectations
downwards, but the social/public has remained a persistent focus for
social and cultural forces engaged in attempts to redress inequalities,
assert identities, demand recognition and redress. These concerns have
ranged from lesbian and gay challenges to institutional discrimination,
through disability activism to demands for an expansively multi-cultural
view of the social, alongside the pressure to reduce the inequalities generated by neo-liberalism. These claims on the social (and in the name of the
social) have formed a vital part of the political landscape that New Labour
has had to negotiate (see also Clarke, 1999, 2001; Clarke and Newman,
1997, 1998; see also Epstein, Johnson and Steinberg, this volume).
New Labour’s response to this rich variety of claims has been a
commitment to social inclusion in the conception of a nation of
‘communities’ of place and identity arranged in a non-antagonistic and
consensual social order (Byrne, 1999; Levitas, 1998). New Labour’s
commitment to a modern society that is inclusive has produced a new,
and complex, architecture of exclusions. These have not been articulated as simple social categories – rather they have been coded as
elements of a moral order. Given that New Labour had created the
conditions of inclusions, those who have remained outside in some
way are, by definition, there either by choice or as a result of their own
failings – they are ‘irresponsible’ in some sense. A gallery of ‘selfexcluding’ groups has been constructed – dysfunctional families,
‘persistently delinquent’ children, school truants, work-avoiders and
welfare cheats, bad neighbours, aggressive beggars and so on (see also
Mac an Ghaill and Haywood, this volume, on ‘absent fathers’). What
these groups have in common is their wilful failure to take up the
opportunity to join in as members of a decent and civilised society.
They have failed the ‘responsibility’ test, preferring to be disorderly
and disruptive – when they could be like the rest of ‘us’. Gail Lewis
(2000) has written of how the unequal patterns of school exclusion
affecting young black people were transmuted into the results of
moral/cultural deficits and failings in black communities. Equivalent
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moral codings have been put to work around asylum and migration,
where, as Solomos and Schuster (this volume) argue, the business of
government is to test for ‘genuineness’. Those lucky enough to be
stamped as authentic may eventually enter the ranks of the Included.
This distinction (viewed as independent of racial and ethnic characterisation) has sustained the government’s consistent refusal to see any
connections between racism and the exclusionary policies, practices
and rhetorics directed at asylum-seekers and migrants. What is striking
about the distinctions between the included and excluded is how these
moral codings found their way into government policies and apparatuses for managing the social order. For example, the ‘New Deal’ and
its requirements for the unemployed; curfews; parental responsibility
orders and ‘contracts’; school evaluations of parental ‘quality’; the
calculation of health risks and ‘worth’; and the constantly innovative
approaches to regulating migration and asylum have all been sites
where such moral categorisation has been put into practice.
Much of New Labour’s modern-ness has been founded on the
assumption that neo-liberal globalisation defines the conditions of possibility. This has generated the conceptions of change and adaptation at the
heart of its modernisations. The national economy had been transformed
by its relationship to a global economy, and citizens are being transformed by their relationships to working in this new context. Most of
New Labour’s language about change has expressed the thrill of transformation and has equated change with progress (for example, in
changed gender roles, or overcoming ‘outdated’ attitudes that disadvantaged some groups unfairly). At critical points, however, the language of
change has been supplanted by the language of strain – progressive
modernisation is displaced by a conservative anxiety about morality,
authority and their erosion (Clarke and Newman, 1998). The critical site
of this concern has been the troubled world of the Family. New Labour
has remained strangely nostalgic for the communitarian mythology of
autonomous (and hard-working) families, producing moral order and
bound together in self-regulating communities. Concern that the Family
is not what it used to be has linked a range of strategies and policies –
from the employment policy (directed at ‘hard working families’) to
social inclusion (trying to ensure that families are ‘hard working’). This
articulation of work and the family in New Labour has also enabled
‘social’ policy to be increasingly integrated with ‘economic’ policy (and
governed through the Treasury). The tax system (for example, in working family tax credits) has become as important as the benefit system for
New Labour’s construction of a modern society centred on the ‘hard
working family’ (Levitas, 2001; Lister, 2001).
New Labour has known there are social and political risks involved
in ‘doing morality’. As a consequence, it has attempted to reconcile its
enthusiasm for The Family with a grudging tolerance for other forms
of household (see also Weeks and Epstein, Johnson and Steinberg, this
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59
volume). The effort to avoid ‘moralising’ has meant an increasing use
of the ‘what counts is what works’ formula for policy-making and
presentation – and what works, of course, is the (normal) Family. In the
context of education policy, Sharon Gewirtz (2001) has described the
view of parents as educational consumers as a process of ‘cloning the
Blairs’. As with many other aspects of being modern, it appears that
this ‘works’ so well as a way of life, it is difficult to imagine anyone
choosing to live differently. What New Labour has championed is a
conception of modern society marked by a ‘thin’ multi-culturalism –
where differences may be tolerated, or even celebrated, so long as they
are differences that don’t make a difference.
Nevertheless, New Labour’s quest for a modern society has been
consistently interrupted by challenges about who the ‘we’ of the nation
are and who we might become. This reflects the consistently ‘unsettled’
character of the social settlement in Britain (Clarke and Newman,
1997; Clarke, 1999; Hughes and Lewis, 1998), in which contending
identities are evoked by divergent trends in the composition of Britain
and its changing contexts. The possible identities of Britain, and
British-ness, are traversed by a range of trajectories, including:
• changing political formations and identifications in the context of devolution
• the shifting attachments to Europe and the ‘special relationship’ with the US
• changing gender roles, behaviours, attitudes and identities with unstable
relationships to shifting practices of household and family formation
• unsettled borders and boundaries, themselves subject to differential relaxation and intensification in an increasingly migratory world
• shifting and highly charged conceptions of the intersection of Nation and
Race, where racialised formations of Englishness/Britishness-as-Whiteness
continue to resist attempts to construct the modern as multi-cultural.
In this context, it is not surprising that ‘citizenship’ has emerged as one
of the defining sites of social and political conflict for New Labour.
A MODERN NATION: REMAKING CITIZENSHIP
Citizenship has been at the centre of this attempted realignment of state
and society – it is the status that articulates the relationships between
nation/people, the state and welfare. New Labour has consistently
tried to remake the figure of the citizen – emphasising more active,
consumerist, modes of relationship to public services; promoting a
more independent (family centred) approach to self-provisioning; and
emphasising ‘responsibilities, not rights’ as the keystone of a civil society. Two particular aspects of this remaking of citizenship stand out in
New Labour discourse, policy and practice: one is the valorisation of
Work; the other is the problematic of nationality and citizenship.
As many commentators have argued New Labour has celebrated
Work as the central social, political, economic and personal task (see,
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inter alia, Levitas, 1998 and 2001; Lister, 1998, 2001 and 2002). It is
(waged) work that ‘inserts’ people into the social; that attaches them to
citizenship rights; that reduces public spending; that gives their lives a
sense of value and purpose; that provides their children with role
models; and, not least, ensures the happy congruence of the national
and global economy. The 2001 Manifesto reasserted this view of work’s
transformative powers: ‘Employment’s not just the foundation of an
affordable welfare state, it is the best anti-poverty, anti-crime and profamily policy yet invented’ (Labour Party, 2001: 24). Work has been the
central link between economic and social policies in both New Labour
governments – from taxation to social security; whether addressing
concerns about lone mothers or laddish louts. Its real centrality was
registered in the growing role played by the Treasury (and the tax
system) in ‘incentivising’ desirable behaviour (being employed). But it
was symbolically announced in the renaming of the Department of
Social Security as the Department of Work and Pensions.
This modern conception of work has been a resolutely ‘equal opportunity’ view, accepting (and reinforcing) patterns of gender change that
have undercut the older equivalence between male bread-winning and
waged work. New Labour has enthusiastically endorsed the critiques of
the white, male, able-bodied imagery of the Worker, insisting that everyone should be entitled to work. Indeed, they have insisted that everyone
who can should, and possibly must, work. At this point, it becomes
possible to see how other possibilities are consistently excluded and
repressed. Not-working (and the ‘dependency’ it is believed to create) is
a stigmatised condition, not to be encouraged by government action,
agencies or benefits (Williams, 2001). In the process, the whole repertoire
of ways in which people might not be engaged in waged work (including voluntary activity, caring labour as well as the effects of forms of
exclusion and discrimination) are continually wished away.
This ‘opening up’ of the right to work (and the responsibility to
work) has fit with New Labour’s ‘modern’ view of gender (and disability). But it has also left unchallenged the distinction between public and
private realms – where only paid work in the public realm was
valorised. In the process, the apparently infinite flexibility of women’s
capacity for labour has been subjected to new demands, as pressures to
be ‘economically active’ have mounted while leaving the distribution
and volume of domestic responsibilities untouched. As we have argued
elsewhere the reduction of public provision and public funding for a
range of welfare benefits and services during the 1980s and 1990s transferred financial and labour costs to the (uncalculated) private realm
(Clarke and Newman, 1997, chapter 7). From reduced benefit values to
substitute labour in relation to heath care and education, the private
realm (and mainly female work within it) ‘bridged the gap’ left by
public withdrawal. Women’s position on this shifting public-private
boundary was compounded by their changing patterns of work (waged
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Governing in the modern world?
61
and unwaged) in public services and the voluntary sector. Work intensification has been common to both sectors, while declining public
sector employment (and worsening conditions of service) has affected
many female dominated occupations (teaching, nursing and care work,
for example).
At the same time, the pursuit of work as the point of connection
between families and the national and global economies has produced a
view of work centred on the ‘flexibilities’ of adaptation to employer
demands. Borrowing from the US, ‘welfare to work’ overshadowed the
changing relationships between state and citizen (Deacon, 2002; Peck,
2001). The ‘New Deal’ for the unemployed has been continuously
extended (to new categories) and strengthened (in terms of the conditions and disciplines that can be brought to bear). The commitment to
work was intensified in the proposals of StepUP (announced in April
2002, requiring ‘job seekers’ who passed through the New Deal without finding work to accept subsidised minimum wage jobs). In an echo
of New Labour’s pragmatic ‘what counts is what works’, we might
suggest that for defining citizenship, ‘who counts is who works’
(Dwyer, 1998, 2000; Lister, 1998).
New Labour embarked on a systematic programme of realigning
state-society relationships around the figure of the citizen. As we
suggested above, a key element of this has been to reconstruct the character and conditions of citizenship – making the citizen independent,
responsible and morally upright. But New Labour has also attempted to
redraw access to citizenship and the relationships between citizenship,
national membership and national identity. These efforts have been
centrally addressed to processes of migration and asylum–seeking, but
they have also given renewed salience to longer standing issues about
‘modern societies’ being multi-ethnic and multicultural (Hesse, 2001;
Parekh, 2001; see also Solomos and Schuster, this volume). New
Labour’s position has shifted from a profound hostility to migrants and
asylum seekers (who were viewed as reinforcing Britain’s wisdom of
keeping separate and strong border controls within the EU). A more
differentiated view has developed which recognises the ‘economic case’
for useful and productive migrants in a global economy, but has sought
to intensify the defences against the illegal, the non-genuine, the criminal and the fraudulent. The 2002 White Paper (‘Secure Borders, Safe
Haven’) acknowledged economic virtue:
Migrants bring new experiences and talents that can widen and enrich
the knowledge base of the economy. Human skills and ambitions have
become the building blocks of successful economies and the self-selection of migrants means that they are likely to bring valuable ideas,
entrepreneurship, ambition and energy (Home Office, 2002: 11).
At the same time, it has argued for strengthened borders and for the
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more actively supported (enforced?) integration of ‘new citizens’ into
the social and political culture:
In an increasingly diverse world, it is vital that we strengthen both our
sense of community belonging and the civic and political dimensions of
British citizenship … [Language teaching, education and examination for
citizenship] … will strengthen the ability of new citizens to participate in
society and engage actively in our democracy. This will help people
understand both their rights and their obligations as citizens of the UK,
and strengthen the bonds of mutual understanding between people of
diverse cultural backgrounds (Home Office, 2002: 11).
Despite the continual challenges from many groups and organisations,
New Labour has always insisted that these were are issues of ‘race’. They
have refused the perception that the processes of immigration control
and asylum are racialised and racialising or that they are connected with
racialised differences, antagonisms and inequalities within Britain. The
system of moral codings that we discussed above has been central to this
understanding. Processes of border control have been about sifting the
good migrant from the bad (the criminal, the irresponsible, the immoral,
the feckless, the ‘benefit tourist’ and the non-genuine), and such categories are supposed to transcend racial/ethnic distinctions. This
conception of ‘well-managed’ entry control and integrative processes for
those allowed in echoed the classic British governmental formula for
creating ‘good race relations’: controlled entry (not ‘flooding’ or
‘swamping’) is combined with a positive view of assimilation/integration
(Hesse, 2001). Nevertheless, the conjunction of internal and external
dynamics has continually reasserted the citizenship/multi-culturalism
nexus as a critical one for politics and policy.
MODERNITY: MAKING THE BEST OF A BAD JOB, OR BETTER
LATE THAN NEVER?
Modern society and modernised governance have implicated one
another in New Labour’s efforts to install a new political settlement.
Modernised governance needs a modern society as a reference point for
its legitimacy. A modern society, in turn, must have a modernised apparatus of governing to manage the contradictions and conflicts of
alternative routes to becoming modern. The modernisation of governance has aimed to construct a new Public, with new roles, rights and
responsibilities, and has engaged in new (consultative, participatory
and legitimately active) relationships with the State. The modernisation
of society has evoked a new People, at home in their hard-working
families, attached to and active in their various (but non-antagonistic)
communities, happy to work and consume enthusiastically – and
preferably not too much trouble to government.1
New Labour’s approach has been shaped by the problem of negoti62
Governing in the modern world?
63
ating other conceptions of the modern that it has sought to repress or
contain. The modern society so avidly sought by New Labour has
encountered other imaginaries, other possibilities, other trajectories
jostling for a place in the future. In particular, we would point to other
possible ways of being ‘European’, ‘global’ and ‘internationalist’ that
have had to be repressed or contained in New Labour’s alignment of a
modern Britain with the dominant US, neo-liberal tendency (see also
Johnson, this volume). Equally, possibilities for pursuing a new equalities agenda with a commitment to a diverse society and reducing
inequalities have been co-opted to a much shallower concern with
social inclusion, centred on the imagery of a nation of hard working
families. Even the modernisation of governance has avoided the transformative possibilities of a citizen-empowering Chartist republicanism
in favour of a much more limited horizon. New Labour’s attempt to
make one modernity come true in practice has struggled to contain its
own internal contradictions (not least its combinations of economic
modernisation with social traditionalism). But it also has had to refute,
repress or incorporate other potential modernities.
Nevertheless, the wish to transcend political and ideological conflict
through a pragmatic, unifying and coherent commitment to modernisation has had limitations as a strategy. The modernised approach to
delivering public services based on a ‘what works’ philosophy has
claimed to move beyond old, outdated debates about whether public or
private sector is best. But it could not resolve the need to take political
decisions or to make judgements that would inevitably satisfy some
‘stakeholders’ more than others. New Labour’s vision has been persistently interrupted by groups and issues that challenged the
post-ideological imagery of governance based on rational, managerial
forms of knowledge and power.
Modernisation, then, can be viewed as an attempt to close off possible
alternative forms of ‘being modern’. New Labour has attempted to
enforce one configuration as the sole imaginable and desirable way of
‘living in the modern world’ (what Steinberg and Johnson, this volume,
argue is the ‘one-wayism’ of the Third Way). But Labour’s governance
practices – its policies, relationships and institutional forms – have struggled with the problem of how to install and secure this one vision.
Gramsci talked about viewing ‘the life of the state as a series of unstable
equilibria’. New Labour’s modernisation project has attempted to establish a new settlement, a new equilibrium, in which we will become
reconciled to living in this version of a modern world. Not surprisingly,
this new equilibrium has proved both elusive and unstable. In particular,
New Labour’s efforts to treat differential inequalities and the struggles
over them as settled – allowing a view of equalised opportunities tempered
by pockets of social exclusion – has been less wholly successful. The difficult question is whether the various co-opted, repressed, excluded social
possibilities can become active and effective political forces.
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NOTE
1. See also Epstein, Johnson and Steinberg, this volume, for discussions of
the distinctive antagonism of the hegemonic tendency of Blairism/New
Labour towards popular dissent and resistant forms of activism.
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65
3. Labour’s loves lost? The legacies of
moral conservatism and sex reform
Jeffrey Weeks
INTRODUCTION
One of the piquant pleasures of the second Labour landslide victory of
June 2001 was the unexpected tribute to Labour achievements in catching the moral zeitgeist from leading Conservatives. One of the former
‘big beasts’ of the Tory jungle, Michael Heseltine, offered a vivid
perception of Labour’s perceived success:
While the Conservative Party has looked backwards, Labour has
adopted the vocabulary of the future. Britain has moved on – whether
for good or ill scarcely matters. Marital breakdown, single-parent families, partners, gay rights, a multi-ethnic population are all parts of
modern life … (Heseltine 2001: 13).
In the same edition of the Evening Standard in which this encomium
appeared, its editor, Max Hastings – former editor of the arch-Tory
Daily Telegraph, a former military correspondent, an enthusiastic fox
hunter, and a High Tory by inclination and history – made a similar
comment:
… it does not matter a thing whether we like or dislike the world of
working women, unmarried mothers, ethnic minorities, football fans,
animal rights, drug takers, gays, cosmetic surgery, Princess Diana selffulfilment, women in the army, bunny-hugging and explicit sex at the
movies – this is modern Britain. Any political party that seeks to deny its
reality, as the Tories have done implicitly or explicitly for years, is
unlikely again to win power (Hastings 2001: 5).
Without any obvious herald, in the context of a government which had
cautiously played down its liberalism with regard to sexual values, and
which had indeed been derided by some for being out of touch with the
country’s growing tolerance of diverse life styles, sexuality erupted into
the subsequent campaign for the Conservative leadership. It became a
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marker of the divide between traditional moral authoritarianism and a
new social liberalism, which advocated greater toleration of different
lifestyles, and was espoused by younger Conservatives, led by Michael
Portillo. Despite Portillo’s own hard right career as a Thatcherite
minister, his new liberalism fired his subsequent bid for the Tory leadership (even though ultimately, as it happened, it also destroyed his
chances). And the Blair Labour Party was hailed as being in tune with
the way we live today – whether people liked that way or not.
Here we have a perplexing paradox. The Blair government in its first
term was often assailed by self-declared progressives for its conservatism on the ‘moral agenda’, particularly with regard to drugs, the
administration of justice and its attitude to crime, but also on issues
relating to the family and sexuality. Since 1997 the philosopher John
Gray (2001: 21) has been commenting that Britain is amongst the most
liberal countries in Europe. Yet the new Labour government elected in
that year has often seemed scared of its own shadow in relationship to
many of these matters. Terrified in particular of the tabloid media in
pursuing a liberal, let alone a radically progressive agenda, its liberalism
seemed at best to follow the path of stealth, whilst its conservatism was
allowed to spin.
There are two obvious examples of Labour’s ambivalent liberalism
in the first term, illustrating its Janus-like character. First of all there
were the dogged, though ultimately fruitless, efforts to repeal ‘Section
28’ of the 1988 Local Government Act. This had prohibited the
promotion of homosexuality as a ‘pretended family relationship’ by
local authorities, and had been rushed into law by the Thatcher government in response to a well orchestrated panic about gay propaganda
being directed at school children (Weeks 1991; Moran 2001). In practice, it had never been used, but it had become a symbol of state
homophobia for the lesbian and gay community. During the first Blair
administration, after a fierce struggle, repeal was implemented in
Scotland by the new devolved government. In England and Wales,
however, despite the efforts of the Labour government, repeal was ultimately blocked in the House of Lords during the first term. Moral
conservatives, including some Labour peers, were able to conjure up
sufficient support to stymie repeal for the major part of the UK, and
the Blair government seemed at a loss about how to overcome the
opposition. Here was a thwarted liberalism.
A more conservative, or at least contradictory, approach was offered
by the government’s family policy. On the one hand, it fully acknowledged, even exposed, a diversity of family forms in a discussion paper
on families (Ministerial Group on the Family 1998). But on the other it
extolled marriage and the two-parent family as the ideal arena for
bringing up children. It wished to recognise a plurality of intimate
patterns, but wanted to accompany this, apparently, by advocating an
ideal form. In doing this it pleased neither its radical constituency nor
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its would-be friends in the conservative media. It got the worst of all
worlds.
Contradictions and ambivalences certainly litter the Blair government’s moral agenda. But the deeper question is whether it is possible
in the complex, diverse pluralistic society Britain has become to please
anyone when a government delicately sets out on reforming the moral
agenda. Michael Heseltine, at the very least, clearly believed in 2001
that the Blair strategy was more effective in addressing the value
complexity of contemporary Britain than his Conservative opponents.
But is a more radical strategy possible or feasible?
This article sets out to understand the intricacies and complexities of
the Blair moral agenda by exploring three lines of enquiry. The first is
into the Labour legacy itself. With the exception of a brief flowering of
the permissive moment under Roy Jenkins in the 1960s, and the wellmeant gesture politics of the socialisms in one borough of the 1980s,
the history of Labour administrations, I argue, is one of moral conservatism. The Blair government shines like a progressive beacon in
comparison with these. What therefore are the cultural and institutional roots of such a contradictory legacy? Secondly, I want to explore
the unfinished sexual revolution of the recent past. There have been
real transformations in many people’s lives over the past two generations, a revolution of every day life, which is acknowledged but not
fully understood. It has led to new freedoms but also new uncertainties. It is the resulting ambiguities, ambivalence and moral confusions,
I suggest, that are the real background to the contemporary paradoxes
of moral politics, which affect all political parties. Might the limitations
of the Blair agenda be simply a cautious wish to ride and prod, rather
than lead a grass roots transformation? This might not be heroic, but
could it be the most sensible approach? Thirdly, in the context of very
real changes, I will argue that we have seen the emergence of quite new
discourses of equality in relationship to intimate life and around sexual
choice, which have yet to play themselves out fully. These emergent
discourses may reflect more aspiration than reality, but they are affecting the terms of moral discourse. How do you balance rights and
responsibilities, personal autonomy and mutual involvement? The
Blair government grapples with these questions in a variety of seemingly contradictory ways, here nodding to communitarian principles
(Etzioni 1995), there offering a pragmatic adaptation to growing individualism. But what is surely interesting is not so much the
government’s timidity as its careful renegotiating of the boundaries
between the normal and abnormal, the acceptable and unacceptable.
THE LABOUR LEGACY
One of Blair’s first biographers, John Rentoul (1996: 287), wrote that
Labour ‘has always been seen as a liberal party’. But how liberal is
liberal? Whatever its progressive pretensions, the Labour Party has
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69
rarely been in the vanguard of sexual reform throughout its hundredyear history. Since its formation at the beginning of the twentieth
century the Labour Party has always been an uneasy amalgam of the
progressive intelligentsia and a largely morally conservative working
class, especially as represented through the trade union movement. The
post-1918 Labour Party, committed as it was to a socialist agenda of a
sort, concentrated on utopian ends in theory and better public administration in practice. But beneath this notional over-arching ideological
unity, the party always had a plethora of pragmatic policies – few of
which addressed directly the diversities of family or intimate life. By
the mid-century the party was an awkward amalgam of a fairly basic
moral conservatism, reflecting its working-class constituency and the
weakness of its voters from the modernising middle class (on which it
nevertheless depended to win elections once in a generation), and an
often bohemian leadership (at least in private). Ramsay MacDonald, its
first prime minister, had after all begun his political career in the undergrowth of socialist organisations of the 1880s and 1890s, where
concerns with the rights of women and ‘homogenic love’ (that is,
homosexuality) had been significant; but by the 1920s, and the time of
his first premiership, a new sobriety dominated (Rowbotham and
Weeks 1977). Subsequent leaders may have had fairly exotic private
relationships, but the party’s outward face was highly respectable.
Labour’s most successful prime minister to date, now universally
hailed as a model prime minister, Clement Attlee, was the acme of
moral conservatism and social respectability: laconic, pipe-smoking,
deeply traditional, with his public school tie, his passion for cricket and
The Times crossword. The hindsight of history bathes the Attlee
government in a glow of ideological clarity and socialist commitment.
We tend to forget that that government was riven by personality
conflicts (very similar to those of the Blair administrations), constant
back-bench unease, battles for economic survival, conservatism
towards crime, and a commitment to a welfare system that was deeply
gendered, embodying a notion of citizenship that was implicitly familial and heterosexual (Weeks 1998). No libertarian reforms marked or
marred that government. In fact, it was the very greyness of the administration – however much it may have been justified by its battles to
reconstruct the economy after the war, and to lay the foundations of
the welfare state – that inspired the revisionism of the 1950s to put a
new emphasis on personal freedoms.
In the blood of socialists, as Anthony Crosland – the most influential of social democratic revisionists in the 1960s – famously suggested
in his The Future of Socialism (Crosland 1964: 355), ‘there should
always run a trace of the anarchist and the libertarian, and not too
much of the prig and the prude’. The implication was clear: the party
had adhered to a rather dour Labour/Fabian tradition, which was no
longer relevant to the new world of post-war affluence. Instead
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Crosland looked forward, as society became more social democratic, to
‘the cultivation of leisure, beauty, grace, gaiety, excitement and all of
the proper pursuits, whether elevated, vulgar, or eccentric, which
contribute to the varied fabric of full private and family life’ (Crosland
1964: 353). The apotheosis of this modernising hope could be said to
have arrived in the second half of the 1960s, presided over by the liberal
and reforming Labour Home Secretary, Roy Jenkins, a close friend,
and enduring rival, of Crosland’s. The wave of reforms that were introduced, ostensibly on the initiative of backbench MPs and peers, but
largely with government support, constituted the most important body
of reforms regarding personal morality for a hundred years. Male
homosexuality was partially decriminalised. Abortion law reform
ended the scourge of the back-street abortionists. The obscenity laws
were reformed. Divorce was made slightly easier. Stage censorship was
abolished (Weeks 1981). For the opponents of these reforms, this was
where the moral rot began. For the rest of population new, if limited,
freedoms were opened up, and we are still living with the framework
in which they took place.
‘The permissive moment’ was brief, and in retrospect it can be seen
as a promising but limited flowering. Already by 1968 the new Home
Secretary, James Callaghan, confidently signalled the end of permissiveness, and the return of moral conservatism. The strongest marker
of this was the refusal to contemplate any reform of the laws relating
to drugs, and many of the problems related to prohibition of recreational drugs that we live with today can be traced back to that
symbolic moment (Weeks 1981). James Callaghan proudly represented
the social and moral conservatism of the base of the Labour Party, not
only in issues related to private freedoms but more broadly in relationship to the social policies of the Labour government.
Harold Wilson, the prime minister who presided over both the
reforming and the conservative moments of the 1960s, displayed little
interest either way. Ben Pimlott’s (1992) massive biography of Wilson,
which details all the ins and outs of court politics and economic and
international crises, makes few references to the debate over private
life. And however important the reforms were in the 1960s, the most
interesting factor in retrospect is not the way in which the reforms
removed restraints but the modest shift had actually took place in the
modes of regulation of social and especially sexual behaviour. The socalled ‘Wolfenden strategy’ that lay behind most of the reforms relied
on a distinction between private behaviour (which was regarded as a
domain of choice between consenting adults) and public behaviour
(which was the legitimate realm of regulation and control). So partial
decriminalisation of male homosexual behaviour in private was
balanced by (at least in intention) more effective policing of public
behaviour. The legalisation of abortion in certain circumstances was
accompanied by a shift in the locus of regulation from the law to medi70
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cine. The point that has to be underlined is that none of the reforms
relied on a qualitative reassessment of the practices concerned. There
was no positive affirmation of homosexuality, no espousal of the
woman’s right to choose, no explicit adoption of divorce by consent.
The reforms were largely concerned with redrawing the balance
between consent and control (Weeks 1981; Weeks 1991).
The long mainstream tradition of cautious conservatism in relationship to sexuality continued throughout the 1970s and 1980s. When the
Greater London Council, led by Ken Livingstone, attempted to let a
hundred flowers bloom at County Hall in the 1980s in pursuit of a new
majority of minorities, including sexual minorities, the response from
the Labour Party establishment varied from the sceptical to the horrified. Perhaps in the end this was not surprising, as the whole
experiment in progressive municipal socialism in the 1980s with regard
to sexuality ended in the debacle of the imposition of Section 28
(Weeks: 1991). Again, leading party spokesmen showed a deep ambivalence in their opposition to it (see Cooper 1994).
The controversy aroused by the Blair government’s attempt to
repeal Section 28 some twelve years later revealed why there was such
caution in the party’s high command. The furore in Scotland against
the attempt to repeal the Section, led by the old Labour supporting
Roman Catholic primate Cardinal Winning, drew on a deep conservatism in Scottish culture. This in turn echoed the conservatism of a
large part of the core constituency of Labour in England and Wales,
and underlined the difficulties of keeping that uneasy coalition
between metropolitan progressivism and working-class conservatism
together (Yates 2001: 9). The new Labour leadership – often Christian
Socialist in its roots – never quite found the language of radical toleration it needed to combat the Cardinal’s absolutism. And yet, of course,
on this occasion the opposition of the conservative elements in the
Labour coalition did not stop the government pursuing its plans for
reform. Something had changed.
In part this reflected the impact that both feminism and lesbian and
gay politics from the 1970s had had in changing a large part of the
climate in the Labour Party. It reflected the large, and by and large
more liberal membership of the Labour majority in the Commons. It
also reflected a commitment on the part of Blair and his immediate
allies in the party’s leadership to adopt a more liberal policy with
regard to homosexuality and other sexual issues. That policy sat somewhat uneasily with the government’s familial rhetoric, and Blair’s own
personal lifestyle. But the fact that for the first time a Labour government directly committed itself in its own bill to an equal age of consent,
and to repeal of Section 28, did signal a significant shift. This shift in
turn reflected a dawning awareness of the way British society itself had
been transformed since the 1960s.
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THE LONG, UNFINISHED REVOLUTION
The Blair government came to power in 1997 in the midst of a profound
transformation of intimate life, sexuality, and of patterns of domestic
life. Many of the changes in Britain are global in their extent, based on
the widespread process of de-traditionalisation and individualisation
(Giddens 1991, 1992). But Britain seems to have adopted a particular
take on these long-term trends. For example, despite the various efforts
of successive governments to valorise marriage, Britain has the highest
divorce rate in the European Union, and one of the highest rates of
babies born outside marriage (Duckworth 2001: 6). In Britain by 2001,
39 per cent of births were outside marriage, compared with the EU
average of 26 per cent, and only about 27 per cent in Britain ten years
earlier. Such trends are symptomatic of radical shifts in behaviour and
attitudes. The delay of marriage, the rise of co-habitation, which has
now become the norm before, and frequently an alternative to,
marriage, the rapid rise of single households, the emergence of new
patterns of intimacy, such as lesbian and gay ‘families of choice’, are
indices of real change (McRae 1999; Weeks, Heaphy and Donovan
2001). We can rightly make a series of necessary qualifications about
these bald developments. National surveys still tell us that on the whole
the British population is more conservative than many people think
(Wellings et al 1994; but see Johnson et al 2001; Frean and Peak 2001:
10). Most people still marry and then re-marry. The average number of
partners is relatively low. Serial monogamy is the norm. Cohabitation
before marriage may now be routine, but most offspring of such unions
are still registered by both parents. Homosexual relations may be more
tolerated, but there is widespread resistance to the recognition of same
sex partnerships, and the legal situation remains generally inequitable.
Similarly, despite the ‘transformation of intimacy’ that Anthony
Giddens (1992) has proclaimed, there are still great inequities in the relationship between men and women (Jamieson 1998).
But at the same time there is no doubt that by and large the British
population, especially in the younger age group, has become more
tolerant in its attitudes towards sexual diversity. The media generally is
not only more explicit in its representations of sexuality, but also more
liberal in its representations of diversity. There is plentiful evidence that
the old taboos against homosexuality are beginning to fade away. And
whatever the difficulties, and continuing patterns of inequality,
violence and struggle, and the continuing inequities between men and
women, new patterns of life, and new values, are emerging. It is no
longer possible, if indeed it ever was, to see Britain as a homogenous
society, with a single moral standard. It is well on the way to becoming
a pluralistic society, not simply in cultural and ethnic terms, but also in
attitudes to the family and sexuality (Frearn 2002).
These new patterns can be seen as examples of a new or accentuated
individualism in most Western culture. The 1990s demonstrated that,
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73
whatever the social authoritarian efforts of conservative politicians like
Reagan in the United States and Thatcher in the UK, the triumph of
economic liberalism has tended to undermine traditional patterns of
life and to elevate individual choice, in personal as well as economic
matters. This new individualism has aroused extreme anxieties amongst
moral conservatives (Phillips 2000). It has left, more generally, an
underlying sense of unease, which is manifest in recurrent ‘moral
panics’ around sexual issues. The widespread anxieties about rampant
child sex abuse underlie not only a long-overdue recognition of a
genuine problem but also a sense that boundaries, especially between
adults and children, are in danger of dissolving, with unknown consequences (Weeks 2001).
Yet whatever the undercurrent of uncertainty (Weeks 1995), most
people, perforce, have to negotiate the rapids of change. Today, John
Gray (2001: 21) has argued, people’s identities and beliefs are more
varied than ever before: ‘Families and sexual relationships are improvised and fluid. Fulfilment is found in the private world, and individual
self-realisation is the central object in life.’
People are not particularly interested in politics generally, or the
politics of family and sexuality in particular. They do not have grand
visions of new ways of living, even as at an everyday level they do
engage in ‘everyday experiments in living’ (Giddens 1992; Weeks,
Heaphy and Donovan 2001). There is both a pragmatism in the adaptation to changes in every day life, and a new contingency as people
have, in a real sense, to create values for themselves. Their liberalism
may well be limited to a form of live and let live morality. There is little
positive endorsement of different ways of life. Yet there are very few
households in Britain that are not touched by the transformations of
everyday life. Most people know single parents. Most people know a
member of their family who may be lesbian or gay. Many households
have experienced divorce, re-marriage cohabitation, broken families,
reconstituted families. These broad, shared experiences explain why
attempts during the 1980s and 1990s to return to Victorian, or ‘basic’
values, were dismal failures. We are in the midst of a long revolution.
The revolution is unfinished, partial, uneven in its impact. But we all
now have to live with the consequences and implications. And the
evidence surely is that most people adapt extremely well.
NEW DISCOURSES OF EQUALITY?
In many ways the policies of the first Blair administration towards intimate life can be seen to reflect the ambiguities of the population as a
whole. There can be no doubt that leading members of the government,
including Tony Blair, Jack Straw as Home Secretary, and David
Blunkett as Education Secretary, adhered to traditional views of the
centrality of the family (despite the fact that Straw and Blunkett themselves are divorced). Even in this leading trio, however, we can see
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differences, with Blair and Straw broadly associating their commitment
to the family with socially liberal policies towards homosexuality,
while Blunkett is seen as resolutely conservative, and was an opponent
of an equal age of consent for homosexuality and heterosexuality
(Waites 2001). Balancing this, the financial and welfare policies of the
government, dominated by the Chancellor of the Exchequer Gordon
Brown, concentrated on children rather than families as such, developing a taxation policy that is neutral between the merits of married and
unmarried parenting (Lewis 2001). Furthermore, Blair’s cabinet
between 1997-2001 was the first in British history to have openly gay
members (Chris Smith, Nick Brown, Peter Mandelson), as well as
openly lesbian or gay junior members of the government and MPs.
There is no doubt that the government was highly sensitive to many of
the major changes that had taken place in patterns of life. The awkward
problem it faced was how to balance this recognition of sexual pluralism with its leading members’ commitment to marriage and family life.
Recognition of the mutual responsibilities involved in family life
was an important aspect of the communitarian philosophy which had
influenced leading members of the Labour Party prior to the election
of 1997. The family was seen as an arena in which rights and responsibilities were mutually negotiated, and which provided the appropriate
forum for bringing up children. The government continued the policy
of its predecessor Conservative government by emphasising, particularly, parental responsibilities, and the responsibilities of the father, and
the Child Support Agency was reformed by the Labour government to
aid this (Lewis 2001).
Liberal fears about the government devotion to the traditional
family had, of course, been aroused early on in the term by its attitude
to single parents. The early cuts to lone parent benefits were justified
on the grounds of maintaining strict government expenditure limits,
and simply followed the Conservative budgetary policies. But they
were widely seen at the time as an obeisance to the family lobby. They
aroused intense backbench hostility, and the cuts were quietly
restored in the next budget (Lewis 2001: 495; Toynbee and Walker
2001: 18-19). Subsequently, the New Deal, and the budgetary emphasis on children’s needs rather than family forms, did improve the
financial situation of lone parents. This was accompanied by a new
emphasis in attitudes to lone parenting: an emphasis on the importance of single parents being able to work. This was quite different
from the punitive attitudes of the Conservative government towards
single parenting, and undoubtedly benefited many single parents. The
problem, however, as Lewis (2001), has pointed out, was that the
approach tended to ignore wider questions of care, and care of children in particular. It was particularly insensitive to what Duncan and
Edwards (1999) have described as the ‘gendered moral rationalities’
which differentially shape the responses of particular communities
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Labour’s loves lost?
75
about the appropriate balance between single parents’ responsibilities
for children and their desire to work.
There can be no doubt then that key members of the government,
including Tony Blair and Jack Straw themselves, were at one with the
Conservatives about the implication of family change, particularly with
regard to the instability faced by children. The government committed
itself to teaching the value of marriage to children, and this was linked
as a quid pro quo in the attempt to abolish Section 28 (Moran 2001).
On the other hand, the Labour government was sharply attacked by
defenders of the family for its refusal to be prescriptive about family by
providing incentives to marriage (Phillips 1999). Gordon Brown, for
example, followed the logic of previous Conservative budgetary policy
by abolishing the married couples’ tax allowance in April 2000. The use
of the term ‘families’ rather than ‘family’ in its consultation document
signalled some recognition by the government that there was now a
diversity of family forms (Ministerial Group on the Family 1998). But
on this, as on many other things, the government was not prepared to
go too far. There was no hint in the document of the existence of
lesbian or gay families, or of the contemporary ‘gayby’ boom (Weeks,
Heaphy and Donovan 2001). The overwhelming impression was that
on this, as in other policy matters, the government was steering a
cautious third way between traditional values and the new more
diverse constituencies it had to address.
One of these constituencies, to which both explicit and implicit
promises had been made in the run up to the 1997 election, was the
non-heterosexual population. The Labour Party had adopted in the
1980s a raft of pious aspirations. Blair himself, as Home Affairs
spokesperson before 1994, had committed himself to what was a radically new commitment to equality in his advocacy of a common age of
consent for homosexuals and heterosexuals (Rentoul 1996: 288; see also
Epstein, Johnson and Steinberg 2000).
In retrospect this commitment can be seen as a significant break
from the Wolfenden strategy which had governed national and indeed
party policy since the 1960s, though it was not articulated as such. The
Wolfenden Committee’s recommendations on homosexual law reform
in 1957, and subsequently passed during the period of office of the
1964-1970 Labour government, had never made a clear commitment to
the equal worth of homosexuals. The 1967 Act, which partially decriminalised male homosexuality, had clearly continued to see
homosexuality as an inferior form. What was significant about Blair’s
declaration in the context of attempts in the early 1990s to reduce the
age of homosexual consent was the notion that there were no rational
grounds for denying an equal age of consent for homosexuals and
heterosexuals. And despite the criticisms that came from gay activists
during the period of the first Blair administration, there were in fact
substantial attempts to enact a greater degree of equality. For example,
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Blairism and the War of Persuasion
partners of lesbian or gay citizens were allowed to migrate into the
country on the same terms as unmarried heterosexual partners. After
some hesitation, the government also ensured that openly gay men and
lesbians could serve in the armed forces on the same terms as heterosexuals. The occasion for this was a finding in the European Court of
Human Rights in favour of a group of gay men and women who had
been sacked once their homosexuality was revealed. It remained illegal
for any form of sexual activity to take place between any serving men
and women, but this applied whether the individuals involved were gay
or straight (Toynbee and Walker 2001: 176).
The same application of common principles can be seen in the
debate over the age of consent. In its initial attempts to equalise the age
of consent at 16, the government conceded a new offence of abuse of
trust, where predatory teachers or care workers or others in a position
of power might pressure those under 18, but this was an offence that
applied across the heterosexual/homosexual divide. And this legislative
endeavour had another significant feature. Unlike the passage of the
1967 Act, which was ostensibly on the initiative of backbench MPs,
efforts to equalise the age of consent were sponsored by government
bills. And when the third attempt to get it through was again blocked
in the House of Lords in 1999, the government then invoked the
Parliament Act, which allowed them to override the Lords’ veto, to
push it through. This was the first time that any government had so
clearly endorsed gay equality in this way (see Waites 2001).
Hubbard (2001: 59), following Cooper (1998), has seen these significant but ambivalent efforts at reform during the first term as a failure
on the part of the Labour government to commit itself to full citizenship for marginal sexual subjects. There can be no doubt that the
government seemed reluctant to set out a coherent programme of
reform that would signal a radical policy towards full sexual citizenship
(Donovan, Heaphy and Weeks 1999). Its uneasy attempt to combine a
commitment to the family as the best focus for bringing up children
with a recognition of diversity did not suggest it was willing explicitly
to challenge the more conservative social forces within its own
constituency, let alone to allow the more rabidly socially conservative
forces represented by the Daily Mail to disrupt its popularity with the
largest possible group of the British population. Yet, it had already
brought about significant change in its first four years of office, and
achieved the most significant shifts in the regulation of non-traditional
forms of sexuality since the 1960s. The coming into force of the
Human Rights legislation at the end of the first term opened a possibility of yet more significant shifts in the second term (see Weeks,
Heaphy and Donovan 2001: chapter 8). Discourses of human rights
have in fact emerged strongly for the first time in Britain. The emergent
discourses may reflect more aspiration than reality, but they are likely
to affect the terms of moral debate way into the future.
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Labour’s loves lost?
77
An early signal of this in the second term was the government’s
acceptance of a decision in the European Court of Human Rights in
July 2002 which ruled that UK law breached the human rights of transsexuals by refusing them revised birth certificates marking their new
gender identities. In December 2002, the government announced its
intention to legislate to ‘enable transsexual people confidently to take
up those rights which have been denied to them in society, including the
right to marry in their acquired gender’ (Ford 2002a: 12). This was just
one of several initiatives which committed the government to an equality agenda. During 2002 the government legislated to allow lesbians and
gays to adopt on the same terms as non-married heterosexual couples;
published a White Paper, Protecting the Public, which promised changes
to the rape laws, better child protection, and the repeal of a number of
anti-gay laws dating back to Victorian times; and outlined plans to
introduce civil partnerships for same sex couples (Richardson 2002: 20;
Ford 2002b: 4; Waugh 2002: 1; Dyer 2002: 11). It also finally succeeded
in repealing Section 28. All this suggested that the government had at
last decided that the tide of public opinion was in favour of further
reform. Following the 2001 election the government had set up a
Cabinet Office study of ‘civil partnerships’, to include same sex and
unmarried heterosexual couples, and some commentators had suggested
that this would allow the government to kick a touchy subject into the
long grass (Charter 2002). In fact the opposite seemed to be the case.
During 2004 new legislation to approve same sex unions began to
progress through the House of Lords, with full government support. A
new sexual offences act (2004) additionally removed the distinction
between homosexual and heterosexual offences (Bainham and BrooksGordon 2004). Hand in hand with a growing liberalisation of public
attitudes, the government seemed prepared, finally, to endorse the case
for sexual justice and equal citizenship.
SOME CONCLUSIONS
The lines of enquiry pursued in this paper suggest three tentative conclusions. First, this is a much more radical government on sexual and
relationship issues than any previous Labour government. This may not
be saying a great deal given the history outlined above, but it can still be
seen as a brave nod in the direction of greater sexual equality in the light
of an ambiguous public opinion. This is the second point: the confusions
and ambiguities of the Blair government can be seen as a reflection of
wider cultural confusions. As Lewis (2001: 496) has observed, this is an
area of policy making about which people have very particular notions as
to what is appropriate or inappropriate, and these may differ deeply
between generations, classes, ethnic groups and regions. She cites an
Observer/ICM Poll in late 1998, which suggested that a majority of
people believe the government should steer clear of telling them how to
conduct their private lives. While attitudes tended towards being non77
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judgemental they were not necessarily permissive. 47 per cent agreed that
divorce should be made more difficult, as opposed to 44 per cent who
disagree. A similar ambivalence was evidenced in all the opinion polling
with regard to recognition of homosexuality. While people by and large
were willing to have homosexuals as their neighbours, they still tended to
be very cautious about allowing lesbian or gays to parent children. In
such a sensitive area, where ambiguities of the population at large reach
into the cabinet room itself, it is difficult to see how any government
would be willing to run too far ahead of public opinion. It was precisely
when there was evidence of significant shifts in public attitudes that the
government chose to act (for example, see Gray 2002: 9; Frearn 2002: 9).
But the third point surely is that this puts the onus not on governments
themselves to leap too far ahead of public opinion, but on those who
desire change to ensure that the case is made from the grassroots upwards.
The lesson of the past generation indeed is that the changes with regard to
family and sexual life have not been led by the political elite but by grassroots shifts which are subject to a whole variety of long term social trends.
The ‘long revolution’ has been a revolution in everyday life. Whilst
we may wish reforming governments to be a little more explicitly enthusiastic in endorsing these changes, the public mood generally seems to be:
‘let well alone’ unless some spectacular abuses or contradictions come to
light. Clearly, the Blair government has shown itself unwilling to race
too far ahead of public opinion. But at least it is riding the tide, and, as
Heseltine (2001) suggested, it may well be reading the public mood more
accurately than many of its critics care to believe or accept.
REFERENCES
Bainham, Andrew, and Brooks-Gordon, Belinda (2004) ‘Reforming the Law
on Sexual Offences’, in Belinda Brooks-Gordon, Loraine Gelsthorpe,
Martin Johnson, and Andrew Bainham (eds), Sexuality Repositioned:
Diversity and the Law Oxford: Hart Publishing: 261-296.
Charter, David (2002) ‘Adoption Bill held back over row over unmarried
couples’, The Times, 16 March.
Cooper, Davina (1994) Sexing the City: Lesbian and Gay Politics within the
Activist State, London: Rivers Oram Press.
Cooper, Davina (1998) ‘Regard between Strangers: Diversity, Equality, and the
Reconstruction of Public Space’, Critical Social Policy, Volume 18 (3): 465492.
Crosland, C.A.R. (1964) The Future of Socialism, London: Jonathan Cape.
Donovan, Catherine, Heaphy, Brian, Weeks, Jeffrey (1999), ‘Citizenship and
Same-Sex Relationships’, Journal of Social Policy 28(4): 689-709.
Duckworth, Lorna (2001) ‘Divorce Rate falls but UK still tops European
Lead’, The Independent, 13 June.
Duncan, Simon, and Edwards, Rosalind (1999), Lone Mothers, Paid Work and
Gendered Moral Rationalities, Basingstoke and London: Macmillan.
Dyer, Clare (2002) ‘New Legal Rights for Gay Couples’, The Guardian, 7
December.
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Epstein, Debbie, Johnson, Richard, Steinberg, Deborah Lynn, (2000) ‘Twice
Told Tales: Transformation, Recuperation and Emergence in the Age of
Consent Debates 1998’, Sexualities, Volume 3(1): 5-30.
Etzioni, Amatai (1995), The Spirit of Community: Rights, Responsibilities and
the Communitarian Agenda, London: Fontana Press.
Ford, Richard (2002a) ‘Transsexuals to get new birth certificates’, The Times,
14 December.
Ford, Richard (2002b) ‘Blunkett sweeps away Victorian anti-gay laws’, The
Times, 20 November.
Frean, Alexander, and Peek, Laura (2001) ‘Women warm to more partners’,
The Times, 30 November.
Frearn, Alexandra (2002) ‘More Britons choose a childless, single life’, The
Times, 18 December.
Giddens, Anthony (1991), Modernity and Self Identity, Cambridge: Polity
Press.
Giddens, Anthony (1992), The Transformation of Intimacy: Sexuality, Love
and Eroticism in Modern Societies, Cambridge: Polity Press.
Gray, Chris (2002) ‘Four in every 10 babies now born to unmarried parents’,
The Independent, 13 December.
Gray, John (2001) ‘The Little Party’, The Guardian 4 June.
Hastings, Max (2001) ‘The Tories Need Not Just a Leader, but to join the 21st
Century’, Evening Standard, 8 June.
Heseltine, Michael (2001) ‘A Disaster for the Tories – A Personal Tragedy for
William’, Evening Standard, 8 June.
Hubbard, Phil, ‘Sex Zones: Intimacy, Citizenship and Public Space’,
Sexualities, Volume 4 (1): 51-71.
Jamieson, Lynn (1998) Intimacy: Personal Relationships in Modern Society,
Cambridge: Polity Press.
Johnson, Anne M., Mercer, Catherine H., Erens, Bob, Copas, Andrew J.,
McManus, Sally, Wellings, Kay, Fenton, Kevin A., Korovessis, Christos,
Macdowall, Wendy, Nanchahal, Kiran, Purdon, Susan, and Field, Julia
(2001), ‘Sexual behaviour in Britain: partnerships, practices, and HIV risk
behaviours’, The Lancet, 358 (9296), 1 December: 1835-1842.
Lewis, Jane (2001) ‘Women, Men and the Family’, in Anthony Seldon (ed.) The
Blair Effect: The Blair Government 1997-2001, London: Little, Brown and
Company.
McRae, Susan (1999) Changing Britain: Families and Households in the 1990s,
Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Ministerial Group on the Family (1998) Supporting Families: A Consultation
Document, London: HMSO.
Moran, Joe (2001) ‘Childhood Sexuality and Education: The case of Section
28’, Sexualities, Volume 4(1): 73-89.
Phillips, Melanie (1999), The Sex-Change Society: Feminized Britain and
Neutered Male, London: The Social Market Foundation.
Pimlott, Ben (1992), Harold Wilson, London: Harper Collins.
Rentoul, John (1996), Tony Blair, London: Warner Books.
Richardson, Colin (2002) ‘Quite glad to be gay’, The Guardian, 27 December.
Rowbotham, Sheila, and Weeks, Jeffrey (1977) Socialism and the New Life,
London: Pluto Press.
Toynbee, Polly and Walker, David (2001) ‘Did Things Get Better? An Audit of
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Labour’s Successes and Failures London: Penguin.
Waites, Matthew (2001), ‘Regulation of Sexuality: Age of Consent, Section 28
and Sex Education’, Parliamentary Affairs, Volume 54: 495-508.
Waugh, Paul (2002) ‘Gays to win same rights as married couples’, The
Independent, 6 December.
Weeks, J. (1981) Sex, Politics and Society: The Regulation of Sexuality since
1800, Harlow: Longman.
Weeks, J. (1991) Against Nature: Essays on History, Sexuality and Identity,
London: Rivers Oram Press.
Weeks, J. (1995) Invented Moralities: Sexual Values in an Age of Uncertainty,
Cambridge: Polity Press.
Weeks, J. (1998) ‘The Sexual Citizen’, Theory, Culture and Society 15 (3-4): 3552.
Weeks, J. (2000) Making Sexual History, Cambridge: Polity Press.
Weeks, J. (2001) ‘Live and Let Love? Reflections on the Unfinished Sexual
Revolution of our Times’, in Rosalind Edwards and Judith Glover (eds.),
Risk and Citizenship: Key Issues in Welfare, London: Routledge.
Weeks, Jeffrey, Heaphy, Brian, and Donovan, Catherine (2001), Same Sex
Intimacies: Families of Choice and Other Life Experiments, London and
New York: Routledge.
Wellings, K., Field, J., Johnson, A.M. and Wadsworth, J. (1994) Sexual
Behaviour in Britain: The National Survey of Sexual Attitudes and
Lifestyles, London: Penguin.
Yates, Charles (2001) ‘Leader of Scotland’s Roman Catholics dies at 76’, The
Independent, 18 June.
80
4. New directions, or ‘the same old
story’? New Labour’s policies on race
relations, immigration and asylum
Liza Schuster and John Solomos
I
t is appropriate in assessing the impact of New Labour in power that
we look at shifts in its policies around race relations and immigration. This is a particularly important policy arena to explore, since
questions about race and immigration represent policy issues on which
it was assumed in 1997 that there was ‘clear blue water’ between the
Conservatives and New Labour. Certainly, on the basis of the proliferation of legislation in these areas and developments in migration policy
in particular, these assumptions would appear to be well-founded.
In what follows, however, we question the extent to which these
interventions represent a break with the experience of the Conservative
governments from 1979 to 1997, or of previous Labour administrations. We argue that, while New Labour has continued to employ the
discourse of inclusion it developed in opposition, and has opened up to
certain forms of migration, its actual policy in relation to both ethnic
minorities and migrants, particularly undocumented migrants and
asylum-seekers, has been marked by a continuing preoccupation with
exclusion and control. Underpinning the rhetoric of inclusion, cohesion and belonging remains the belief that strict immigration controls
are necessary for ‘good race relations’, and that it is legitimate and
necessary to select from among would-be entrants those most likely to
fit into and to benefit British society (Blair speech to CBI 27.04.04).
This is in spite of recent developments that demonstrate the extent to
which references to control – of entry and of ethnic minorities – are
embedded in a discourse that legitimates the fear of the other, whether
that other is a Roma asylum-seeker or a British-Bengali Muslim.
The period since the election of the Labour government in 1997 has
seen some important developments in policies towards race relations,
immigration and asylum. Perhaps the most important of these relating
to race has been the publication of the Macpherson Report1 into the
murder of Stephen Lawrence,2 which led to the reform of the 1976
Race Relations Act and a public commitment to the development of
new initiatives to tackle racial discrimination within the public sector.
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In terms of migration, Labour quickly introduced the 1999 Asylum
and Immigration Act, to be followed by the 2002 Nationality,
Immigration and Asylum Act; it has also for the first time since the
immediate post-war period declared that Britain needs migrants and
has opened legal channels for entry. We will argue that the 2002 Act
marks an interesting convergence between two policy areas – race and
migration – that have traditionally been treated as linked but separate.
This convergence was hastened by both the 2001 unrest in Britain’s
northern cities and the events of 11 September.3
NEW LABOUR, RACE AND IMMIGRATION
In opposition, New Labour worked closely with representatives of
minority communities and groups campaigning on a range of issues,
from black deaths in custody to asylum and immigration. Shadow
Cabinet Ministers such as Jack Straw had become closely associated
with, for example, the Stephen Lawrence campaign and the demands
for a public enquiry. Labour members had also taken part in public
meetings and protests around the 1993 and 1996 Asylum and
Immigration Acts. However, while New Labour in opposition seemed
comfortable with its multicultural and anti-racist positions, different
positions were discernible within the party in relation to migration.
During the debates following the readings of the 1993 and 1996 Bills, it
was noticeable that senior figures in the party did not contradict some
of the fundamental tenets of the Conservative government’s arguments,
preferring instead to focus on the letter of the law, wary of being seen
as soft on migration. Though critical of the use of the term ‘bogus’,
New Labour nonetheless accepted that the majority of claimants were
not ‘genuine’. It was left to Old Labour backbenchers to unambiguously point out the racist nature of the proposed legislation (Hansard,
2 November 1992, Col. 65). In opposition, the leadership of New
Labour seemed more concerned with addressing its electoral ‘vulnerability’ on immigration, and avoiding accusations of being ‘soft’.
When New Labour came to power in 1997 and Jack Straw took over
at the Home Office, he was known as someone who was ‘good on race
relations’. Together with Tony Blair he had been critical of the 1993
and 1996 Acts introduced by the Conservative government. So when,
on becoming Home Secretary, his first acts were the launch of a public
enquiry into the murder of Stephen Lawrence, the introduction of
racially aggravated offences in the 1998 Crime and Disorder Act and a
review of the entire immigration and asylum system, expectations that
in terms of race and immigration this would be a radically different
government seemed to have been confirmed.
REDEFINING RACIAL EQUALITY AND SOCIAL JUSTICE
In terms of racial equality, it did seem that at least in this area there was
a clear difference of approach between New Labour and the
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New directions, or ‘the same old story’?
83
Conservative Party. While both parties had introduced restrictive migration legislation, the Race Relations Acts of 1965, 1968 and 1976 had all
been brought in by Labour governments (for historical context see
Schuster & Solomos 2004). In opposition, New Labour had developed
close links with ethnic minority and anti-racist organisations such as the
National Assembly Against Racism, the Joint Council for the Welfare of
Immigrants, the 1990 Trust and a number of other community and
campaigning organisations. And New Labour had more black and Asian
MPs than the Conservatives and Liberals put together. All of these
factors raised hopes and expectations, and two major initiatives since
1997 indicated New Labour’s commitment on these issues: the publication of the Macpherson Report into the death of Stephen Lawrence and
the passage of the 2000 Race Relations (Amendment) Act.
The Macpherson Report
The publication in February 1999 of the Macpherson Report into the
murder of Stephen Lawrence could be seen as a symbolic turning point
in New Labour’s policy agenda on race and racial inequality
(Macpherson, 1999). The amount of media coverage given to the
Report, as well as the widespread support (including from the rightwing tabloid Daily Mail) for the campaign organised by Stephen
Lawrence’s family to uncover the full facts surrounding his murder,
seemed to be a sign that his death was not merely another episode in
the tragic litany of racist murders and ‘deaths in custody’.
Yet in many ways the Report can be said to contain little that is new,
either in conceptual analysis or in policy agenda setting. As we have
argued elsewhere (Solomos, 1999), the definition of institutional racism
was borrowed from American debates in the 1970s, reflected the
discussions of institutional racism contained in the Scarman Report,
and relied on definitions already contained in the 1976 Race Relations
Act. Most recommendations (66 out of 70) focused on the police and
criminal justice system, though those recommendations relating to the
recruitment and retention of ethnic minority staff and racial awareness
training informed provisions in the Race Relations Amendment Act
2000. The Report seemed to carry a great deal of weight, judged by the
public attention it received on publication and in the period that
followed. An important element of its influence was that its recommendations seemed to go further than the actual events surrounding
the murder of Stephen Lawrence and the police response to the
murder. The recommendations on racism, education and social policy
were in some ways part of its strength, but they also provided a hostage
to fortune, a high standard by which progress should be measured. The
treatment of Stephen Lawrence’s family and of his friend Duwayne
Brooks by the police highlighted the everyday processes that shape the
experience of minority groups at the hands of institutions such as the
police, and yet the list of black British men killed in custody and of
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their treatment by the police continues unabated, as does the ongoing
abuse and discrimination experienced by black and Asian people in
almost every facet of their lives.
The full impact of the Macpherson Report in terms of practical
policy change in the longer term remains to be assessed, but the experience of the Scarman Report in 1981 and New Labour’s response to
the anger of young Asian men in Burnley and Oldham twenty years
later (see footnote 3) should warn us against making any facile predictions about the nature of the improvements that we are likely to see
(Scarman, 1981). If anything, the experience of the past two decades
teaches us that the ways in which policy recommendations are translated into practice remains fundamentally uncertain, particularly as the
nature of policy change depends on broader political agendas, and on
sudden and highly publicised events such as the confrontation between
the state and non-white youth (Solomos 1991).
It would be far too simplistic to dismiss the Report’s key policy
recommendations or to say that it is bound to be ignored. However, it
would be in line with trends over the past two decades to point to the
limited nature of reform and policy change in this field. Even in the
aftermath of the major outbreaks of urban unrest in 1980/81 and 1985,
the promise of reform and new agendas was replaced after a time by a
degree of complacency and inactivity (Benyon and Solomos, 1987). As
Stuart Hall remarked in the aftermath of the 1985 riots: ‘I have a reluctance about entering once again into what seems to me a terribly
familiar and recurring cycle. The cycle goes something like this. There
is a problem that is followed by a conference; the conference is
followed by research; the research reinforces what we already know,
but in elegant and scholarly language. Then nothing happens’ (Hall,
1987: 45).
The preliminary evidence since 1999 indicated that at least some key
elements of the Macpherson Report would be implemented, particularly as the government sought to show that it was taking the question
of ‘institutional racism’ seriously within its own institutions, such as
the police and the civil service. In terms of public agenda-setting it
seemed likely that the public debate about race and public policy
would be shaped in part by symbolic and substantive responses to the
Report, such as the 2000 Race Relations (Amendment) Act.
2000 Race Relations (Amendment) Act
During the long period of Conservative domination from 1979 to 1997
there had been numerous calls for the strengthening of the 1976 Race
Relations Act. These calls were backed up by detailed submissions
from the Commission for Racial Equality (CRE) and by research that
highlighted the limitations of the 1976 Act, limitations that had become
pronounced as early as the 1980s. Despite these calls the Conservative
Party did little to strengthen the legislation, and it was New Labour
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New directions, or ‘the same old story’?
85
that took up the question while in opposition. It came as no surprise
therefore, particularly in the context of public debates about this issue,
that when New Labour came to power it signalled its intention to pass
a new Act to remedy past weaknesses and set the agenda for the future.
The 2000 Race Relations (Amendment) Act was the product of this
commitment to social justice and an attempt to respond to the
Macpherson Report, which called upon ‘every institution … to guard
against disadvantaging any section of our communities’. It is the main
initiative that New Labour has put on the statute books that addresses
questions of race directly, though the issue of race relations features
indirectly in New Labour’s immigration legislation, as we will discuss
below.4 The main innovation is that it extends the 1996 Race Relations
Act further, to apply to public authorities. As a result the Act enforces
on public authorities a new general statutory duty to promote racial
equality and end discrimination and gives the Commission for Racial
Equality extra powers to enforce the new regime (Home Office, 2001).
The expectation embodied in the act is that public authorities will take
action to prevent acts of race discrimination before they occur, and to
ensure that in performing their public functions they should ‘have due
regard to the need to eliminate unlawful racial discrimination, and
promote equality of opportunity and good relations between persons
of different racial groups’.
These duties apply to local authorities, central government departments, schools, colleges and universities, the police, prison, fire and
probation services, criminal justice agencies, NHS trusts and nondepartmental public bodies, such the Arts Council (Home Office
1999). The Act outlines both general and specific duties, which came
into force in April 2001 and December 2001 respectively, although the
CRE’s powers to enforce these duties only came into effect from 31
May 2002.
While many departments within the public sector already had policies on equal opportunities in place, there had been little progress in
actually achieving racial equality in either recruitment or retention
(Appelt and Jarosch, 2000; Bhavnani, 2001). Previous legislation had
focused on preventing discrimination, though with very little success.
The new Act shifts the focus to racial equality. However, according to
a report by the Audit Commission (2002), 40 per cent of councils have
not even reached the first of five levels of good practice on race equality, as laid down by the CRE in 1995.
The 2000 Act was generally welcomed as a step in the right direction
by those working on questions of racial discrimination and exclusion.
There was, however, some disappointment that the Act did not take up
all of the recommendations made by the Commission for Racial
Equality for strengthening the 1976 Race Relations Act. Furthermore,
the Act did not extend to cover the role of public authorities in relation
to immigration and asylum and refuge. Section 19 explicitly states that
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the Act does not apply to laws or persons in relation to immigration or
nationality. To some extent this is an inevitable aspect of any immigration policy, since, as Anne Dummett points out: ‘All immigration laws
are of necessity discriminatory on grounds of nationality, since they
must distinguish between nationals of the legislating state and nonnationals’ (Dummett, 2001: 1). It is also symptomatic, however, of the
way in which New Labour has been wary of any attempt to radically
rethink the logic of policies on immigration and asylum.
ECONOMIC MIGRANTS, ASYLUM-SEEKERS AND SYMBOLIC
POLITICS
The number of Acts and measures relating to migration introduced by
New Labour is breath-taking. In terms of primary legislation alone,
there has been so far three Acts of Parliament, in 1999, 2002 and 2004.
But there have also been a number of secondary measures relating to
entry. It is interesting that these measures and migration policy as a
whole are apparently marked by an extraordinary duality (Flynn 2003).
On the one hand, the government seems to be opening the borders
wide to citizens of the new EU member states, third country nationals
that can fill Britain’s skills gaps, and students – who pay very high fees
and may also become skilled workers. David Blunkett remarked that
he saw no obvious need to limit the number of migrants coming,
provided there were jobs for them to do. At the same time, the treatment of asylum-seekers by this same government has been
extraordinarily harsh. They have been removed from the benefits
system, dispersed, detained and deported in unprecedented numbers
and most recently rendered deliberately destitute as a means of exerting pressure to leave the country on those whose claims have failed.
This treatment has also been extended to their children.
These contradictions were apparent early on. Shortly after taking
power, the White List introduced by the previous Conservative administration was abolished, and the percentage of applications for asylum
that were accepted increased.5 The Home Secretary also granted leave
to remain to approximately 70,000 long-standing applicants. While the
granting of limited leave to remain brought relief to many thousands of
asylum-seekers in Britain, from the government’s perspective it also
served to reduce in some small measure the pressure from an increasingly unmanageable backlog of applications.
The Labour Party in opposition had been extremely critical of the
White List, which had seemed to mark a departure from the principle
that every individual had the right to have his or her case examined
individually; so the abolition of the White List was welcome, though
not a surprise. However, in 2002 a White List was reintroduced –
though absence of persecution is a less important criterion for regarding countries as safe than issues of strategic interests and deterrence.
Other signs of continuity, both with the previous government and with
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New directions, or ‘the same old story’?
87
Labour’s historical record on immigration, were provided by the new
government’s response to the Chahal decision, and to the arrival of
around eight hundred Roma from Slovakia and the Czech Republic.
Just before the 1997 General Election, in November 1996, the
European Court of Human Rights found against the Home Secretary
in the case of Karamjit Singh Chahal.6 A consequence of this decision
was that the ability of the government of the day to deport a person on
national security grounds was severely curtailed. In order to address
this difficulty, just after the election the New Labour government
brought the Special Immigration Commission Bill before the House.
The interesting point here is the tone of the discussions across the floor
of the House, in which Conservative members accepted and approved
the new Home Secretary’s response to the decision of the ECHR, and
during which it was quite clear that the Commission was created not to
protect the rights of those facing deportation, but so that the government could once again proceed to deport.
In relation to the arrival of relatively small groups of Roma, the new
government’s response was even more rapid. In direct response to
widespread and hostile media coverage of these arrivals, in October
1997 Jack Straw announced that, where officials believe that a claim is
manifestly unfounded, an asylum-seeker would have only five days to
appeal, instead of twenty-eight days, confirming media and public
perceptions of the Roma as ‘bogus’ asylum-seekers. These cases are not
likely to have significant impact on the numbers of people allowed to
remain in Britain, but they do serve to illustrate New Labour’s concern
with being, and being seen to be, tough on immigration, and protective
of the powers of the executive.
All of the above developments occurred in the first year of New
Labour’s term of office. In the summer of 1998 the results of the migration review were published as the White Paper Fairer, Faster, Firmer: A
Modern Approach to Immigration and Asylum (Home Office, 1998).
Those carrying out the review of the immigration and asylum system
were charged with ‘thinking the unthinkable’, giving rise to expectations
that policy in this area might move in new, and perhaps more progressive, directions. It was accepted that the immigration system, and asylum
in particular, was in a shambles, and that ‘something’ would have to be
done. Although there was acknowledgement in the White Paper that
migration was good for Britain, the result was an Act embodying a
degree of harshness towards would-be migrants, asylum-seekers and
members of ethnic minority communities in Britain that was extraordinary, though unsurprising in view of Labour’s historic record.
The Act withdrew new asylum-seekers from the welfare system,
and introduced vouchers to be exchanged for goods in shops (including charity shops) and supermarkets. It also instituted a dispersal
scheme (which, as its early critics had warned, led to a massive increase
in racist attacks (IRR 2000)). In addition its provisions enabled a sharp
87
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Blairism and the War of Persuasion
increase in detentions and deportations, and a reduction in the number
of appeals. The only progressive element of this Act was the introduction of an automatic right to bail hearings, which, however, never came
into force and was abolished in the 2002 Nationality, Immigration and
Asylum Act. The Labour Party’s massive majority of 174 meant that
the government was able to force through these draconian measures, in
spite of a prolonged campaign by many who had opposed the previous
Conservative legislation. The effects of the 1999 Act were quickly felt
by its targets.
The voucher scheme for destitute asylum-seekers with additional
difficulties (destitution alone brings with it no entitlement) met strong
opposition from Liberal Democrats, Labour backbenchers such as
Diane Abbott, Jeremy Corbyn and Neil Gerard, as well as many of the
charities operating the charity shops; they predicted – accurately as it
transpired – that this would lead to the stigmatisation and humiliation
of asylum-seekers, marking them out clearly as ‘different’ and ‘dependent’, and making them targets for hostility. Pressure from a wide
range of groups, including those just mentioned, and importantly, Bill
Morris of the TGWU, together with reporting of the difficulties faced
by individuals and families trying to use the vouchers, led to a review
of the system, and its subsequent abolition.
Dispersal was a second key element of what became the 1999
Immigration and Asylum Act. It was designed to relieve the pressure
that had been building on local authorities, in particular in London and
parts of the south-east, especially parts of Kent. Once again, NGOs
and concerned others warned that dispersal was a recipe for increasing
racism and racist violence, and that it would leave people with limited
language skills and little or no support in areas of Britain that were
largely homogeneous, as well as socially deprived (Bloch and Schuster
2002, IRR 2000). Those who warned that this would mean dumping
asylum-seekers in sink estates were proved correct. There have been a
number of reports – from Liverpool about the Landmark hostel, from
Glasgow about the Sighthill estate, which witnessed the first murder of
an asylum-seeker (Firsat Dag), and from the National Audit
Commission (Audit Commission 2000) – warning that the conditions
in which asylum-seekers were being housed were unsafe, and unfit for
human habitation in some cases, and that they expose them to attacks.
As a result of the Act, there was also a massive increase in the
number of places for detention, especially in prisons (of almost 2,000
detainees, about 75 per cent were held in prisons, a practice criticised
by UNHCR). That this practice is in contravention of the UK’s human
rights obligations was confirmed by a decision in September 2001, in
which the judge found in favour of four Kurds, arguing that there was
no evidence that they would abscond, and ordered the government to
pay compensation. The Home Secretary appealed successfully against
this decision, but promised that asylum-seekers would no longer be
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New directions, or ‘the same old story’?
89
held in prisons, and the construction of purpose-built detention centres
continued apace. The first dedicated detention centre for families was
opened at Oakington in Cambridge in March 2000, since then being
joined by another at Harmondsworth outside Heathrow, and one at
Yarl’s Wood in Bedfordshire (partially destroyed by a fire in February
2002). It is worth noting here that the policy of detaining asylum-seekers on arrival was originally proposed by Anne Widdicombe, and was
at first ridiculed by the Labour Party. Subsequently, a fire at Yarl’s
Wood and unrest following the suicide of a detainee at
Harmondsworth in 2004 led to large number of detainees being transferred again to prisons.
At the beginning of 2001, while still Home Secretary, Jack Straw
proposed a significant new direction in asylum policy. He attacked the
Geneva Convention, arguing that it was no longer fitted to today’s
world. As the 2001 General Election approached, he also spoke with
approval of the attempts to find a harmonised definition of ‘refugee’ at
EU level. In pursuit of a far less liberal policy, Straw argued that ‘there
is a limit on the number of applicants, however genuine, that you can
take’ (Observer, 20.5.01 – our emphasis), and that a cap or quota would
have to be introduced. He went on to explain that the limit is dependent on ‘the ability of the country to take people and public
acceptability’. He did not refer to the role that government can and
does play in creating public tolerance and acceptance.7
The 1999 Act amounted to ‘bad law’. Aside from its incoherence
legally, it also misdiagnosed the challenges posed by asylum-seekers
and migrants. Like the previous two Acts, it defined the ‘problem’
facing the state as one of control, of the state’s inability to control the
numbers of people entering the country. These numbers were
perceived to be a problem because it was assumed they would exacerbate ‘racial’ tensions, and because of the perceived costs to an
overstretched welfare system. However, the 1999 Act must, like its
predecessors, be judged a failure even in its own terms, because it did
not reassert the state’s control over its borders and it did not create a
system that was either fair or fast. More importantly, however, it is a
‘bad law’ because it increased the misery and humiliation of very many
asylum-seekers, and, in validating the fears and prejudices of those
hostile to migrants in general and asylum-seekers in particular, it
contributed to the growth in violence and hostility towards those
groups. According to a report produced by ECRI in 2001:
Problems of xenophobia, racism and discrimination … persist and are
particularly acute vis-à-vis asylum-seekers and refugees. This is reflected
in the xenophobic and intolerant coverage of these groups of persons in
the media, but also in the tone of the discourse resorted to by politicians
in support of the adoption and reinforcement of increasingly restrictive
asylum immigration laws.
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Blairism and the War of Persuasion
Inevitably, dissatisfied with the clear failure to reduce the numbers
coming, the government commissioned yet more research, and
produced another White Paper – this time one that explicitly links race
relations and migration. Once again the emphasis is on control and the
national interest, and on pre-entry selection, but there is also a demand
that those allowed in develop a ‘shared sense of belonging and identity’
(Home Office, 2002: 1; Sales 2002).
THE 2002 NATIONALITY, IMMIGRATION AND ASYLUM ACT:
RACE AND MIGRATION
New Labour’s first term in office saw the introduction of legislation
that sought to include into British society citizens who had been
excluded by discrimination and racism, as well as legislation that
attempted to exclude asylum-seekers. Importantly, however, it also
saw the beginnings of a shift in relation to ‘economic’ migration. In
September 2000 Barbara Roche, then immigration minister, argued
that Britain was suffering a skills shortage and needed migration. A
government report was published emphasising the positive contributions that migrants can make, and arguing that ultimately migration
is good for the country and the economy (Glover et al 2001). At one
level this marked a significant (but not unprecedented) shift in
migration policy, and one that has maintained its momentum (see
Blair’s speech to CBI 27.04.04).8 Once again, nevertheless, the bulk
of the 2002 Act that was brought in by Straw’s successor at the
Home Office, David Blunkett, focused on asylum-seekers, and
marked a shift towards assimilation and away from concerns with
discrimination and racism. In part, this was due to events at home
and abroad in 2001.
On his second day in office (after the General Election of June 2001,
David Blunkett had announced another shake-up of the immigration
and asylum system, including the opening of legal migration channels
to fill the skills shortage and a crackdown on ‘illegal migration’. He had
also set up a Ministerial Group on Public Order and Community
Cohesion, in response to the urban unrest in the Northern towns,
whose brief was ‘to examine and consider how national policies might
be used to promote better community cohesion, based upon shared
values and a celebration of diversity’ (Cantle 2001: 1). Then, in 2002,
Blunkett published the White Paper, Secure Borders, Safe Haven:
Integration with Diversity in Modern Britain, which in turn has led to
the 2002 Nationality, Immigration and Asylum Act.
Most of the 2002 Nationality, Immigration and Asylum Act, the
major piece of legislation in this field that New Labour has introduced
during its second term, is devoted to measures designed to reduce the
number of asylum-seekers entering Britain and to facilitate the removal
of those deemed to have no right to remain. The key provisions of the
Act (Home Office 2002c) aim to:
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New directions, or ‘the same old story’?
91
1. Establish an end-to-end asylum process, with a system of induction,
accommodation and removal centres.
2. Speed up the asylum process, improve contact management and reduce
opportunities for abuse of the system.
3. Strengthen borders by ensuring that immigration controls are sufficiently robust to exclude those who are an immigration or security risk,
but to be efficient, flexible and responsive so as to speed the entry of the
many people who are coming here legitimately.
4. Tackle illegal working, people trafficking and fraud.
5. Update nationality law and enhance the importance of citizenship.
The implementation of these provisions has not been particularly
smooth for the government. By July 2003, only one induction centre,
at Dover, had been opened, and, owing to objections from local people
in the areas where they were to be sited, no accommodation centres.
There is an increased tracking and monitoring, especially of new applicants, facilitated by greater reporting restrictions that require people to
sign in at police stations regularly. Of the provisions that have come
into effect, the most devastating for asylum-seekers has been Section
55, which denies support to those who do not apply for asylum immediately on arrival and gives effect to plans first introduced by the
Conservatives in 1996. As a result of this decision and the lack of an
entitlement to a work permit, many asylum-seekers are now without
any form of support (see Schuster & Solomos 2004).
At the same time, the numbers of work permits issued have
increased significantly, indicating that the Home Office accepted not
just that Britain needs workers, but also that the the absence of legal
channels of entry was responsible for a growth in undocumented
migration and the ‘abuse’ of the asylum system. The Highly Skilled
Workers (HSWP), Seasonal Agricultural Workers (SAW) and other
low-skilled Sector Based Workers (SWB) are channels permitting the
entry of certain workers required by particular sectors of the economy
– in particular IT, agriculture, construction, catering and food processing. Highly skilled migrants have always been able to get work permits,
but the HSWP allows workers meeting strict criteria to enter for the
purposes of seeking work. The creation of entry channels for unskilled
workers is an echo of the European Voluntary Workers scheme: the
SAW and SWB schemes imposed strict conditions for entry and stay on
such workers, including age limits (18-25 and 18-30 respectively).
Furthermore, these schemes have been introduced at a time when new
arrivals from the ten new EU member states are expected to ease labour
market shortages.
New Labour’s acceptance that migration is needed for the efficient
running of the economy does mark a shift from the Conservatives’
long-standing perception of migration as marginal to the economy –
something to be tolerated rather than welcomed. But it is highly selec91
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Blairism and the War of Persuasion
tive and continues to be colour-coded; Blair reportedly argued that
quotas would have to be introduced for applicants from ‘New’ (Black
and Asian) Commonwealth countries under the Working
Holidaymakers Scheme (Sunday Telegraph 6.6.04) following a
‘dramatic’ increase in applications from India, Pakistan, Nigeria and
Ghana. In other words, while there have been shifts and progress in
migration policy under Labour, these continue to be intimately linked
with issues of race and racism, and the liberalisation of ‘economic’
migration channels has been accompanied by harsh and restrictive
measures towards undocumented migrants and asylum-seekers.
CONCLUSION
The picture that emerges from this analysis is mixed. On the one hand,
the government seems to have followed through on its commitment to
address the racism that afflicts British society, and has introduced legal
channels for, and a positive discourse on, migration. On the other
hand, initial indications from the CRE and the Audit Commission
(though not from the Home Office) are that progress is painfully slow
in the area of race relations and the positive moves in relation to
migration remain defensive – as reflected for example by the government’s introduction of a registration scheme for migrants from the
new EU member states just before expansion, in response to tabloid
hysteria, and the dispersal, detention and enforced destitution of
asylum-seekers.
New Labour’s commitment to racial equality, social justice and
inclusion is inherently limited by its concern to be seen to be ‘tough on
immigration’ and to be in tune with what it sees as the core values of
the society as a whole. In this context it seems incapable of producing
radical changes either to racial equality strategies or to asylum policies,
since it needs to present itself as in tune with the concerns of popular
opinion. It is significant in this context that David Blunkett has sought
to justify the government’s tough stance on asylum by adopting the
language of the tabloids, in warning of the need to avoid the ‘swamping’ of schools and social services by migrants and refugees (Guardian,
25.4.02), and of the need to prevent the arrival of ‘hordes’ of ‘illegal
migrants’ (Radio 5 Live, 30.5.02). At the same time another government minister, Peter Hain, felt moved to warn of the dangers of
Muslim communities becoming more isolationist and helping to feed
‘both rightwing politics and their own extremists’ (Guardian, 13.5.02).
Such pronouncements should not be read in isolation, since they are
products of a specific political environment, but they are perhaps a
signal that New Labour’s ‘third way’ on race relations and immigration
will lead us towards a race relations strategy based on ‘integration’
understood as assimilation, rather than on ‘multiculturalism’, and on a
migration strategy more firmly based on selection and national interest
rather than rights or protection. It has become evident that rather than
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New directions, or ‘the same old story’?
93
questioning and challenging some of the moral panics around this
question, New Labour has, if anything, added to them. One of the
saddest aspects of what has happened is that New Labour’s agenda has
helped to sustain a climate of fear about refugees and asylum-seekers,
and has increased the fear and racist violence suffered by these groups
themselves.
Labour’s return to power after eighteen years may come to be seen
as a tragic missed opportunity for all sections of British society, including established minority communities and new arrivals. It could have
shifted the terms of the debate in this and in other areas. In practice,
however, New Labour’s policies on migration and on race relations
have displayed marked continuities with previous Labour and
Conservative governments. This is because the same flawed logic
underpins all of the legislation on migration and on race relations,
namely that good race relations depend on strict immigration controls.
The Race Relations Amendment Act (2000) may make some difference in the medium term, particularly in tackling forms of institutional
racism in the labour market within the public sector. Yet both the 1999
Immigration and Asylum Act and the 2002 Immigration, Asylum and
Nationality Bill can be seen as doing little to address the limits of previous policies on immigration and nationality. Rather, the rhetoric and
the substance of these policies can be seen as moving New Labour
towards a policy agenda that is underpinned by the contradictory
strategies of punitive controls on new groups of migrants and asylumseekers and measures to encourage the integration of established
migrant communities. In a context of growing racism and continuing
public concerns about immigration, the rationale of governmental policies seems to be to appease popular opinion rather than set out a new
policy agenda that challenges both existing racial inequalities and the
emerging patterns of exclusion aimed at new migrants.
In writing this paper we have benefited from the helpful advice and
support of various colleagues and friends, most notably Claire
Alexander, Les Back, Chetan Bhatt, Alice Bloch and Michael Keith. We
are grateful too to Deborah Lynn Steinberg for her comments and
patience.
NOTES
1. In 2000, a second significant report was published by the Commission on
the Future of Multi-Ethnic Britain, chaired by Bhikhu Parekh. This was
not officially sponsored by the Government but it included detailed analysis of policy agendas on race relations legislation and immigration (Parekh
2000). The Parekh Report did attract some lively debate when it was
published, but it was not translated into a clear agenda that would shape
public policy in practice (see Schuster & Solomos 2004).
2. Stephen Lawrence was a black student, murdered in south London in
93
94
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
Blairism and the War of Persuasion
April 1993. Following a long campaign led by his parents, the new Labour
government announced a public enquiry. The results of the inquiry, led by
Judge William Macpherson, were published as a report that concluded that
the Metropolitan Police were institutionally racist. In response, the
Labour government passed the 2000 Race Relations (Amendment) Act.
The 2001 urban unrest was concentrated in Oldham, Burnley and
Bradford. In May 2002, less than a year later, three British National Party
candidates were elected to the local council in Burnley.
For the Home Office’s self-evaluation, see Race Equality: The Home
Secretary’s Employment Targets. The Second Annual Report on Progress
July 2001.
The white list was a list of countries in which it was presumed that there
was no risk of persecution. Applications from nationals of these countries
were dealt with in fast-track procedures.
The Court accepted that Mr Chahal, a Sikh separatist, was at serious risk
of torture (Art.3) if he was returned to India. The court found that because
there was no effective domestic remedy to review the Home Secretary’s
decision (Art.13) to deport on the grounds of national security, Mr
Chahal’s rights had been violated.
This new toughness was also reflected in the ‘New Vision for Refugees’
proposed in 2003 by Blair and Blunkett, which included plans to export
asylum-seekers to Transit Processing Camps in countries just outside the
EU and to establish Regional Protection Zones.
There is extensive literature on the use of migrants (including refugees) to
fill labour shortages (e.g Joshi & Carter 1984, Schuster 2003b).
REFERENCES
Appelt, E. and Jarosch, M. (2000) (eds) Combating Racial Discrimination:
Affirmative Action as Model for Europe Oxford: Berg.
Audit Commission (2002) Equality and Diversity London: Audit Commission.
—— (2000) Another Country: Implementing Dispersal under the Immigration
and Asylum Act 1999 London: Audit Commission.
Benyon, J. and Solomos, J. (eds) (1987) The Roots of Urban Unrest Oxford:
Pergamon.
Bhavnani, R. (2001) Rethinking Interventions to Combat Racism Stoke on
Trent: Commission for Racial Equality with Trentham Books.
Bloch, A. (2000) ‘A New Era or More of the Same? Asylum Policy in the UK’
Journal of Refugee Studies 13, 1: 29-42.
Bloch, A. and Schuster, L. (2002) ‘Asylum and Welfare: Contemporary
Debates’ Critical Social Policy 22, 3: 393-412.
Cantle, T. (2001) Community Cohesion: A Report of the Independent Review
Team London: Home Office.
ECRI (2001) Second Report on the United Kingdom Strasbourg: European
Commission Against Racism and Xenophobia.
Dummett, A. (2001) Ministerial Statements – the Immigration Exception in the
Race Relations (Amendment) Act 2000 Immigration Law Practitioners
Association.
Glover, S. et al (2001) Migration: An Economic and Social Analysis London:
Home Office.
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New directions, or ‘the same old story’?
95
Hall, S. (1987) ‘Urban Unrest in Britain’ in J. Benyon and J. Solomos (eds) The
Roots of Urban Unrest Oxford: Pergamon.
Home Office (2002) Nationality, Immigration and Asylum Bill London: The
Stationery Office.
—— (2002) Secure Borders, Safe Haven: Integration with Diversity in Modern
Britain London: The Stationery Office.
—— (2001) Race Relations (Amendment) 2000: New Laws for a Successful
Multi-Racial Britain London: Home Office.
—— (1999) Race Equality: The Home Secretary’s Employment Targets
London: Home Office.
—— (1998) Fairer, Faster and Firmer – A Modern Approach to Immigration
and Asylum London: The Stationery Office.
IRR (2002) The Dispersal of Xenophobia: A Special Report on the UK and
Ireland European Race Bulletin, London: Institute of Race Relations.
Joshi, S. & Carter, B. (1984) ‘The Role of Labour in the Creation of a Racist
Britain’ Race & Class 25, 3: 53-70
Macpherson, Sir William, Chairman (1999) The Stephen Lawrence Inquiry
London: the Stationery Office.
Parekh, B. (2000) The Future of Multi-Ethnic Britain: Report of the
Commission on Multi-Ethnic Britain London: Profile Books
Sales, R. (2002) ‘The Deserving and the Undeserving: Refugees, Asylum
Seekers and Welfare in Britain’ Critical Social Policy 22, 3: 456-78.
Scarman, Lord (1981) The Brixton Disorders 10-12 April 1981 London: HMSO
1981.
Scarman, Lord (1985); ‘Brixton and After’, in J. Roach and J. Thomaneck (eds)
Police and Public Order in Europe London: Croom Helm.
Schuster, L. (2003a) ‘Asylum Seekers: Sangatte and the Tunnel’ Parliamentary
Affairs Special Issue on Crisis Management 56, 3: 506-522.
Schuster, L. (2003b) The Use and Abuse of Political Asylum in Britain and
Germany London: Frank Cass.
Schuster, L. & Solomos, J. (2004) ‘Race, Immigration and Asylum: New
Labour’s Agenda and its Consequences’ (with John Solomos) Ethnicities 4,
2: 267-300
Schuster, L. and Solomos, J. (2002) ‘Rights and Wrongs across European
Borders: Migrants, Minorities and Citizenship’ Citizenship Studies 6(1)
37-54.
Solomos, J. (1991) Black Youth, Racism and the State: The Politics of Ideology
and Policy Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Solomos, J. (1993) Race and Racism in Britain 2nd Edition Basingstoke:
Macmillan.
Solomos, J. (1999) ‘Social Research and the Stephen Lawrence Inquiry’
Sociological Research Online, 4(1). http://www.socresonline.org.uk/
socresonline/4/lawrence/solomos.html
95
5. Thrice told tales: modernising
sexualities in the age of consent
Debbie Epstein, Richard Johnson and
Deborah Lynn Steinberg
The issue … is not at what age we wish young people to have sex. It is
whether the criminal law should discriminate between heterosexual and
homosexual sex. It is therefore an issue not of age, but of equality (Tony
Blair, Hansard 21.2.94).
O
n 30 November 2000, in the first Parliament of the New Labour
government – and on the third attempt to change the law (the first
of which occurred under the last Parliament of the Conservatives) – the
Sexual Offences (Amendment) Act was passed. This Act made three
legislative changes. First, it reduced the age of consent to sexual activity for gay men from 18 to 16,1 thus equalising it with the age of
consent for heterosexual people.2 Second, it ended the criminalisation
of sexual activity between and by gay young men under the age of
sixteen.3 Third, the Act introduced a new offence relating to ‘abuse of
trust’. This applies to people over the age of 18 having a sexual relationship with an under 18 year old while occupying a position of trust
(e.g. teacher, counsellor, etc). This third provision applies to all sexual
relationships, whether gay or straight.
The landslide election of New Labour in May 1997, after eighteen
years of Tory rule, had engendered and was the result of considerable
hopes for change across a range of social policies. There was, it seemed,
an unequivocal yearning for a new, more tolerant and gentle society, a
new order of government and of social life. This yearning was made
manifest and articulated in very explicit terms in the extraordinary
levels and manner of public mourning that took place following the
death of Princess Diana in August 1997.4 The move by New Labour,
only a year after coming into office, to equalise the Age of Consent for
gay men with that of heterosexuals represented an iconic moment in
which that promised shift seemed to be actualised, not only in terms of
sexual politics, but indeed in the political landscape itself. As evidenced
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Thrice told tales
97
in the quote above, Blairism seemed to hold out the promise of a new
era, this time defined by inclusivity, equality and plurality.
In this chapter we are interested in the narratives and discursive
frameworks that were deployed in the second Age of Consent debate
in the House of Commons. We have chosen to focus on this interim
debate because it is here that we see both one of the first strikes by
New Labour against the previous Conservative hegemony in
Parliament, and some of the iconic rhetorics and story-forms that have
come to characterise the Blairite project. In our account, we pull out
three main themes. First is the overall shift from a conservative and
moral traditionalist hegemony to a broad liberal alliance on sexual
matters in the Commons – a shift in which grand narratives of
progress, modernisation, rationality are central. Second are the diverse
political and discursive components that are combined within New
Labour. Third, we consider the limits of the dominant tendency within
this alliance, which we term ‘social liberal’. Perhaps our most important arguments concern the ambiguities of the Blairite stress on
‘inclusivity’ and citizenship, in which a radical rhetoric is often accompanied by characteristic containments, by the conditional assimilation
of some groups and the creation of new exclusions for instance.
MATTERS OF METHOD: NARRATIVES AND DISCURSIVE
STRATEGIES
We approach our analysis of the 1998 Commons debate through a
combination of narrative and discursive analysis.5 In doing so, we trace
the highly charged and performative deployment of narrative as a
vector through which law is made. Simultaneously, we explore the
strategic combinations of discourses (for example, medico-moral, religious, human rights) that fuel and inform particular story lines.
As we shall see, the narrative practices of parliamentary debate operate
at a number of levels. There are ‘little’ narratives about particular persons
or episodes. Characters are named and acquire exemplary status: for
example ‘paedophiles’ in ‘positions of trust’, or young gay men forced to
take their own lives or ‘go on the game’. Stories of a medium level tell of
typical legal consequences: for example, failing to reform the law or failing to draw ‘a line in the moral sand’ (Bell, Labour, col. 796) will
destabilise society, or increase inequality, or make us uncompetitive in the
global economy. Such stories, in turn, anchor and draw meanings from
narratives that are truly grand. These third level stories typically take the
state and history of the nation as their object and explore dystopian or
utopian futures and pasts. Here change or stasis in the law serve competing definitions of the decline of civilisation or of social progress.
At the same time, debates in Parliament are pervaded by a concern
for the nature and consequences of legislative decisions and entitlements. Hence our own reading starts from what we call ‘the
narrativisation of consequences’. We can analyse the debates as a series
97
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Blairism and the War of Persuasion
of competing narrations which centre on outcomes that are feared or
preferred. A common form of debate is: if A, then B, where B is a host
of hopes or horrors. The specifically evaluative functions of narrative –
which narrative theorists variously name as moral ‘point of view’,
‘evaluative function’ or ‘so-whatness’ (Labov, 1972; Genette, 1980) –
connect also with law-making, especially when it is seen as having a
‘declarative’ function. It is through such narrations that moral values –
and the individual and collective subjects or communities anchored in
them – are affirmed or attacked.
WHAT IS THIS HOUSE? SEXUAL STORIES AND THE WORD
OF LAW
The House of Commons can be understood as a distinctive discursive/narrational space in at least three ways. First, even a cursory
examination of parliamentary debate reveals a complex conglomeration
of speech rituals – labyrinthine to the point of absurdity at times.
Second, story-telling is an important dimension of the culture of the
House and of the jurisprudential process of law-making. It is in this
context that the narrativisation of consequences has particular currency.
Arguments for and against particular changes in law are substantively
conducted through rival stories which are more or less realist or apocryphal in character. Realist, or ‘grounded’ narratives make an ostensible
claim to an empirical or lived experience. For example, MPs might claim
that a number of their constituents have written to them to tell of experiences of homophobic harassment in school. Apocryphal narratives, in
contrast, would seem to take more poetic license, often involving
extravagant, even fantastical, claims that are delivered as if proved.
Third, not only is Parliament (notwithstanding the arrival of more
women MPs in 1997) inhabited overwhelmingly by a particular class of
men (white, business/professional, middle-class, upper-middle-class or
even aristocratic); it is also characterised by a competing set of privileged masculinities, which are themselves constituted through the
history of British and English imperial relations with their Others.6
These relations are articulated, in part, through modes of discourse.
Terminologies of ‘maiden speeches’ and ‘bloodying’, for example, are
graphic heterosexual metaphors that (pre)figure the parliamentary
space as one of masculine imperative and conquest. Furthermore, the
traditional conduct of Members through formalistic rituals of bullying,
heckling, jeering and jockeying constitute parliamentary dialogue as a
symbolic blood sport. This has consequences for the forms and tellability of particular stories.7
THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE LATENT: SEXUAL TEXTS
AND SUBTEXTS
Of the many story-clusters that constituted the textual economies of
the Age of Consent debates, three in particular interest us here. The
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first one is the contestation of the Conservative and New Labour
repertoires that were mobilised around a particular, diversionary,
amendment to the main proposal of equality of consent for gay men.
This proposal concerned the dangers of the ‘abuse of trust’ by professionals dealing with young people. The second group was those
relating to counter-narratives about the age at which sexual
identity/preference becomes ‘fixed’. In this arena of contestation, key
New Labour themes emerged, particularly those concerning citizenship and ‘evidence based policy’. Thirdly there was the ‘good gays/bad
gays’ stories, which, while drawing on Conservative discourse, were
nonetheless central to Blairite versions of liberal reform and ‘liberal
(in)tolerance’ (Smith, 1994; Epstein and Steinberg, 1998: 10ff).
Latent predations: ghosts of conservatism past
In the early stages of debate, Joe Ashton, a Labour MP, proposed an
amendment to the Bill which supported the equalisation of the age of
consent, ‘except when one party is in a position of authority, influence
or trust in relation to the other, in which case both parties must have
attained the age of 18’ (Hansard, 1998, cols 755-6). This amendment
applied equally to heterosexual and gay sex. Thus, at one level, it seemed
entirely congruent with the equality discourse that underpinned the
Bill. However, because it drew explicitly on a conservative protectionist discourse about ‘innocence’ and ‘childhood’, it opened a space for
opponents of equality (largely Conservative MPs) to take over. The
‘abuse of trust’ issue (as it became referred to) allowed the introduction
of three diversions into the discussion of gay men’s age of consent: girls,
displaced children and the heterosexual ‘paedophile’. An inordinate
amount of parliamentary time (and huge swathes of the Hansard transcript) are devoted to preoccupations about the special vulnerabilities
or, in the latter case, dangerous proclivities of these figures.
This in turn had a number of striking consequences. On the one
hand, the discussion of girls effectively sidelined gay men.8 At the same
time, the references to children from all manner of ‘broken’ homes (for
example, children in boarding school, foster homes, children’s homes
and step-families)9 returned gay men to the debate but only allusively
and in a negative light. Haunting the putatively exhaustive list of
displaced child victims of unstable or otherwise illegitimate families
was Section 28’s ‘pretended’, quintessentially gay, family.10 It is notable
that the heterosexual nuclear family, a pervasive site of child abuse, is
missing from the list. Moreover, throughout the debate, and despite its
obvious contradictions, the juxtaposition of an amendment for gay
equality with protracted discussion focused on heterosexual
‘paedophiles’ had the effect that a deviant heterosexual masculinity
could symbolically stand in for gay men (with their putatively predatory natures) and vice versa.
While Ashton himself disavowed anti-gay intent, his motion
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nonetheless provided abundant discursive resources for a moral traditionalist narrativisation of consequences. This can be seen at many
levels in the following narrative, a Conservative appropriation of some
of the key themes raised by the Ashton Amendment:
The hon. Lady [Ann Keen who moved Clause 1] spoke of her background and of her experience as a nurse; she spoke with feeling and with
great knowledge. Before I entered the House 28 years ago, I was, for 10
years, a schoolmaster and I want to refer to that period in my life for a
moment or two. During that period, I came across some extremely
unhappy young men who had been preyed upon by older men, and
whose whole manner and way of life had been changed and distorted as
a result. Many of those young men were 15, 16 or 17 years old. I speak
as the father of two sons who are now well over that age and I do not
believe that a 16-year-old boy is indeed a fully mature adult. It is important that we take that into account in our deliberations this evening
(Cormack, Conservative, cols 762-3).
The ‘little’ narrative here draws on the conventions of ‘public’ boys’
boarding school auto/biographies concerning ‘paedophilic’ schoolmasters and the more or less ritualised abuse of younger boys by older boys.
Here, of course, Cormack’s personal identification as schoolmaster and
reference to ‘older men’ would seem to disavow key parts of that storyline. As a middle level story, we have an edifying tale of the long-term
personal consequences of such predations for young men. Presupposed
is the grander moral traditionalist (predominantly Conservative) narrative of the ‘corruption of morals’ and its multiple instances, often
invoked precisely in the face of proposed liberalisations of law around
sexuality. Versions of this story-line (which weave through the whole
debate) condense to yield a horrific list that amounts to a wholesale state
of moral decline: lowering the age of consent to 16 would fail to protect
and succour the vulnerable (Cormack, Conservative, col. 762); allow
male rape (ibid, col. 764); licence pimps of young people (Bermingham,
Conservative, col. 766); threaten to reduce the age of consent to 14 or be
the first step in abolishing it entirely (Lewis, Conservative, col. 772);
discourage trainee actors from returning to heterosexuality (Brazier,
Conservative, col. 779); generalise the ‘rum, sodomy and the lash’ (or at
least the sodomy) ascribed to Her Majesty’s navy (Cormack, col. 763);
encourage the spread of AIDS (Winterton, Conservative, col. 769);
permit the ‘buggery’ of sixteen year old girls as well as boys (Butterfill,
Conservative, col. 759); take the first step towards recognising the
pension and marriage rights of homosexual couples (Bell, Labour, col.
796).
Both discursively and narratively, then, Joe Ashton’s motion
ensured that many elements of the Conservative repertoire were
restored, sub rosa, to the debate; it was clearly not possible to refuse
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the notion that the House has a duty to protect boys and girls from
child abuse. The most that supporters of equality could do, and they
did it repeatedly, was to acknowledge the validity of this issue and
then attempt to point out that it was a separate question. More
resourcefully, they proposed a counter-narrative that featured
discriminatory law itself as the child abuser, and especially law that
criminalised young men for having gay relationships. Neither of these
strategies was successful in curtailing the digression. Yet at the same
time, moral traditionalists were forced to take up improbably liberal
positions: as defenders of the rights, for example, not just the ‘innocence’, of young people. Thus, while a Conservative repertoire could
be reasserted, overt homophobia could no longer be assumed to be
normative or to occupy the moral high ground. A final complexity
here is the promise, in the very moment of liberalisation, to create a
new margin and new forms of regulation. This combination of granting ‘equality’ and pursuing closer regulation is typical of the dynamics
of Blairism more generally. Indeed, the eventual adoption of Joe
Ashton’s amendment into the final form of the law suggests that New
Labour’s alliance could accommodate its own forms of social conservatism – some, as noted by Jeffrey Weeks in this volume, inherited
from older Labour.
Stories of the age of fixation
The [British Medical Association] report … makes it clear that all the
reputable research evidence shows that adult sexual orientation is usually
established before the age of puberty in boys and girls (Keen, col. 760).
I am content to accept that some may be born with a genetic predisposition to homosexuality – I am not medically knowledgeable
enough to pass comment. I am convinced, however, that many people
are not born homosexual – it is for them that we must have a special
regard. Would anyone seriously suggest that every sailor who
followed a homosexual way of life was born homosexual? … I do not
believe that every young man who followed that way of life was born
to it (Cormack, col. 763).
As in the earlier debate, a matter of considerable concern on both sides
was the age at which homosexual identity could be said to be fully
achieved and ‘fixed’. In 1994, supporters of equality told developmental
stories (drawing on medical and psychological discourses) of homosexuality as ‘fixed’ at birth, an innate and immutable (perverse) characteristic.
In 1998, this developmental narrative was reasserted, although in modified form: homosexuality, while not innate, was nonetheless held to be
‘fixed’ by the age of 16, at the latest. In both 1994 and 1998, the anti-equality faction largely constructed homosexuality through a social determinist
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story of wilful (perverse) choice or seduction/corruption. However, this
account was modified in some cases, as evidenced in Cormack’s concession that, well, some gays might have been born that way.
These stories also carry implicit contestations about the status of 16year-olds: were they citizens or children? fixed or unfinished? mature
or vulnerable? rational agents or confused victims? Interestingly, whatever the precise age at which fixation was accepted to have occurred
and whatever the construction of 16-year-olds, the logical conclusion
of both arguments associated homosexuality with maturity, however
unintentionally. The argument that permission to take part in homosexual acts inevitably threatens the stability of heterosexual identities
not only imputes a greater attractiveness to homosexuality, but also a
relative immaturity to those young men who assume themselves to be
heterosexual, as compared to those who have ‘chosen’ to be gay.
Ironically, then, whatever the age of fixation (even if later than 16),
homosexual identity emerged as a signifier of maturity achieved and of
rational identity. For supporters of inequality the uncertainty and
unfinishedness of heterosexual identity did not, however, signal a
disqualification from the right to have heterosexual sex.
Questions about the legal status of 16 year olds ran parallel to questions about their narrational status: were they heroes or anti-heroes,
victims or criminals, subjects or objects? Moreover, we can read four
modalities of developmental narrative in the age of fixation debates: a
medical story about physical growth and emotional maturity, which is
linked to a psychological story about child development measured in
ages, stages and eventual fixity of identity; a legal story about competence in law and entitlement to citizenship; and a rationalist
pedagogical story about the consequences of the provision or denial of
health and sex education. As we have seen in the quotes above, the first
three narratives can be conscripted for either Conservative or New
Labour standpoints. The fourth both requires and produces a ‘social
liberal agenda’ which is typical of New Labour:
Fearful of being branded criminals, many young gay men are unable to
seek health advice and sex education. In the past 10 years we have
learned much about reducing sexual health risks. We know that personal
health depends on good self-esteem, accurate health information, access
to advice and support. All these essentials are undermined by our
unequal age of consent (Keen, col. 759).
Despite Conservative contestations, a utilitarian/empiricist11 mode of
narration (medical and/or pedagogical) dominated the age of fixation
stories. Indeed, these debates both illustrated and inscribed the emergent many-versioned liberal hegemony of a House dominated by New
Labour. The age of fixation stories can be read, then, as a dialogic space
in which it was possible to reclaim the authorial voice of the Labour
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majority from the powerful latent conservatism that hijacked much of
the discussion.
Finally, embedded in the age of fixation stories are competing
meta-narratives of childhood. In the first, often specifically Christian,
moral traditionalist narrative, childhood is a battle of innocence
against guilt or corruption: children, always objects rather than
subjects, are to be protected from the corrupting influences of
immoral adults (or from their own confused and perverse potentialities). Salvation is offered in the form of legislated inequality:
childhood becomes a shifting characterisation – an age of fixation that
is not fixed. In the second, an alternative story of innocence, and one
central to the New Labour repertoire of citizenship more generally,
childhood becomes a time of struggle out of ignorance into knowledge.12 Equality before the law signposts the road to enlightenment
and rational citizenship. Innocence, as ignorance, becomes the looming threat, the harbinger of the spread of HIV, intolerance and death.
The implication of this is that the transformation of sexual politics
necessarily involves a recasting of the politics of childhood, but only
within certain limits. Within New Labour’s rationalist construction
of childhood, those below the age of 16 are still not seen as legitimate
social agents, nor are their versions of the real, as against adult rationality, to be much attended to.
Good gays, bad gays
Eve Sedgwick (1994) has pointed out that a distinction between ‘good
gays’ and ‘bad gays’ is central to a broader cultural and narrative repertoire of homophobia. The stress on sexuality as a private matter
functions both as a defence (against homophobia) but also as a limitation on open debate and action around sexual inequalities and ways of
living. Conventionally, constructions of the ‘good homosexual’ have
focused on a quiet life on the margins with as much conformity to, and
as little disturbance of, the central categories as is possible. Homosexual
rights within this construct are subject to that condition. By contrast,
the ‘bad homosexual’ is politically active and culturally assertive.13
The 1998 debate rehashed this old opposition, but also strikingly
rewrote it:
I have every respect for some of the pressure groups that have been
acting on behalf of homosexual people – Stonewall, for example, is
measured and reasoned in its campaigns – but with respect I have no
sympathy whatsoever for militant groups such as OutRage! that want to
publicise the cause of homosexuals at all costs ... Once [equality before
the criminal law] has been achieved, there is no reason for the fuss that is
often made to go on. Let all the publicity-seeking pressure groups accept
that equality will have been achieved and let them leave the rest of society in peace (Laing, Con., col. 772).
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It is, of course, not surprising to witness a Conservative invoking the
good gay/bad gay distinction. What is striking is that Laing, a
Conservative who supported equalisation (on liberal individualist
grounds), also argued for the good gay activist. Stonewall can, by no
means, be construed as quiet, or privatised, or as making no challenge to
heterosexist law or wider cultural homophobias. Nevertheless, they are
a group committed to the formal institutions of law (using the courts,
and particularly the European Court of Human Rights), to party political structures (with particular loyalties to New Labour), and to an
assimilationist agenda of social liberal reform (for example, gay
marriage). Threaded throughout the debates, Stonewall was constructed
as the New (Labour) version of the acceptable gay and was counterposed
to OutRage! which continued to stand for the gay-beyond-the-pale.
This rewriting of the ‘good gay’ reflected in part the waning hegemony
of the previous Conservative project to refuse the language of citizenship
and rights with respect to gays. A concern for the consequences of social
exclusion, both for the excluded and for the legitimacy and function of
Britain as a ‘modern state’, is at the heart of the New Labour repertoire –
as evidenced by its creation of the Social Exclusion Unit within the
Cabinet Office. At the same time, the version of inclusive citizenship on
offer, with its concomitant ‘rights and responsibilities’, is clearly assimilationist in mode. It is the margin that is invited to the centre (so long as
they change themselves), the ‘good’ Other whose claim for membership
is validated (so long as they adopt the values of the club).
In this context, a sexual ontology in which sexual difference is seen
as natural and ‘fixed’ by the age of 16 corresponds to the splitting of
gay from straight as separate communities. With sexualities divided in
this way, it is possible for social liberal speakers to disavow discrimination and to preach tolerance, yet still hold lesbian and gay
experiences at a distance, as nothing to do with ‘us’. Curiously, it is the
Conservative homophobe who works with a more fluid account of
sexual identity, who better grasps the interdependence of sexual categories, the mixed and deeply relational character of ‘gay’ and ‘straight’.
Finally, as so often in the limited repertoire of narratives of the House
of Commons, only part of the story is articulated here. The key absent
figure for both Labour and Conservative, the wolf at the door (or
worse, in the House), is the militant gay demanding not merely equality but ‘illegitimate privilege’.14 In this story, the predator, encamped
outside and lying in wait, turns his rapacious eye to the very edifices of
society and social stability. He will of course, having first gorged
himself on innocents, blow the House down.
UN/CIVIL SOCIETIES: BRITAIN IN A POST-CLOSET WORLD
This House has the opportunity to end discrimination and we have to
make a choice. We can take from the past those values of respect for
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others that are most enduring and translate them into the modern world,
or we can simply cling to those old prejudices that have been most
damaging and have forced generations of lesbians and gay men to live as
second-class citizens (Keen, col. 762).
As this extract suggests, the 1998 debate was intimately intertwined
with a project of New Nation. Contestations over imagined futures,
imagined pasts and imagined communities crystallised into specific
narratives and counter-narratives embedding Britishness in competing
notions of equality, modernity and progress.
Ration(alis)ing equality
One of the markers of a shifted terrain of debate in 1998, and a new
liberal hegemony, was the defining narrational prominence of equality
discourses, deployed by both opponents and supporters of the amendment. Yet equality discourses could be deployed to very different
ends, through the narration of different sets of imagined negative
consequences, all of them harnessing notional in/equalities, to the
question of abuse. Ann Keen, in the quote above, signals a particular
take-up of the question of the abuse of young people that so preoccupied the digressive tendencies within the larger debate. Implicit in her
concern with discrimination against, and criminalisation of, young gay
men is a story about the ways in which inequalities under the law
promote abuse and themselves constitute an abuse. This story was
taken up by all who supported equalisation. Harms enumerated
included: robbing gay men of their teenage years; promoting fear of
coming out; promoting secrecy in the event of sexual abuse (since the
law criminalised the victim, if under the age of consent, as well as the
perpetrator); promoting homophobic bullying; promoting alienation
from the family; and preventing young men from seeking sexual
health advice, thus interfering with a social and educational agenda to
reduce sexual health risks more generally. This social liberal narrativisation of consequences can be seen to be in direct contestation with
Conservative narrations about the ‘corruption of morals’ that would
follow from lowering the age of consent. At the same time,
Conservative contributions were forced to take note of the liberal
stories: ‘I urge hon. Members to consider the consequences of their
actions before they vote. If, like me, they consider that there is a case
for homosexuality to be tolerated as equally as possible, but balanced
by regard for the consequences, they will support my amendment’
(Blunt. Con., col. 795).15
As with Blunt’s statement, most of the Conservative stories were
prefaced with an expression of general support for the idea that some
kind of equality for lesbian and gay people was a legitimate concern.
This would have been virtually unthinkable in 1994, when opponents of
equalisation clearly did not feel compelled to frame their advocacy of
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discrimination within a discourse of equality. Clearly, the speech space
of the Commons had shifted, such that unmitigated bigotry could no
longer be spoken freely. Perhaps the most interesting version of mitigated advocacy of in/equality was that forwarded by Eleanor Laing:
I have three main reasons for supporting the new clause. First, I believe
in equality. Having said that, I do not believe that all people are equal.
They are not; every person is different in some way from every other
person. The equality that the new clause addresses is equality before the
law, and I believe that everyone should be equal before the criminal law.
I stress that I am referring specifically and precisely to the criminal law.
If new clause 1 becomes part of the Bill, there is no automatic or necessary implication for the treatment of gay people under the civil law with
regard to marriage, pension rights or any other such rights. That is not
what we are discussing, it is not the matter before us, and it has no relevance to this debate; we are talking about equality before the criminal
law (Laing, Con., col. 770).
Laing’s clear rejection of civil equality while supporting the principle
of equity before the criminal law represents a version of rationed equality. Though one is a neo-liberal and the other a moral traditionalist,
both Laing and Blunt propose versions of limited tolerance. This is a
very different stance from that of the Conservative Commons majorities of the Thatcher/Major years, but one that falls considerably short
of full citizenship.
New histories: modernising sexualities
Unsurprisingly, given New Labour’s overarching investment in
‘modernising’ itself and ‘modernising’ Britain, a discourse of modernity pervaded the 1998 debate. This articulated to concerns about
democracy and Europeanisation, and was narrated through what might
be read as competing histories of progress. The more familiar and
conventional version emerged in homophobic interjections into
Eleanor Laing’s (qualified) support for equalisation. In this context,
Julian Lewis’ intervention encapsulated the position:
The purpose of an age of consent is not to criminalise the children who
have sex when they have not reached that age of consent; it is to protect
the children below that age by criminalising the adults who have sex with
them. Does she [Eleanor Laing] not recognise that the history of the age
of consent for heterosexual sex has been that as society has evolved and
become more civilised, the age … has risen (Lewis Con., col. 771-2).
Lewis invokes a rather inaccurate progress narrative of the teleology of
Age of Consent legislation. As Walkowitz (1980) has noted, Age of
Consent legislation has not evolved in a linear trajectory but rather has
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followed the vagaries of shifting moral climates, and indeed moral
panics. Moreover, if a rising age of consent serves as an index of civilisation, perhaps 50 would be more civilised than 16, 18 or even 21.
Keen, although also located within an evolutionary narrative of
civilisation, nonetheless offers a significantly revised march towards
progress:
The House has the opportunity to end discrimination and we have to
make a choice. We can take from the past those values of respect for
others that are most enduring and translate them into the modern world,
or we can simply cling to those old prejudices that have been most
damaging and have forced generations of lesbians and gay men to live as
second-class citizens. We have an opportunity to welcome all those men
and women as equal members of our society and, this time, we must take
it (Keen, Lab., col. 762).
In this story, the index of civilisation is one of increasing tolerance,
equality and democracy, and of progressive anti-racism, anti-sexism
and sexual tolerance. Keen, in line with dominant New Labour
rhetoric, proposes the possibility of a refigured British as well as sexual
history, one which can be measured by its progressive trajectory
towards the eradication of discrimination. At the same time, both
Keen’s and Lewis’s versions of history invoke imagined communities
that shore up rather than challenge a notional Britishness. Indeed,
Britishness throughout the debate was (re)constituted through narratives of progress, located in part through its approach to or distance
from ‘Europe’ and ‘democracy’:
The uneasy compromise of 1994 has already been challenged in the
European Court of Human Rights. In the case brought by Ewan
Sutherland and Chris Morris, who was 16 and still criminalised by our
law, the European Commission of Human Rights condemned our
unequal age of consent. Such an inequality is a violation of article 8 of the
convention – the right to privacy – and of article 14, which provides that
the rights set out in the convention are to be enjoyed by all citizens without discrimination (Keen, Lab., col. 757).
In this context Europe, the European Court, and other European
countries (col. 760; col. 785) were invoked as synonyms for justice,
rights and democratic processes of law. This is in stark contrast to the
representation of Europe normally invoked by Euro-sceptics, as a
bureaucratic dictatorship. However, nowhere was this counter-invocation to be found in the Age of Consent debate, even where
Euro-scepticism was offered a direct opening. Perhaps most importantly, in the new history of progress (newly dominant), and the
imagined future it provoked, lesbians and gays were expressly
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conscripted into imagined communities of Britishness, albeit a
Britishness with a marked European debt, and one that was internationalist (and therefore progressive) in orientation. Keen went on to
argue that Britain should follow South Africa in finding ‘a way of
including all its citizens in a new nation where the rights of all minorities are protected’ (Keen, Lab., col. 760).
THRICE-TOLD TALES
The Age of Consent debate marked a distinct shift both in the immediate discursive field of sexual politics and in the wider political terrain.
The Sexual Offences (Amendment) Act 2000 was not simply a minor
reform. It recognises as legitimate the civil and citizenship claims of
gays, lesbians and ‘queers’. In so doing, it destabilises a whole gamut of
legislated inequality and discriminatory policy (from Section 28 to
pension, inheritance and immigration policies). Thus, notwithstanding
Eleanor Laing’s insistence that equality under criminal law should not
impinge on civil law, the logic of the change does precisely that.
A second shift was the uncoupling of the homophobic standpoint
from both moral high ground and claims of consensus. Clearly
evidenced in the 1998 debates was the attenuation of conservative
sexual repertoires and the rise – politically and discursively – of a
broadly based liberal hegemony. In this context, Conservative moralism was cut off from its grander narratives: the state as theocratic, the
nation as really Christian, law as declarative of ‘the normal and the
natural’. In the speech community of the Commons itself, neoConservative and Christian speakers had to state their principles as
personal confessions, as declarations of interest, rather than as claims to
self evident truth or collective common sense: ‘I speak, quite
unashamedly, for the traditional, orthodox, Christian point of view’
(Cormack, col. 762); ‘the views that I put [are] … as a Second Church
Estates Commissioner’ (Bell, col. 775); ‘I shall briefly give my personal
view’ (Fowler, Conservative, col. 780). Against the distinctly grounded
and rationalist tone of equalisation supporters, such declarations
carried a hint of lunacy, an ‘out-of-touchness’ with the New Zeitgeist
both within and beyond the Commons (though not, of course, in the
House of Lords). More typical was Fowler’s obeisance to the collective
gay presence: ‘I hope I shall be acquitted of the charge of being antagonistic to the homosexual community’ (ibid.).
Related to this, and signalling a third shift, was the ascendancy of the
versions of inclusivity, equality discourse and reworked narratives of
modernity and progressive nation that have become iconic in the repertoires of New Labour. It is important, however, not to overestimate
these transformations. Embedded in the seductive possibilities for
social/sexual reform are residual, and often reworked, conservative
themes: Joe Ashton’s amendment was retained; there was a heterogeneous alliance under the umbrella of a discourse of equality that could
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be held out for everyone but simultaneously rationed; and the new law
would be accompanied by the abandonment of efforts to repeal Section
28, and the creation of new policies reaffirming governmental commitments to highly conventional and normative family forms.16 Thus the
social liberalism of New Labour could both force Conservatives on to
the defensive, and yet accommodate some of their deepest concerns.
In a larger context, this episode is suggestive of two related aspects
of New Labour politics more generally: its internal diversity and the
conservatism of its liberalism.
New Labour’s liberal spectrum
As can be traced through the Age of Consent debates, three distinct
(and often contestatory) liberalisms constitute the New Labour spectrum: a neo-liberal stress (shared with some Conservatives) on
individual freedoms, privacy and equality before the law; a radicalliberal view of ‘rights’ (e.g. the human rights discourse associated with
the European Court and often shared with Liberal Democrats); and
what we have termed a social liberal focus on collective interests
whether they pertain to the nation as a whole or to particular communities. These social-liberal interests, distinctively New Labour, are
typically grasped as indices or standards of progress, factual and
measurable. The standards themselves are anchored in moral absolutes
that are not much discussed, but are more typically invoked, for example by grand narratives of modernisation and progress. One interesting
feature of the Age of Consent debates is the way in which the insistent
economic criteria of modernity elsewhere prominent in Blairite
discourse (and in the wider New Labour agenda), usually linked to the
globalisation of capital and labour, here give way to broader civilisational or ‘way-of-life’ definitions. This is a further reason why the
sexual sphere is of such great importance politically – notwithstanding
the tendency, as we have seen in this context, to narrow the sexual
agenda and render it as technical as possible (for instance by prioritising questions of health or biology, rather than questions of identity,
active citizenship and pleasure).
Furthermore, while there is great emphasis on inclusivity in this
social-liberal discourse, it is a rigidly conditional inclusion: ‘minorities’
are split off as ‘separate communities’ to whom tolerance should be
extended; and equality is purchased at the price of assimilation to privileged ‘ways of life’ and ‘values’ (the heteronormative family) that must
remain undisturbed. As Blairism acquires its distinctive policies, this
version of equality as conditional inclusion comes to be generalised
within the broader modernising agenda of New Labour. (Schuster and
Solomos in this volume, for example, trace this tendency in the context
of race politics and asylum policies.)
At the same time, it is clear that other, emergent, more (optimistically)
disruptive, tendencies were also in play in these debates. Keen showed a
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knowledgeable appreciation of gay activism, community self-organisation and leadership, and invoked ‘diverse metropolitan communities’,
defined by ‘welcoming and celebrating the cosmopolitan lifestyle that
diversity brings’ (col. 761). She also insisted (and this was shared by many
other speakers) that ‘it is about time that families were all equal’ (col. 762).
This not only challenges the more typical liberal splits and their attendant
hierarchies, but also suggests a competing project of modernisation – one
that departs from the patriarchal moral conservatism that defined old
Labour as well as (social authoritarian) Conservatism.
As we revise this essay the future of New Labour policies in the
sexual domain is not clear. (The record since 1998 is more fully
reviewed in Chapter 3.) The analysis in this chapter suggests that New
Labour is a heterogeneous political formation – even excluding olderLabour elements. However it also shows some consistent features –
many foreshadowed in 1998. This step forward was not the result of
political campaigning, or of a party that set out to change the terms of
debate. It followed, rather, from a longer cultural preparation in which
everyday life changes and cultural representations ran ahead of the law
and of political opinion. 1998 was not New Labour’s sexual revolution;
rather, New Labour was the (appropriating) beneficiary of a ‘long
revolution’ in sexual mores.
New Labour’s role in sexuality politics therefore conforms to the
model of ‘passive revolution’ which is explored through this volume.
New Labour makes instrumental use of the parliamentary process to
change the law and set up new forms of governmentality, and it is
through these – not some popular mobilisation – that it intervenes in
social identities and ways of living. Its intellectual activity is mainly at
the level of ways and means, facts and evidence; its ways of thinking
about issues are relatively fixed. It does not risk, on the whole, a
broader cultural politics in which its own goals and the social identifications which ground them are (willingly) open to question.
NOTES
1. The reduction was from 18 to 17 in Northern Ireland, which has a higher
age of consent for heterosexuals.
2. The age of consent for lesbians effectively was already on a par with
heterosexuals. However, this was largely a product of the general history
of legal invisibility for lesbians.
3. Previously, gay male partners both under 18 and over 18 were criminalised
by the law, whereas in heterosexual sex, only the person over the age of
consent would have been regarded in law as committing the offence of
unlawful sex (statutory rape).
4. See for example, Kear and Steinberg (1999) and Walter (1999) for extended
discussion of the ways in which this specific yearning was consistently
reiterated by mourners themselves.
5. For a detailed discussion of this method, see Epstein, Johnson and
Steinberg, 2000.
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111
6. See for example Hall, 1992. We have in mind here not only relations with
previously colonised parts of the world, but also the internal relations of
the British Isles between England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland.
7. See Plummer (1995) for an extended discussion of contextual possibilities
of story-telling.
8. See also Heywood and Mac An Ghaill, and Weeks, this volume, for the
ways in which New Labour discourses of equality and social inclusion
have heralded (at least a partial) reconstitution of the gay ‘paedophile’
figure as emblematic of dangerous/pathological masculinity.
9. ‘In this country, 200,000 children live away from home; 110,000 are in
boarding schools, and 50,000 live at any one time with foster parents; 2,600
15 and 16-year-olds are in prison on remand; many others are in hospital,
private children’s homes or local authority homes. Many of them have
parents overseas to whom they cannot turn; many of them are abused. The
list of abuses is horrendous – even stepfathers are sometimes abusers’
(Ashton Labour, col. 764).
10. The notorious Section 28 of the Local Government Act 1988 stated that:
(1) a local authority shall not:
(a) promote homosexuality or publish material for the promotion of
homosexuality
(b) promote the teaching in any maintained school of the acceptability
of homosexuality as a pretended family relationship by the publication of such material or otherwise;
(c) give financial or other assistance to any person for either of the
above purposes referred to in paragraphs (a) and (b) above.
(2) Nothing in subsection (1) above shall be taken to prohibit the doing of
anything for the purpose of treating or preventing the spread of
disease. (Section 28 Local Government Act 1988)
11. This is a utilitarian story because it judges legislation by social results. It is
empiricist because, unawares perhaps, it defines ‘results’ in quite an obvious but also narrow way, according to ‘health risks’. It appeals to a ‘we’
defined somewhere between health practitioners, sex educators and social
researchers. This was the story form that most helped the Labour majority to regain the main authorial voice in this debate. It also helped form the
New Labour mainstream which we have termed ‘social liberal’. While
opposed to inequality before the law (in this domain at least), ‘social liberalism’ looks beyond the negative freedoms of individuals (‘freedom from’)
for its social utopias, in this case to ‘rational’ health policies in which
government can take a lead. The limits of this stance, as a sexual politics,
are related to the ‘obviousness’ of the predominant association of sexuality with ‘health’: this leaves aside many aspects of sexuality that deeply
concern young people – sexuality as personal identity, for example, or as
pleasure, or as an element in ‘relationships’.
12. The centrality of this repertoire to New Labour is evidenced by the
Government’s introduction of a citizenship curriculum into the required
teaching of all state schools.
13. For full discussion of the constitution of ‘good gays’ and ‘bad gays’ in the
1994 debate see Epstein and Johnson (1998).
14. See also Stacey (1991) for the ways in which the ‘illegitimate privilege’
construction permeated contestations surrounding Section 28.
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15. Blunt’s proposed amendment (which was not in the end voted on) was
similar in intent to Ashton’s but stipulated that where one partner was
over 21, the other must be over 18.
16. The Government ‘Guidelines on Sex and Relationship Education’ (2000),
for example, stipulate that homophobia must be combated but that children must be taught about the importance of marriage.
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Bland, Lucy (1995) Banishing the Beast: English Feminism and Sexual
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Brown, Phillip and Sparks, Richard (eds.) (1989) Beyond Thatcherism: Social
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Butler, Judith (1993) Bodies that Matter: On the Discursive Limits of ‘Sex’.
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Johnson, Richard (1996) ‘Sexual Dissonances: or the “impossibility of sexuality
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Labov, William (1972) Language in the Inner City. Philadelphia: University of
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113
6. Transformations under pressure:
reworking class and gender identities
under New Labour
Richard Johnson and Valerie Walkerdine
INTRODUCTION
I know these strategies put pressure on you. They put pressure on all of
us – not least David Blunkett and me, with our commitments to ambitious national targets. And rightly so, for a key modernising principle of
this government is that we are all accountable (Tony Blair to National
Association of Head Teachers, 2 June 1999).
During the period of the Blair governments a distinctive social politics has
emerged. This politics emphasises ways of life and forms of identity: it
‘puts pressure’ to change the attitudes and behaviour of citizens, more
technically our ‘subjectivities’. This is the distinctiveness of New Labour:
different from Thatcherism (though with strong neo-liberal continuities);
different from old Labour (or any kind of socialism); different from a
radical Liberalism or a politics focused on ‘rights’; different finally from
the New Left and from the radical social movements of the 1960s and
1970s which sought popular empowerment. Instead, New Labour
contains and limits popular aspirations by promising a shiny modern
future without social exclusions. It is a form of ‘passive revolution’.
At the centre of this politics is the construction of new, flexible and
self-invented subjects, ‘freed’ from ties of community or collective solidarity in order to take part in new ‘opportunities’. It is a
well-established argument now that neo-liberalism, in conjunction
with the new global capitalist labour markets, demands a particular
kind of psychological subject (Sennett, 1997; Giddens, 1991; Rose,
1999): flexible, autonomous, not expecting a job for life, and working
less in manufacturing and more in service, communications, and new
technologically based businesses. As Nikolas Rose puts it:
However apparently external and implacable may be the constraints,
obstacles and limitations that are encountered, each individual must
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Transformations under pressure
115
render his or her own life meaningful, as if it were the outcome of individual choices made in furtherance of a biographical project of
self-realisation (1992: 12).
New Labour politics takes this process further than the market emphasis of Thatcherite Conservatism. Thatcherism ‘released’ individuals to
enjoy ‘freedom’ from state interference. It weakened possible agencies
for collective working-class identity, like trade unionism. New Labour,
however, uses government to work directly on the subjectivity of citizens, in order to produce subjects capable, in Rose’s words, of ‘bearing
the serious burdens of liberty’. It incorporates an ideal subject into its
forms of administration. It translates and subverts older (socialist)
ideas, like ‘equality’ and ‘social justice’, to fit this project. New Labour
politics is the cultural and social elaboration of neo-liberalism, centred
on the subjectivities of citizens. As Blair says, it ‘put[s] pressure on
you; put[s] pressure on all of us’. It sets ‘standards’, ‘targets’ and tests,
with consequences for failure that go far beyond market disciplines.
In this process unequal relationship of class and gender do not
disappear.1 Rather, inequalities are re-worked and deepened, while
their discursive disappearance makes talking about them more difficult. However, bright and shiny the New Labour project may appear,
however much a progressive re-invention of Britain, it remains quite
as moralising or normative as the traditionalism of Thatcher and
Reagan and their neo-conservative successors. It depends upon a
concept of a normal subject, the model for which is white and middleclass and gendered in particular ways. As a corrective to New
Labour’s easy social celebrations, we stress, in this chapter, the difficulties and losses that are involved, and especially what Sennett and
Cobb have called ‘the hidden injuries of class’ (1993) – the frequently
devastating consequences for those whose conditions of life do not fit
the dominant norms.
New Labour’s politics of gender differ from Thatcherism in that its
rational, autonomous, hard-working subjects are often figured as
female. Like the self-invented subject of the classic makeover of
women’s magazines, these are subjects who must constantly remake
themselves, consuming themselves into being, by ‘looking the part’.
This is a necessary condition for that short-term contract or that (often
devalued) professional opportunity. Women and girls, tutored by media
directed towards them since the 1950s, are often experts at personal reinvention. Through an extension of these practices, through changes in
occupational patterns, and through girls’ successes in the education
system, the classic liberal subject has become the professional woman,
whose ‘emotional intelligence’ bolsters a humanist version of a sharing
democracy, which denies any regulative function.
We explore these specifically gendered processes in two main ways:
first, by critically reviewing the female future set out by the New
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Labour think-tank Demos in 1997; second, by using examples from an
in-depth longitudinal qualitative study of the lives of young women in
Britain born in 1972/3 (Tizard and Hughes, 1984; Walkerdine and
Lucey, 1989; Walkerdine, Lucey, Melody, 2001). Our use of this extensive study of ‘growing up girl’ is necessarily selective, but our examples
are true to its findings.
‘TOMORROW’S WOMEN’
As male jobs disappear, women’s importance in society is set to rise, as is
their confidence. Forty per cent of women believe that women are naturally superior to men. Women will soon make up the majority of the
workforce and Britain is becoming increasingly shaped by feminine
values. Values such as empathy, care, community and environmentalism,
are now central to British society … Work has become more important
for women, and nearly all groups of women have become relatively less
committed to the family over the last ten years (Demos, 1997: 8).
In the manner of the life-style profiles of market researchers and advertisers, Tomorrow’s Women uses five main categories to describe women
now and in the future: ‘Networking Naomi’, ‘New Age Angela’,
‘Mannish Mel’, ‘Back to Basics Barbara’ and ‘Frustrated Fran’. The
first four categories attempt to map routes for women to enter the
labour market for professional and business jobs via formal educational
qualifications. Only one ‘kind’ of woman is singled out as creating a
problem for the rosy female future – Frustrated Fran (though all of
Demos’ categories, like ‘Mannish Mel’, could certainly bear critical
inspection). Fran is described as under 35, in the census groups C1, C2
and D:
Many are also single parents. Their jobs are typically unskilled, part-time
and on fixed term contracts, and they give little in the way of either
fulfilment or actual reward … Among this group, many are mothers
with young children who feel hemmed in by the lack of state support,
the absence of affordable childcare and the unhelpful attitudes of their
male partners … Fran feels cut out of the action, and lacks confidence in
herself (Demos, 1997: 142-43).
Very similar social fictions have informed New Labour’s policies
towards single mothers and ‘social exclusion’ more generally. The
forms of ‘support’ for working-class women like ‘Fran’ have centred
on returning them to employment, in effect to the unskilled, part-time
and often casual jobs from which pregnancy and having a child may
have provided a temporary refuge.
It is no coincidence that Demos’ model of self-invention is couched
in the language of consumer life-styles. But these are not only crude
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Transformations under pressure
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images. These are also ‘fictions that function in truth’ in Michel
Foucault’s phrase (1979). They are embedded in the actual policies and
practices of New Labour – in the regulation of education, work, social
order and social inclusion. Like all such fictions they involve a forgetting, a forgetting of the Other, in this case the suppressed Other of Old
Labour – including those experiencing economic and work-based
inequalities, which can also be termed ‘class’.
To move beyond Demos’ stereotypes, and also beyond Old
Labour’s stress on class formations as ‘objective’ and male, we draw
attention to the cultural and subjective aspects of classed femininity
which both discourses elide. Class differences are more than life-style
choices, or low-paid single mothers with psychological problems.
They are linked to exclusions that arise precisely from the life-style
constructions which Demos uncritically recycles, and from the pressure for continuous self-invention (e.g. ‘lifelong learning’) which new
forms of regulation prescribe.
UNEQUAL OPPORTUNITIES
It has been argued that the feminisation thesis presented by Demos and
others ignores the major structural changes which are re-ordering
gender relations. Adonis and Pollard (1997) argue that the period since
the mid-1960s has seen the rise of ‘the Super Class’ –
a new elite of top professionals and managers, at once meritocratic yet
exclusive, very highly paid yet powerfully convinced of the justice of its
rewards, and increasingly divorced from the rest of society by wealth,
education, values, residence and life style (67).
This is a critical development in class formation – as critical as the rise
of organised labour in the past and the ‘denigration of the manual
working class’ today. The professions now have much less status and
are paid far less than the new elite, which is strongly located in the
financial and multi-national business and administrative sectors. This
affects the gender profiles of mobility in important ways. Women are
increasingly entering professions that are de-skilled and devalued,
while high-flying men are going elsewhere. Far from eroding this
polarisation, Third Way politics deepens it, consistently supporting the
very rich and disciplining the state professions.
At the same time, the reordering of working-class work in the new
global economy has involved dispersion away from previously stable
and organised male employment in the declining manufacturing
sectors, and towards service industries based on individual contracts,
piece work, home working and work in call centres, with a pressure to
retrain and change jobs at frequent intervals. Labour is feminised at
this level too. Women’s employment is, therefore, divided between
those who can acquire the education and skills to enter the profes117
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sional and managerial sector and those who leave school with little or
no qualifications and enter a job market defined mostly by poorly
paid, often part-time work, little job security and periods of unemployment. A woman in such a job is frequently the sole breadwinner
in the family.
This is the context in which girls and women must make themselves as modern neo-liberal subjects, and it is not surprising that
women are still massively divided in class terms. In Growing Up Girl,
the young middle-class women from professional and business families, aged 17 to 23, are succeeding spectacularly at school and are
entering the labour market equipped with a degree from a well-established university (Walkerdine, Lucey and Melody, 2001). By contrast,
no daughter of parents in working-class occupations in the study
made it to a well-established university by a straightforward route.
Indeed, the situation may be even worse than it was in the 1960s and
1970s, despite the expansion of higher education. A small minority of
working-class women in the study got to university and in sight of a
professional career, by a hard and painful route, but most did not
succeed at school and entered a poorly paid labour market. Recent
educational patterns, which have often been presented as girls in
general outperforming boys, are actually changes in the gendered
composition of middle-class educational outcomes, with middle-class
boys not allowed to fail (Lucey and Walkerdine, 1999), while girls
from lower income families are not doing well at all. This is more
than the social exclusion of a minority; it is a re-assertion, after a few
rather exceptional decades, of the systematic class divide in life
opportunities. It is wishful or self-interested thinking to believe that
class has disappeared as a major social dynamic – or as an indispensable tool of social analysis. Indeed Labour ministers, with footholds
in Old Labour, are increasingly forced to recognise the class character of educational outcomes, especially in entry to Higher Education
(e.g. Ashley and Hodge, 2002).
PRODUCING FEMININITIES
Much recent feminist work on class concentrates on the importance of
identity and subjectivity (Walkerdine, 2003), whether as respectability
(Skeggs, 1997), upward mobility and shame (Lawler, 1999), mothering
(Reay, 1998), or consumption (Kenway, 1995). More is involved in
successful aspiration to a better life than working hard and ‘seizing
opportunities’. Social aspirants have to be able to recognise themselves
as the kind of person who is entitled to such a life. They have to want
to be ‘like that’, and to be able to envisage themselves according to a
particular social model. The kinds of discourses discussed so far
explain, in a crude way, the psychological requirements for inhabiting
the female future, or for failing, pathologically, to achieve it. ‘Fran’, in
Demos’ description, ‘feels frustrated’, ‘feels cut off’, ‘lacks confidence’,
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has ‘poor self esteem’. She is ‘angry’, and a potential joiner of ‘girl
gangs’. She is evidently ‘socially excluded’ and a target for special
measures, girl gangs being a recurrent nightmare in the struggle for
‘decency’. Such discourses, therefore, provide sets of ‘truths’ through
which both social welfare agencies and young women themselves are
invited to recognise themselves and modify and manage their conduct,
but only in self-demeaning ways, as ‘losers’. Moreover, because of the
pressures of regulation, a young woman may have to perform being a
‘Fran’ (if not a frustrated one) in order to qualify for the positive sides
of ‘inclusion’.
To become ‘Mel’, ‘Barbara’ or ‘Naomi’ is not the easy task which
Demos’ celebration suggests. It demands much emotional and practical
work, which is often painful and difficult. This not only a striving for
educational qualifications; it is a work of identity or self-production. It
is very different work, depending on whether young women are
brought up to expect success in middle-class homes, or are facing the
apparently endless array of professional possibilities for the first time.
In the new dynamics of class formation, where class itself is feminised,
women become main carriers of what is both good and bad about the
new economy. This is not a lessening of difference, inequality or
exploitation, far from it. Inequality is differently lived today, however,
because we are all constantly enjoined to improve and remake
ourselves as free consumers and ‘entrepreneurs of ourselves’.
‘SUPER WOMEN’?: YOUNG WOMEN IN THE MIDDLE CLASS
In Growing Up Girl, we met many young women whose families had
been characterised as professional middle-class in the 1970s, and who
struggled to become the ‘Super Women’ they have been led to believe
they can and must be. They are not immune from the pressures of class
differentiation.
Their educational lives have been rigidly circumscribed by expectations of academic success, often to such an extent that quite
outstanding performance is only ever viewed as average and ordinary.
Some young women attended schools in which so much emphasis was
placed on high performance that anything less than 10 grade ‘A’s at
GCSE and three or more grade ‘A’s at A level was considered tantamount to failure.
I actually complained to them [her parents] a few times about not feeling like I had any kind of recognition for my achievements, it was just
like that it was expected that that’s what was going to happen and I was
going to do well and we didn’t need to talk about it because it was just a
foregone conclusion (Katherine, middle-class, aged 21).
Eleanor, a middle-class girl, achieved 9 A grades and 1 C grade at
GCSE:
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And I was really pleased. Yes, I hoped that I’d get a B in science, I knew
I wouldn’t get an A but I hoped to get a B but I was really pleased to get
a C. And ... so I rang up my mum. And I said ‘Oh, Mum I got a C.’ And
she said, ‘Oh, well, congratulations on the A’s anyway.’ Fine. Bye.
Such high expectations of performance bring their own anxieties.
Emma was studying medicine:
( …) it’s difficult at Oxford because you’ve got the, kind of, top few
people from every school in the country, and I mean, I was in the top five
or ten at school, but it’s so different. I mean, you’re always kind of, in
the middle. I just try and stay in the top middle … [untranscribable]. I
mean they’re so quick on the uptake, it makes you feel, that’s the one
thing that’s bad about it, it makes me feel a bit stupid sometimes. I mean
some of these people are just so amazingly bright, you just think ‘God,
I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be with people like that at all’.
In the complex relations between preparation for the labour market
and the production of practices of subjection and subjectivity in
schooling, a significant part of the work of achieving high performance
has to be emotional. Despite the evidence of their success, feelings of
not being good enough were endemic among the young middle-class
women; they were anxious even when doing very well. Even if they do
outstandingly, there is a feeling that no-one will praise them or even
notice it. These anxieties are typically understood by all concerned as
individual pathologies, only to be overcome by working harder and
harder. Very few of the middle-class girls in the study made sustained
connections between their sense of inadequacy and their social and
economic position. We suggest that it was difficult for them to step
outside an individualising discourse, because doing so would have
undermined the sense of rightness and impenetrable normality necessary to sustain the very circumscribed educational trajectory leading to
a professional career. Failure was simply not an option: whatever else
happened, they were compelled to succeed educationally. This
produced terrible psychic dilemmas: a struggle between feelings of not
being good enough and feelings that one must not fail. Such a project
involves a high degree of self-regulation, in effect part of their selfproduction as proto-professional subjects.
The process by which middle-class girls ‘prove themselves’ begins in
the early years and is integral to the achievement of educational success
(Allatt, 1993; Reay, 1998). It was common for teachers in the schools
which the same middle-class girls were attending at age 10 freely to use
terms such as ‘natural ability’ to describe top pupils. At the same time,
these terms were rarely used to describe high-performing girls, even
girls like Emma, who at ten were doing very well in test scores and
teachers’ ratings (cf. Walkerdine, 1998). It was noted, then, how ‘flair’
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121
and ‘ability’ were opposed to ‘hard work’, an opposition which downgraded the ‘quality’ of girls’ good performance because it was not
produced in the right way (Walkerdine and Lucey, 1989; Walden and
Walkerdine, 1985). Child-centred discourses and early mathematics
education implicitly contrast the ‘old’ ways of hard work and rulefollowing with ‘new’ concepts of development, activity and discovery.
The implications of this are serious – suggesting that children who
make their work visible are rather lacking in those very qualities of
‘flair’, ‘ability’ and ‘brilliance’ which are most prized in the production
of good performance. At ten, Emma’s teacher said of her: ‘If she comes
across something new it needs to be explained to her whereas some of
these will just be able to read what they’re to do and do it’. Emma was
certainly a ‘good’ girl and an ‘ideal pupil’; her performance throughout
her education has been outstanding. Isn’t it all the more extraordinary
that she should never have been attributed with ‘flair’, but seen as a
good girl who only comes top through sheer hard work?
Extraordinary yes, but by looking back to what was said about her as
a child, we can begin to understand why girls like Emma deny themselves the accolade ‘clever’. At 21, Emma still believes the ‘truths’ told
to her about her performance: that it can only be sustained by the kind
of unremitting, exhausting and anxiety-provoking labour that she does
indeed display. The opposition between flair and hard work she
encountered at primary school continues to exert its influence into
higher education. In the intensely competitive environment of medical
school, being seen to be working hard signifies a lack of brilliance and
so must be denied and hidden.
And then it’s a kind of big competition and a game – you need to make
out they’ve done the least work and get the best results. Which I find
quite hard. I mean, I don’t work that hard, but I do need to put quite a
few hours into an essay.
‘ALL RISE’: TROUBLING ASPIRATIONS
If the work of becoming a successful professional woman involves
sacrifices for middle-class girls, it is almost impossible for those facing
the prospect of upward mobility through education. They too may
have to face high social expectations. As Peter Mandelson puts it:
For me, the goal of social democracy is to create the sort of society in
which the daughter of a Hartlepool shop assistant has as much chance of
becoming a High Court judge as the daughter of a Harley Street doctor
(2002).
On the face of it, Mandelson’s expectations on behalf of working-class
girls are implausible. As he admits, ‘We have just tinkered’. In one of
those eerie coincidences of evidence, however, Growing Up Girl
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includes one young women, the daughter of a security guard and a
lavatory attendant, who expressed the desire to become a judge.
Sharon’s story shows how many things stand in the way of achieving
such ambitions.
Her parents, despite their low pay, managed to buy their council flat
through the Right to Buy scheme, sold up and moved away from the
city. Buying a council flat, however, is a very different matter from
affording the expensive private education offered to many middle-class
girls, an ‘investment’ that also requires a close knowledge of the hierarchies of higher education. Young middle-class women are strongly
pressured to take up positions in which the fertile body is relegated in
favour of education, the academy and a profession. Young workingclass women find it harder to escape becoming the embodiment of
fertility, having children earlier, and foregoing an educational progression, at least for a time. Holding together the possibility of fertility
with intelligence is no mean feat for women of whatever class position,
but it is organised with stark differences for the two groups. It is much
harder for some working-class women to escape the social exclusionary category of young motherhood.
Sharon’s wants to ‘be somebody’, an ambition also encouraged by
her family, who sees her as ‘an Einstein next to her brother’. She says
of her ambition:
I don’t know really, it’s something different. Because my mates like, they
want to be like hairdressers and nurses and things like that. It was something different. And ever since I was twelve I’ve always. My mum and
dad think I can do it, but I don’t think my Nan does, so I want to show
the rest of the family that I’ll be able to do it.
Sharon wants to be ‘something different’, to stand out from the hairdressers and nurses, by inventing herself as an extremely powerful
professional – a judge. The fact that Sharon’s choice is also a resonant
example for Mandelson the publicist shows how potent a symbol of
difference it is, of that new horizon for women. Sharon can imagine
being a judge, but any career in the law is hard and painful to achieve.
Neither she nor her family displays any knowledge of the long and
complex path to realise her ambition. Before the interview quoted
above, she had embarked on her second attempt at a BTec at a further
education college and had found a supportive woman lecturer who
nurtured her ambition. However, during one of the interviews for the
research project, Sharon revealed that she was in a relationship with an
older man and that they were not using contraception. She insisted to
the interviewer that she was not trying to get pregnant, but ‘if it
happens it happens, cross that bridge when we come to it’. Her mother
expressed a similar view in her own interview. It is known in the family
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ception; yet having a child and being on quite a low-status course are
unlikely routes even to reading law at university.
We can perhaps understand Sharon’s position by thinking about the
deeply contradictory demands placed upon women today – that they
should ‘work’ very hard and yet remain ‘women’ – fertile, feminine,
and mothering. The fantasy here is that both are possible, even at the
same time. Many middle-class respondents in the study resolved this
dilemma, which was important for them too, by making sure that there
was no possibility of ever getting pregnant, or if the impossible
happened, by having an abortion and putting off mothering until a later
date. For Sharon, the dilemma is being performed as though it were the
result of chance. In this way, she does not have to decide to give up the
fantasy of being a judge, nor does she have to admit that she does not
want to become a mother just yet. Equally, becoming a young mother
might make the possibility of failure and of not achieving her dream of
‘being somebody’ easier to bear in the short term.
While the middle-class parents in the study would not tolerate
anything – and certainly not pregnancy – getting in the way of educational progress, working-class families may find some comfort in
things staying the same; they may give less disapproving messages to
their daughters about unplanned pregnancy. For the daughters, being
successful would mean coping with enormous and far-reaching
changes: leaving home and entering an entirely different world. While
for many middle-class girls today a professional occupation is an
expected destiny, the path of reinvention for working-class girls is still
littered with obstacles. It is important that it is the fecund body that
reasserts itself as the principle block in Sharon’s pathway, the thing
most opposed to the ‘masculine’, rational forms of ambition to which
she also aspires. In effect Sharon, in the history of her short life, is
trying to avoid being ‘the Other’ to successful middle-class girls, but
continually risks falling back on it. Becoming a ‘new woman’ and
becoming part of a socially-excluded group are shown, by these examples, to be based around different responses to the complexities of
managing work and motherhood for young women today, differences
explained not by pathology, personality or ‘talent’ but by the production of classed feminine subjectivities and the complex emotional
investments involved.
CHANGING WAYS OF LIFE
These social patterns and psychic dynamics suggest longer-term developments in class and gender formations, in which not all costs are
ascribable to New Labour politics. Rather, we are arguing that such
socio-psychic dynamics are the context in which policies and rhetorics
should be appraised. We are primarily interested here in the general
social character of New Labour’s politics and rhetorics, and in whether
they are creating a political culture in which such issues can be addressed.
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In what follows, we focus on three main questions. First, how is New
Labour’s regulation of subjectivity constructed in its general rhetoric?
Second, what (dis)connections are suggested with the class-gender
dynamics we have described? Third, how does all this help us to define
the breaks and continuities of New Labour‘s politics and the past? Since
Tony Blair’s own speeches have been a major source, our analysis applies
especially to the ‘Blairite’ elements in New Labour’s repertoire.2
Initially, the Blair government seemed ‘liberal’ in the everyday sense
of socially tolerant. Especially on matters of sexuality and ethnicity and
race, its ethos chimed better with the diversity of ways of living in
contemporary Britain than the cultural nationalism and moral traditionalism of the Major years. This was a government with a ‘national
quest for change’, committed to ‘change traditional thinking’. Its
keywords included ‘reform’, ‘radical reform’, ‘renewal, ‘modernisation’, ‘social change’, ‘a new transformation and ‘a second wave of
reform’ (e.g. in public services), a ‘revolution’ even – in education for
example. Its rhetoric retained familiar socialist, feminist or anti-racist
resonances: ‘decent fair society’, ‘tackle social exclusion’, ‘extending
opportunity’ and ‘combining economic dynamism with social justice’
(Blair, 9 January 1998). Today it is easier to see that there was a war of
persuasion going on in this re-use of older vocabularies. This was more
than ‘spin’ or presentation. Major changes of political direction were
being engineered, with language often leading. Key words were stolen
from traditions of oppositional and alternative politics to re-assure key
groups of activists and supporters. The words and concepts, however,
were given different – sometimes directly opposed – meanings. This, in
turn, opened the way for new policies.
Six clusters of key terms are especially revealing:
•
•
•
•
•
•
Equality/equality of opportunity
Decency or fairness (of society) or ‘civic society’
Social inclusion and exclusion
Rights and responsibilities
Culture
Social justice
Equality/equality of opportunity
Historically, egalitarian principles and sentiments have been a way of
subjecting asymmetries of power, resources and opportunity to ethical
scrutiny, asking how far they breach human solidarity and a respect for
persons. In one classic formulation, equality rests on ‘common humanity’ as a ‘quality worth cultivating’ (Tawney, 1964: 16). In Blairite
discourses, equality is always qualified as ‘equality of opportunity’,
though other terms, also transformed – ‘community’ and ‘mutuality’
for example – seem to carry some of equality’s meanings. In the long
history of Labour ‘revisionism’ this is new. Usually some degree of
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equality – or of equalisation of condition – is seen as necessary if equality of opportunity is to be achieved. Anthony Crosland, for instance,
in prioritising equality of opportunity on ‘the threshold of mass abundance’, argued also for progressive taxation and comprehensive
schooling to diminish ‘the injustice of large inequalities’ (1959: 231). In
less optimistic times, even Anthony Giddens, a New Labour apologist,
advocates minor measures of social equalisation (2002: 38-42).
By comparison, Blair extends the single logic of ‘opportunity’, by
linking justice to merit.
Social justice is about merit. It demands that life chances should depend
on talent and effort, not the chance of birth; and that talent and effort
should be handsomely rewarded (Blair, 18 March 1999).
The same speech cites the new Clause 4 of the Labour Party’s constitution and other meanings of ‘social justice’:
Social justice is about fairness. In a community founded on social justice,
power, wealth and opportunity will be in the hands of the many not the
few.
The contradictions between handsomely rewarding ‘talent and effort’
and redistributing wealth and power are obvious. Less obvious perhaps
is Blair’s redistribution of social responsibility. Where opportunity is
stressed, it becomes possible to ascribe responsibility for inequality not
to the rich, or to social arrangements, but to those who do not respond
to ‘opportunities’. The effects of this re -assignment are clearer in some
of Blair’s other redefinitions, but the strong aversion to taking anything
from the very rich can be found in the formative texts of New Labour,
including The Commission on Social Justice (Commission on Social
Justice, 1994), and in the broad tendencies of policy while in power. New
Labour conspicuously favours big business, individual tycoons and
members of the Superclass in a range of policies and deals. Even after
November 2000, when the government recommitted itself to ‘social
investment’, it avoided progressive taxation at the top end. Rather, in its
own way, New Labour attends to ‘the socially excluded’. As Richard
Sennett has argued, following Christopher Jencks, it is the ‘unexceptional disadvantaged’ whose position has declined most over the last
forty years – in older language ‘the working class’ (Sennett, 2002).
Decency
‘Decency’, ‘a decent society’, a ‘fair society’ or a ‘civic society’ (not
‘civil society’) are also re-defined. ‘Decency’ does not on the whole
refer to socially just institutions. It is closer to the cross-class but classinflected idea of ‘respectability’. It ‘requires that any citizen of our
society should be able to meet their needs for income, housing, health
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and education’ (Blair, 18 March 1999). In other words, citizens, without social distinctions, should, on the whole, meet their own needs.
Decency isn’t caring for others or attending to social differences, but is
about looking after yourself properly, especially by earning a living and
saving for a pension.
On the negative side, Blair is explicit about the connections between
criminality and (in)decency. As he put it, off-island so to speak, to a
Korean audience in 2000:
We need to rebuild decent civic society. As we provide opportunity, we
demand responsibility, order, law-abiding conduct. A tough crime
agenda is not just good for the citizen; but for business. I am a tolerant
person, Britain is a tolerant country. But I am intolerant of crime. That
is also a choice (Blair, 19 October 2000).
This corresponds to a notably ‘hard line’ on crime, a mood extended to
petty disorders – from litter and graffiti to ‘vandals’, begging and ‘antisocial’ or ‘loutish’ behaviour (e.g. Blair, 26 February 2001; 24 April
2001). Moreover, as Mac An Ghaill and Haywood argue in this
volume, Blairite respectability is in part defined against a ‘laddish’
culture of consumption and enjoyment. Decency and ‘civic society’ are
code for putting pressure on persons and behaviours who stand outside
the respectable norms. Decency is not primarily about social solidarities or social care – values undervalued and under-rewarded by New
Labour. Civic society is certainly not about citizen initiatives to make
the world anew, more about picking up the litter and regulating the
neighbours.
Inclusion / exclusion
In academic research and theory, ‘social inclusion’ and ‘exclusion’ are
terms both widespread and deeply controversial (Levitas, 1998). We do
not want to enter into debates about the social effects of inclusion policies – whether they reduce poverty for instance. Rather, we approach
them as a politics of identity or of ‘the subject’. From this perspective,
calling a group ‘socially excluded’ is as significant as the treatment that
follows – and this in two ways.
For Blair the socially excluded are ‘a hardcore of society outside its
mainstream’ that ‘needs a special focus’ (Blair, 22 April 1999).
Excluding a group in this way justifies intrusive policies and also helps
to define what the ‘mainstream’ is. Policy can then insist on additional
conditions for achieving normal citizenship. Thus single mothers must
be serious about seeking work: their motherhood itself does not qualify them for social respect or support. So whatever their impact on
poverty, these are policies of social regulation or control. As we have
suggested, they help to redefine social injustice, not as the excesses of
the rich but as the limitations of the poor or disorderly. In the first
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phase of its work the government’s Social Exclusion Unit prioritised
school truancy, drugs, street living and ‘the worst estates’, to which
were added teenage parents, and 16-18 year olds (Annesley, 2001: 208).
The key aim in most inclusion policies is to force people off benefits
and into work, a policy which particularly affects women with children
or other dependents. This is often presented as ‘support’ or ‘compassion’, so its coercive edge is softened and belied.
Rights and responsibilities
The re-writing of classical liberal ideas of rights – held by human
beings or citizens – is achieved by pairing rights with ‘responsibilities’
and then often subordinating the latter. As Blair puts it:
We must as a country decide what kind of society we want to be. For my
part, I am in no doubt that it should be a society founded on rights and
responsibilities, in which people accept more willingly their obligations
to others not just the rights and benefits which they enjoy themselves
(Blair, 30 December 2001, his emphasis).
Rights and responsibilities clearly are reciprocal, but in different ways.
One person’s rights are another person’s responsibilities, and unlike
Blair we have to recognise there are many situations in which rights are
not in fact ‘enjoyed’. Guaranteeing rights is commonly thought of as a
responsibility of government or of the law. In Blairism, however,
responsibilities and rights are attached to the same agent, so that we all
have rights-and-responsibilities at the same time. This seems sensible
enough, but the effect is that my responsibilities qualify my rights. I do
not have rights as a citizen or as a person as such; I only have rights if
I behave myself, according to someone’s view of what is responsible.
This must affect what rights I can hold and how they can be exercised.
We can see this counter-definition operating in many domains today,
notably in the mouths of Home Secretaries when introducing
‘measures’ on children and parents, asylum seekers and suspected
terrorists, usually at the expense of their rights.
Culture
Culture is not a common term in the Blairite lexicon, but it nearly
always carries negative connotations: ‘the yob culture that intimidates
so many people’, ‘changing institutional cultures’ (e.g. in relation to
racism), ‘a culture of low aspirations and standards’ (e.g. of schools).
There are more positive tones in terms like multiculturalism and ‘diversity’, but also ambiguities here. In seeking to allay worries about
Islamophobia after 11 September 2001, Blair repeatedly stressed his
commitments to a multi-ethnic, multi-faith society (e.g. Blair, 27
September 2001). But he also foregrounded a conception of ‘way of
life’ which must be defended at all cost from terrorist attacks, and it is
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this way of life which supplies the norms of inclusion or citizenship. In
Blair’s ‘hot’ version, in the aftermath of 11 September, this norm is
implicitly middle-class in character:
Today the threat is chaos, because for people with work to do, family life
to balance, mortgages to pay, careers to further, pensions to provide, the
yearning is for order and stability and if it doesn’t exist elsewhere it is
unlikely to exist here. I have long believed this interdependence defines
the new world we live in (Blair, 2 October 2001).
It is particularly hard to imagine, within this framework, ways of living
that are legitimate alternatives to one’s own, and are not easy to assimilate – Islamic and peace-movement opinion with strong doubts about
anti-terrorism and the wars on Afghanistan and Iraq for instance. More
generally, ideas of culture are detached from a belief in positive popular agency outside of governmental regulation. This anti-popular
emphasis distances Blairism from strands in New Left thinking that
repose more hope in popular movements than in the politics of elites.
As Ken Jones and Lisa Smyth argue in this volume, Labour’s ‘revolution’ is ‘passive’ in that it robs the citizens or ‘the people’ of a positive
independent role.
Social justice again
According to Blair, ‘social justice’ is ‘our aim’, ‘our central belief’, a
declaration, which matches his endorsement of his predecessor’s
Commission for Social Justice. In his Beveridge Lecture of 1999, he
redefined social justice in the ways we have suggested: equality of
opportunity not equality, ‘responsibilities’ qualifying ‘rights’,
‘decency’ as respectability, social inclusion as an obligation to compete.
Like ‘rights’, justice is a morally qualified category which depends on
merit – ability plus hard work. Justice is primarily the due rewarding
of merit; a just outcome, when someone ‘gets their deserts’ or when
government gets ‘something for something’. This amounts to a particularly uncritical embracing of meritocracy, with its notorious
contradictions and dangers. (For a classic critique see Young, 1961.)
These redefinitions extract the critical potential from discourses of
equality and of rights. Justice is still to be achieved by the mass of citizens, it is true, and not, as in neo-liberalism, by some hidden hand.
Rather, citizens must respond to governmental tutelage that prompts,
exhorts and monitors performance, rewards results and achievements,
and applies ‘special measures’ (including shaming as ‘failing’) to those
who err or are left behind.
BLAIRISM AND CLASS-GENDER DYNAMICS
There is little here to suggest an understanding of class/gender differentiation or its social costs. On the contrary, by attempting to install a
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general social ethos of merit and individual ambition, by denying, most
of the time, that major class differences remain, and by administering,
and not just in schools, multiple tests of success and failure, Blairism is
likely to reinforce inequalities of all kinds. As social knowledge, the
individual recipe of ‘opportunity’ excludes an understanding of the
collective nature of social identities and the complexity of personal
dispositions. Social exclusion policies target at best very specific social
groups, leaving aside major structural differences. The dominant
rhetorics construct, as their own working fantasy, a bland, unconflictual world where differences are only apparent, or are a product of ill
will, or are relatively easily to reconcile. If some measure of social
equalisation is indeed an aim of New Labour – and this has honestly to
be doubted – the major social processes involved are not yet being
addressed. As the biggest social experiment of them all – the United
States of America – testifies, accumulating individual success stories
does not touch the kind of structural inequalities which class, gender
and racialised divisions of labour require.
A more critical reading is also possible, and perhaps more
compelling. Consciously or not, Blairism takes sides socially; it
constructs and services a particular social alliance. It takes as given –
and as generally beneficial – the neo-liberal, market-led privatising
drive of the transnational business and political elites. It seeks to
conform institutions, ways of living and forms of subjectivity to the
‘necessities’ of work and consumption. In class terms, this means
promoting the social rationalities and subjectivities of middle-class
groups, and middle-class men in particular. There are striking correspondences between Blairite rhetorics of talent, hard work and merit,
the contrived ‘pressure’ of its administration, and the cultural relationships of ambitious middle-class parents with their children. These
mutually reinforcing demands press heavily on an over-examined,
over-monitored, over-regulated generation of school pupils, reinforced
for young women by a post-feminist belief that ‘Superwoman’ can
‘have (or do) it all’. We fear that Blairite policies and discourses are sealing young people (no less than their parents) into over-work and
pressured expectations that re-produce the personal problems, costs
and casualties of both attempted ‘excellence’ and of ‘failure’.
From this point of view, social inclusion policies are attempts to
generalise a way of living to social groups that have, historically, given
priority to local solidarities and other strategies of survival. At the same
time, the stress on social accountability for all except the very rich and
economically very powerful means that professionals are coming under
similar disciplines to those that have subordinated working people –
while plenty of room is left for blaming professionals for any unpopular outcomes.
We end, then, with three main conclusions. The first concerns the
novelty of New Labour. One of its particular tasks is to recast the
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keywords and social purposes of centre-left politics, including
Labour’s own (ambiguous) tradition, but also radical liberalism and
‘anti-oppressive’ or ‘emancipatory’ social movements. The second
conclusion concerns its continuities. The continuities with the neoliberalism of Thatcherism are striking, especially the embrace of ways
of life and forms of subjectivity based upon a market-driven social
order. New Labour presents itself as different from Thatcherism,
through its counterbalancing stress on ‘community’ or ‘the social’.
Our discussion suggests, however, that this too is a distortion. ‘Social’
here (one linguistic root of ‘social-ism’) means the psychic and
cultural work of becoming a subject fit for a Britain which is dominated by global markets and transnational capital. It means reinforcing
existing middle-class practices and ambitious performances. It means
breaking down the alternatives which professional groups and working-class movements and communities have developed. It means
digesting and converting the challenges of feminism, sexual politics
and anti-racism.
Our third conclusion concerns the government’s difficulties in
seeing beyond its own redefinitions. Signs of growing inequality and of
the effects of ‘pressure’ and overwork continue to appear in statistical
and qualitative researches. Key instances for this chapter are the
continued, perhaps increasing predominance of middle-class students
in higher education despite overall expansion, and the continued
‘choice’ – conscious or not – of a minority of working-class girls for
youthful motherhood. The typical response has not been to attend to
‘the evidence’. Rather, excuses are made, professional practitioners
blamed, and fresh targets set. What appears unthinkable – or politically
unsayable – is that current policies actually contribute to contemporary social divisions. The deepening of social inequalities cannot all be
ascribed, as in Labour’s spin, to the Thatcherite past. Emergent differences in the experiences of young women are critical here, since a belief
in new femininities and women’s achieved emancipations feature
strongly in modernising optimism. We are suggesting that this celebratory rhetoric of a new tomorrow depends on three crucial neglects: of
the work that women have to do to produce the new femininities; of
the burden they bear in servicing a neo-liberal agenda (in and out of
paid work); and of the deep divisions among women, on fundamentally
class lines.
NOTES
1. See also Clarke and Newman, this volume, for discussion about the links
between the reconstruction of gender and class politics in the wake of the
new managerialism.
2. For this chapter all of Blair’s speeches on domestic issues available on the
Downing Street website for the years 1998-2001 were read, plus some
speeches on key themes from other years.
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REFERENCES
Speeches of Tony Blair
(Source: unless otherwise stated: www.number-10.gov.uk)
9 January 1998 ‘New Britain in the Modern World’ (Tokyo).
18 March 1999 Beveridge Lecture (Toynbee Hall, London).
22 April 1999 ‘Doctrine of the International Community’ (Economic Club,
Hilton Hotel, Chicago).
2 June 1999 To National Association of Head Teachers (Cardiff).
19 October 2000 To Asia-Europe Business Forum (Korea).
26 February 2001 To The Peel Institute (London).
24 April 2001 ‘Improving Your Local Environment’ (London).
27 September 2001 ‘Meeting with Leaders of the Muslim Communities in
Britain’ (Downing Street).
2 October 2001 To Labour Party Conference (printed verbatim in The
Guardian 3 0ctober 2001).
30 December 2001 New Year Message (Downing Street).
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Allatt, P. (1993) ‘Becoming privileged: the role of family processes’, in Bates I
and Riseborough, G. (eds) Youth and inequality, Milton Keynes: Open
University Press.
Annesley, C. (2001) ‘New Labour and Welfare’ in S. Ludlam and M.J. Smith
(eds), New Labour in Government Basingstoke: Macmillan.
Ashley, J. and Hodge, M. (2002) ‘Blairite and Class Warrior: Jackie Ashley
Meets Margaret Hodge, Interview with higher education minister’, The
Guardian, 24 June.
Commission on Social Justice (1994) Social Justice: Strategies for National
Renewal London: Vintage.
Crosland, C.A.R. (1956) The Future of Socialism London: Jonathan Cape.
Foucault, M. (1979) Discipline and Punish Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Giddens, A. (1991) Modernity and self identity: self and society in the late
modern age, Cambridge: Polity Press.
Giddens, A. (2002) Where Now for New Labour? Cambridge: Polity Press.
Kenway, J. (1995) ‘Having a postmodern turn’, in Smith, R. and Wexler, P.
(eds) After postmodernism: education, politics and identity, London:
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Lawler, S. (1999) ‘Getting out and getting away: women’s narratives of class
mobility’, Feminist Review, 63, 3-24.
Levitas, R. (1998) The Inclusive Society: Social Exclusion and New Labour
Basingstoke: Macmillan.
Lucey, H. and Walkerdine, V. (1999) ‘Boys’ underachievement: social class and
changing masculinities’, in T. Cox (ed) Combating educational disadvantage, London: Falmer
Mandelson P (2002) The Blair Revolution Revisited. London: Politico’s
Publishing.
Reay, D. (1998) ‘Rethinking social class: qualitative perspectives on class and
gender’, Sociology, 32, 2, 259-275.
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Rose, N. (1996) Governing the Soul, 2nd Edition, London: Free Association
Books.
Rose, N. (1999) The Powers of Freedom London: Routledge.
Sennett, R. and Cobb, J. (1993) The Hidden Injuries of Class. Cambridge:
Polity.
Sennett, R. (1998) The corrosion of character: the personal consequences of work
in the new capitalism, New York, Norton.
Sennett, R. (2002) ‘A Flawed Philosophy’ The Guardian 17 June.
Skeggs, B. (1997) Formations of class and gender, London, Sage.
Tizard, B. and Hughes, M. (1984) Young children learning, London, Fontana.
Tawney, R.H. (1964) Equality (5th Edn., Intro. Richard Titmus) London: Allen
and Unwin.
Walden, R. and Walkerdine, V. (1985) Girls and mathematics: from primary to
secondary schooling, Bedford Way Papers, 24 London: Heinemann.
Walkerdine, V. (1998) Counting girls out, London: Falmer.
Walkerdine, V. (2003) ‘Reclassifying social mobility: femininity and the Neoliberal subject’, Gender and Education, 15, 3 (September): 237-48.
Walkerdine, V. and Lucey, H. (1989) Democracy in the kitchen; Regulating
mothers and socialising daughters, London: Virago.
Walkerdine, V, Lucey, H. and Melody, J. (2001) Growing up girl: psychosocial
explorations of gender and class, London: Palgrave.
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Young, M. (1961) The Rise of the Meritocracy Harmondsworth: Penguin.
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7. Blair’s men: dissident masculinities
in Labour’s ‘new’ moral economy
Mairtin Mac an Ghaill and Chris Haywood
I
n this chapter we explore how New Labour politics, in the context
of rapid social and economic change, is reconstituting contemporary
gender relations. More specifically, we argue that state-led moral
economies operate normatively to shape broader gender regimes or, as
Connell (2000: 29) suggests, the patterning of gender relations. At the
same time, these moral economies, understood as the ‘… norms which
govern or should govern economic activity’ (Sayer, 2000: 1), are
systematically ordering masculinities. As a result, New Labour’s
attempts to establish their own moral economy is constituting a particular hegemonic gender regime. It is a regime where politically desirable
masculinities become codified as appropriate (prescriptive) citizenship
practices.
The first section of the chapter locates the gendered nature of moral
economies within a historical context, and situates the current emergence of a politically ascendant masculinity – protective paternalism.
The second section of the chapter focuses upon a number of dissident
masculinities that are being shaped by New Labour’s moral economy.
‘Dissident’ is used in this chapter to capture conceptually how certain
practices antagonise social institutions and provoke the English/British
cultural imagination. Thus, dissident masculinities occupy a strategic
space in the cultural psyche, simultaneously contesting and supporting
society’s gendered/sexual hegemony. Spicer (2001: 202) argues that ‘…
hegemonic types always provoke challenge by alternative and oppositional forms of masculinity, male types that embody the repressed
desires and transgressive pleasures that official culture has denied’. In
order to contain and manage this antagonistic dissidence, social institutions often discursively re-code masculinities by medicalising,
psychologising, demonising or infantilising particular practices. Thus,
state sanctioned masculinities are often rendered naturalised and
normal by the political management of dissident masculinities.
In order to explore how state-led moral economies are shaping
contemporary gender relations, we need to move away from an under133
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standing of gender as anatomically determined. It is important to
disconnect masculinities from embodied types – rejecting claims that
‘male’ bodies contain or carry inherent masculine attributes (see also
Halberstam, 1998). This disconnection stresses the sociality of gender
by suggesting that the bodily representations that constitute male and
female are historically located. As Laquer (1990: 16) argues, ‘the
private, enclosed, stable body that seems to lie at the basis of modern
notions of sexual difference is also the product of particular, historical,
cultural moments’. In taking up a sex/gender approach that sees
masculinities as inscriptions on political processes and practices, we
explore historical traces of the current gender regimes articulated by
New Labour politics.
SITUATING CONTEMPORARY POLITICISED MASCULINITIES
John Beynon (2002: 107) characterises the political and social upheavals
of the 1980s and 1990s in terms of ‘goodbye to the old industrial man’.1
The idea of ‘industrial man’ as a key element of the post-second-worldwar social democratic project helps to convey a state politics that was
closely aligned to a nationalised economy, and dependant on traditional masculine occupational sectors such as ship building, agriculture
and fishing, steel, mining and manufacturing. One aspect of the politically salient masculinities of the 1950s through to the 1970s was an
English/British cultural connection of the body to the public sphere of
work. During this period, occupational status emerged as a significant
marker of English/British masculinity. The symbiotic relationship of
men to their work gained sharper focus; men’s work signified a broader
epistemological way of being. Willis (2000: 91) suggests that the experience of being a man has been ‘tied up historically with doing and
being able to do physical work’. These working masculinities were
often politically projected as emblems of ‘Britishness’, with productivity becoming nationalised; ‘industrial man’ was constituted by hard
work, duty, determination, loyalty, responsibility and restraint – key
attributes of post-second-world-war British identity.
At the same time, the Labour government of the 1960s blamed weak
and insufficiently aggressive management practices for the rapid
decline of Britain’s identity as an economic world power.2 An emphasis on Britain as a global economic competitor provided the context for
the emergence of other politically salient class-based masculinities. For
example, it has been suggested that men (and women) in management
were developing masculinities that were shifting from emotional identifications with products to those inscribed by finance-based practices
such as company acquisitions and mergers (Roper, 1994). Replacing
military-led imperialism with state-sponsored economic and cultural
colonialism, English/British working masculinities also contained
important class and global inflections. Broadly speaking, the social
democratic project of the post-second-world-war period fashioned a
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moral economy that placed ‘industrious men’ at the centre of the political agenda.3
The ascendancy or political viability of ‘industrial man’ was not to
last. The long years of the New Right regime, from the late 1970s to the
mid-1990s, were witness to profound social, economic and cultural
change. The increasing numbers of women entering the labour market,
alongside growing male unemployment, the increasing visibility of gay
rights activism, and racial and ethnic awareness, began to trouble such
connections. At the same time, a contained Conservative partisanship
towards neo-liberal economic reform became a constitutive context for
already fracturing gender order (McNeil, 1991). Severe disruptions,
including the collapse of manufacturing industries, the explosion of
young people’s unemployment and the radical restructuring of welfare
support, had direct impacts on the social ordering of multi-inflected
masculinities and femininities (Hollands, 1990; Haywood and Mac an
Ghaill, 1997). The contradictory position of New Right politics not
only contributed to the fracturing of the traditional gender regimes,
but was simultaneously involved in its re-establishment.
The rolling back of state regulation in favour of market forces
cultivated a new sense of competitive individualism. The New Right
fostered an enterprise culture and placed at its centre the entrepreneur, who took on a number of cultural representations (see Nixon,
1996; Edwards, 1997). One set of representations suggested an
embourgeoisement of particular class sections. As McNeil (1991: 228)
points out:
The enticement of the aspiring working class into this form of
consumerism may also involve changes in the modes of working-class
masculinity. When buying one’s own council house or purchasing education or healthcare are presented as essentials for working-class families
… working-class men are adapting to more middle-class modes of
masculinity.
Similarities have been drawn between the phenomenon of the new
money in the early twentieth century and the affluence of the 1950s,
both periods when concerns were voiced about the dislocation of
people from their values, as people moved away from their class. One
example of this was the emergence of the ‘Yuppie’. Frank Mort’s (1996)
analysis of this city-based worker suggests that the Yuppie displayed all
the traditional masculinised values of ambition, dynamism and ruthlessness. He points out:
The Yuppie was a hybrid, the focal point for a wide variety of economic
and cultural obsessions … the stress was on the yuppie as the representative of an aggressive personality, whose single minded dedication to
work had displaced the older forms of gentlemanly amateurism’ (171).
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Connecting with a traditional English (puritan) work ethic, the
commitment and dedication to work of the ‘Yuppies’ was offset by
dislocated values towards wealth. They were vilified by the working
classes for losing a sense of collective identity, and disparaged by the
upper classes for crudely lacking ‘high’ culture. A neo-liberal conservative representation of the entrepreneur was also ethnicised, with the
new Asian entrepreneur being paraded: traditional routes to success,
with their loaded discriminatory practices, were being replaced by the
logic of the market, which was not sensitive to gender or ethnic identities – anyone could make it.4
By the mid-1990s, with the New Right having imploded, a number
of thematic priorities characterised New Labour’s rise to power. Driver
and Martell (1999) suggest a shift in Labour policy – drawing upon
Charles Henry Tawney’s ‘remoralization of society’ – that merged
liberal individualism and ethical socialism. Labour’s efforts to fill the
gap opened up by morally vacuous, unrestrained market forces
connected with their theme of a new land of economic, social, political
and technological change (Andrews, 1996). This involved holding onto
market forces and rejecting tax and spend policies, but was combined
with a more responsible role for the state. As Gilbert (1998: 75) points
out, this results in an emerging tension.
The appeal to middle England, the rhetoric of caution, the implicit social
authoritarianism, the attacks on single parents and the centralisation of
power within the party itself can all be seen as attempts to articulate a
basically conservative modernity. On the other hand, the commitment to
constitutional change, to some re-instatement of workers’ rights and to
an ethical internationalism can all be seen as a democratising agenda.
New Labour is historically grounded in conflicting ideological positions, and such tensions have resulted in the ascendance of the ‘Third
Way’, or communitarian politics: ‘… a political vocabulary which
eschews market individuals, but not capitalism; and which embraces
collective action but not class or the state’ (Driver and Martell, 1999:
255). Internal tensions are also emerging from within New Labour’s
communitarian politics, via the relationship between social regulation
and individual autonomy (Etzioni, 1996). This tension appears to be
resolving itself in the form of an increasing social authoritarianism,
suggesting positive policies that contain a strong social control agenda
(James and James, 2001).
New Labour argues that community is an important dynamic in the
generation of a shared collective conscience, existing as a key social
partner in policing a morally responsible society. Aligned to this politics is a social control agenda that has a close affinity with a particular
brand of Christian humanist ethics. This position stresses that people
are likely to become good citizens if they are offered the opportunities
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to do so. The tension between individual autonomy and social regulation is producing the conditions for an increasingly visible political
explanation of social deviance. As Pitts (2001: 198) suggests: ‘Its
rhetoric of social inclusion notwithstanding, New Labour appears to
be locked into a politics of blame in which social problems, however
complex, are ultimately explicable in terms of the indiscipline or moral
failure of the people experiencing those problems.’
Within this context, a version of masculinity that constitutes and is
constituted by the moral economy of New Labour’s gender regime
circulates through a protective paternalism (MacGregor, 1999). This
protective paternalism – responsible, dutiful, ‘fair but firm’, steadfast
and tolerant – replaces the moral vacuousness of Tory entrepreneurialism; or, as in a recent New Labour sound-bite, it is a combination of
‘enterprise and fairness’. The gendered character of New Labour has
been demonstrated in recent conference speeches that combine a ‘duty
to care’ with metaphors of militarism, ‘zero tolerance’, ‘a fight for freedom – economic and social freedom’ and a ‘battle of values’.5 Themes
such as nurturing and fighting have been juxtaposed in a political
symmetry that combines a fight for social inclusion with a combat of
social evils. This gender regime is politically expansive. Not only does
a protective paternalism resonate with ways in which the government
seeks to control the economy and develop social welfare policies; it also
connects to broader themes of Britain’s political and economic role at
global levels.
STATE-LED DISSIDENT MASCULINITIES
New Labour’s third way politics, which it is useful to conceptualise as
operating through a protective paternalism, is concerned directly with
the management of a moral conformity (see also Bell and Binnie, 2000).
And its emphasis on social inclusion and exclusion can be seen as a
direct response to unmanageable (immoral) gender/sexual practices
(Scourfield and Drakeford, 2002). In light of this we are able to explore
a number of unmanageable gender practices, and thus situate contemporary dissident masculinities. We will now turn to look at the
significance of the ‘absent father’, the ‘anti-social young man’ and the
‘dangerous man’ to New Labour’s moral economy.
The ‘deadbeat dad’: making good fathering
The late 1980s through to the 1990s brought lone (female) parents under
increased state scrutiny, projected as they were by the Tory government
as a major financial burden on public expenditure that needed reducing.
The formation of the Child Support Agency was designed to respond
not to father absenteeism per se, but rather to mothers’ dependence
upon benefits – the underlying political rational was to combat the
‘nationalisation of fatherhood’. Historically, the state has played an
important part in normalising certain familial masculinities (Collier,
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1994). For the New Labour administration, fathering must now incorporate New Labour’s communitarian morality. Building upon the
politics of John Major, there has been a shift in which absent fathers
have moved from being seen as an economic problem to become a mainstream political explanation of moral fragmentation; as disrupters of
stable communities. In tackling social exclusion, father absence has been
cited as an important aspect of children’s poor mental health, increased
criminal activity, greater involvement in violence, low educational
attainment and experience of prolonged periods of unemployment
(Morgan, 1995). The moral culpability of the absent father has been
emphasised by New Labour’s criminalisation of those fathers who fail
to take responsibility for their children.
Set up in opposition to the ‘absent father’, New Labour’s hegemonic
vision of fatherhood is taking shape. Being located within the family,
New Labour fathers not only carry the more traditional elements of
responsibility and duty but also are distinguished by popular ethics of
care and involvement. In terms of policies, there is evidence to suggest
that New Labour has adopted a more positive approach to fathers,
which has resulted in increased inclusion across a variety of government
departments (see Scourfied and Drakeford, 2001). These commitments
have been consolidated by New Labour’s sympathy towards statutory
paternity pay, and they resonate with a broader cultural significance for
fathering, as illustrated by the increase in celebrities demonstrating their
fathering integrity. At the same time, politicians’ fathering practices
have become a major part of a media-orientated spectacle. It is important to acknowledge here that New Labour has not articulated a new set
of civic values. Rather, they have usurped the Conservative values of the
patriarchal family and attempted to re-articulate them as national
heritage, arguing: ‘Don’t let the Tories claim these as values as their own
– they are our values’ (Blair, 1996: 69).
In New Labour’s moral economy, the family, alongside and as part
of the community, operates as an important regulator of civil responsibility. Westwood (1996: 28) describes the state regulation of fatherhood
as a classic example of the Foucauldian notion of power of surveillance
in postmodern societies. She writes:
It was constructed out of a series of discourses that generated a specific
subject/object, one of which was the ‘feckless father’, who was to be the
subject/object of surveillance, tracking and intervention at both the
economic and moral moments. The feckless father had already forfeited
his rights as a moral person to engage in self-regulation. Instead a refashioned state agency would regulate him and the woman and children to
whom he was to be forcibly attached.
Stychin (2001: 11) suggests that, although New Labour does acknowledge the diversity of contemporary family forms, the monogamous
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heterosexual family remains for them the essential unit of community
and economic stability. In turn, the absent father has enabled New
Labour to mobilise a number of politically reparative discourses in its
attempts to reinforce social stability. It is important to note that certain
gender practices have always been represented as disobedient, out of
control and uncontainable. The significance of New Labour’s emphasis on fathering is that a respectable English masculinity is being
generated, based upon paternal duties of responsibility and care.
Writing from a sociology of law perspective, Collier (1994: 203-4)
makes a telling point in suggesting that the construction of the absent
father as problematic in legal discourse involved establishing fatherhood as a desirable presence during marriage (the economic provider
discourse). As he argues, the irony is that, given the logic of economic
rationality in advanced capitalist societies, the breadwinner masculinity of the ‘good father’ entails many men being absent from their
families. He suggests that evidence from divorce reveals that the presence of paternal masculinity was always open-ended. However, he
makes clear what paternal masculinity, presumed by law to be desirable, actually entails. Hence, for Collier the absent father really
signifies something else, namely the desirability of masculinity within
the family embodying the three axes of authority, economic responsibility and heterosexuality, which constitute the idea of the ‘good father’
in law.
Civilising work: anti-social young men
A key theme of New Labour’s rise to power in 1997 was the emphasis
on youthfulness as a harbinger of social innovation. New Labour,
emphasising a break with Old Labour, projected itself as a young political party, Britpop celebrated a young country and the government was
aiming to increase the opportunities for the young. This emphasis on
youthfulness contains a tension, since implicit within notions of youthfulness are discourses of risk, control and protection. Young people not
only represent the ‘promise’ and imagined ‘future’ of the nation; they
are also deemed central to its risk. In order to safeguard the future of
the nation, particular lifestyles are targeted as threats. New Labour has
continued to identify as a problem one particular lifestyle – ‘the
scourge of many communities … young people with nothing to do
who make life hell for other citizens’ (Blair, in Fitzpatrick, 1999: 1). As
a result, the Labour government has issued a range of contradictory
legislation that insists on young people’s independence, while simultaneously governing them with paternal protectionism.
In the mid-1990s New Labour politically vilified certain forms of
masculinity which it saw as arising out of social exclusion. The
discourse of yob culture, once again inherited from the Tories, became
reconstructed within a frame of community responsibility and active
citizenship. Thus men who have adopted particular lifestyles needed to
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be integrated and included (Scourfield and Drakeford, 2002). Laddism
was one of the more antagonistic lifestyles that was identified. During
the mid-1990s laddism became the focus of much cultural commentary.
Magazines such as Loaded and FHM catered to, cultivated and established a legitimacy for the veneration of a hedonism associated with
frequent sexual encounters, alcohol binges and football discussion. At
the same time, they were part of a culture of consumption that focused
on young men’s bodies through retro-based practices linked to traditional forms of white working-class heterosexual culture. However
this masculinity of laddism was deemed new, as it also contained a
reflexive and self-mocking theme. This was particularly emphasised
when it was taken up by middle-class men.
In many ways, the vocabularies of oppression that have mobilised
identity politics around social groups such as women, ethnic minorities
and gays/lesbians have a resonance with the middle-class Christian
morality espoused by New Labour. Thus for New Labour, particular
masculinities are construed as socially damaging as well as anti-authority. However, laddism also connects with a broader hedonism that
rejects middle-class standards and the constant pursuit of consumer,
political or spiritual enlightenment (for the middle class, non-commercial life can sometimes seem just one more learning experience).
Laddism contests this cultural hegemony. What is also interesting is
that laddism was not specifically about male bodies; it was about
specific, socially-defined working-class masculine cultural forms: alcohol, aggressive sexualities, football. It operated as an alternative
masculinised gender regime that could be taken up by males and
females. Such sets of values have currently become part of New Labour
explanations for school underachievement and social disorder. It is also
charged that laddism is responsible for economic instability.
Other forms of hedonism were in place that might have challenged
this cultural hegemony. For example, Gilbert (1998) suggests that the
emerging dance culture of the first New Labour term allowed more
hybrid identities to emerge, as club culture began dismantling the social
categories of gender, ethnicity and sexuality. However, a queer politics
of the dance floor did not appear.
Themes of laddism resonate and feed directly into New Labour’s
criminal justice and social welfare reform, as they target cultural
concerns such as football hooliganism, young drunks, drug-pushers and
anti-social families. In short, laddism is being fused with ‘yob culture’.
David Blunkett insists: ‘We have to overcome what some call laddism –
the belief that it is cool not to work’. The New Lads stand in tension
with conventional lifestyles that have a work ethic as a central feature.
Sexual risk: beware the paedophile
The current concern with sexually dangerous men has contributed to
New Labour’s emphasis on citizenship, community duty and social
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responsibility.6 Given the current centrality of heterosexuality to
protective paternalism, the presence of other sexualities challenges and
reinforces the respectability of English masculinity. The high moral
panic surrounding ‘Stranger Danger’ and the cultural demonisation of
the paedophile have provided emphasis and momentum to New
Labour’s moral renewal of the nation. The social threat and risk carried
by the paedophile has fuelled the political imagination and re-instated
the centrality of the family to society, where ‘strong families are the
foundation of a strong community’ (Mandelson and Liddle, 1996: 124).
At the same time, contained within New Labour’s protective paternalism is the prescription for men to build caring and responsible
relationships in the family and the community. For instance, the
government has made a considerable economic commitment to funding nation-wide learning mentors. It has also placed onto the political
agenda the importance of getting men into primary/nursery schools,
alongside a consistently articulated view that men should be part of
young people’s lives in the form of good role models. Yet, at the same
time, men’s emerging protective paternal role in the family, community
and nation has become a key source for current sexual anxiety. Public
sector workers such as youth workers, social workers, school teachers,
nursery nurses and social researchers are facing greater levels of
surveillance and regulation (Owen, 2000). Although state sanctioned,
there remains a cultural ‘queerness’ about men working with children.
There is also a specificity surrounding the English paedophile that
troubles New Labour communitarian politics. The paedophile is
anonymous. However, this anonymity of the paedophile – in terms of
being an identifiable character – is the very dynamic that makes the
phenomenon so culturally powerful. Ohi (2000: 204) points out:
To sustain a stable picture of the paedophile, it is thus paradoxically
necessary to assert that paedophilia cannot be detected, that a paedophile
can not be pictured at all. The same gesture that renders him locatable
and quarantined makes him unlocatable, omnipresent, and dangerously
at large: just the way we like him.
Empirical evidence appears to show that child abusers are more than
likely to be family members, especially fathers/step-fathers or brothers
(Meloy, 2000). It is ironic that public surveillance techniques such as
List 99, the sexual offenders register and criminal record checks
continue to situate the sexual danger outside of the family and the
community; sexual danger is projected onto the unlocatable, unknowable, anonymous bodies of non-citizens. Such practices are not simply
prohibitive; they culturally produce the paedophile. For example,
Foucault (1981) highlighted that in the Victorian period there was an
intensified surveillance of the boy who masturbated. In the twenty-first
century, the emphasis has changed, with the surveying gaze upon other
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people (adult men) masturbating the boy. Foucault suggested that the
surveillance of the sexual child constituted the practices that were set up
to eradicate it. It is argued here that a similar process is taking place in
relation to the stranger, on whom a new ‘truth of sex’ is being written.
During recent debates on the age of consent, a familiar representation of masculinity was of the older male sexual predator (Waites,
1999). Whilst being a sexualised identity, the actions and descriptions
of the sexual practices take on masculine forms; molesters, monsters
and perverts operate through a masculinised but perverted biological
drive discourse, and through a gendered crime dichotomy (Hollway,
1989; Collier 1998). Cultural representations of paedophiles tend to
depict sad, lonely and socially disconnected individuals. Their dangerousness is illustrated by a suggested cleverness and cunning, as the
paedophile remains part of the community without being identified.
However, analytically, the cultural valorisation of a normative
masculinity does not appear too abnormal. As Cossins (2000) suggests:
… it is necessary to consider the significance of a man’s sexual behaviour
with children in a social context that is pervaded by, and which valorises,
images of hypermasculine toughness and performance (that is, a particular type of sexed male body, the Masculine Ideal), and in which power
and sexuality are inextricably linked. In this way, far from being a deviation from such sexual norms, child sex offending could be said to be a
celebration of them.
Currently, popular understandings of paedophiles as demonised others
has legitimised the purging of safe spaces of danger. At the same time,
New Labour policies that encourage the active participation of men in
family life and the community are generating English cultural sexual
anxieties.
CONCLUSION
We have argued that New Labour politics can be understood as
contributing to a particular moral economy that is generating the
conditions for a new ordering of masculinities. Part of that ordering
has been the identification of antagonistic or what we call dissident
masculinities. As social and cultural formations, the gender regimes
that are contained within moral economies are subject to change. For
New Labour and their communitarian moral economy, challenges are
beginning to emerge. What has not been discussed here are the riots in
northern towns by young Asian men. These may begin to highlight the
limitations of a politics based upon communities. Furthermore, this
social unrest makes visible the ambiguous nature of New Labour’s
‘community’ (is it a location, a collectivity, a nation?), limiting our
analytic purchase on central government’s understanding of gender
transformations. Another challenge to New Labour’s moral economy
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is the increasing influence of European politics. In articulating a gender
regime that is based upon the specificities of Englishness/Britishness, a
shift to the gender regimes of Europe may create cultural fissures in
what we understand as contemporary masculinities and femininities.
NOTES
1. Many thanks to Richard Johnson for pointing this out.
2. The Wilson government through the Industrial Reorganisation
Corporation attempted to increase global productivity by encouraging
company take-overs rewarded by financial incentives.
3. We use ‘industrious’ in a way that contains earlier associations with skilful
and ingenuity with more modern meanings of labouring.
4. Indeed, it was the Asian entrepreneurs who could be seen to be taking the
Tory minister, Norman Tebbit’s advice ‘to get on their bikes’ as his father’s
generation had – an example of the socially marginal being culturally
central – in this instance within conditions of late modernity.
5. Tony Blair’s Labour Party conference speeches cited in the Guardian
27.09.00 and 03.10.01.
6. See also Weeks and Epstein, Johnson and Steinberg, this volume, for
discussion about the reconstitution of discourses of male (‘paedophilic’)
sexual danger as emblematised in the ‘gay paedophile’ (a key iconic folk
devil of the Thatcher-Major years), in conjunction with new discourses
legitimating (limited) claims for citizenship under the auspices of New
Labour’s investments in ‘social inclusion’.
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8. Virtual members? The internal
party culture of New Labour
Estella Tincknell
This essay is dedicated to the memory of Terry Coello, a good comrade
who would almost certainly not have agreed with some of its criticisms
of ‘old’ Labour.
T
here are, of course, many histories of the transformation of the
Labour Party into New Labour, but the way in which the party
itself has been internally reconstructed has been relatively unconsidered. Yet New Labour’s invention of itself in relation to an imagined
‘other’ – ‘Old Labour’ – onto which its fears, anxieties (and, perhaps,
desires) were projected, has had major repercussions within the party’s
structures. Fundamental changes have been made in the name of
‘modernisation’, achieving legitimacy largely because the ‘old’ Labour
Party was successfully cast – frequently by its own members – as an
arcane and obsolete institution, tainted by a wholly self-interested
‘activism’. Thus, for example, Peter Mandelson was arguing in 1996
that ‘popular participation in the party started to decline and the party
structure weakened, leaving by the 1970s an empty shell in many
constituencies. Far too often this suited the small cliques of party loyalists who remained to run things as they wanted’ (1996: 213).
The apparent break with party traditions that produced the invention
of New Labour involved a process of cultural investment in a particular
idea of the modern – one that seemed at odds with what I will call
Labour’s ‘traditional modernity’. It also entailed a rhetorical emphasis
on social and political inclusion, together with a distancing from class
politics, as signified by the appropriation of the American political
metaphor of ‘the big tent’ to describe Blairism’s redefinition of the
party’s political culture. In place of the ‘special relationship’ between
Labour and the old manufacturing-based trade unions, New Labour
promised equal opportunities for capital and labour, and an extended
definition of its own constituency. In order to do this effectively it
therefore also had to redefine itself, its party base and its culture.
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Yet New Labour’s rhetoric of cultural modernity has neither
endeared it to outsiders nor helped convince party members. Instead,
it has produced a sense of the party as a hollowed-out entity without
principles, purpose or even a ‘real’ membership. To draw on Jean
Baudrillard’s (1983: 2) flawed yet powerful argument about the
collapse of the ‘real’ into the ‘hyperreal’, the relationship between
policy and politics and their mediation seems increasingly blurred. The
cultural investment in image and style, together with a professionalised
(and obsessively reactive) approach to media management, means that
the rhetoric of New Labour has begun to be perceived as standing in
for real changes in policy, even where this is demonstrably not the case,
and even among party members. The excessive rhetorical emphasis on
the modern, the focus on the appearance of action and intervention
(resignations, reports, speeches) and the intense relationship between
political and media discourses, thus seem to me to be symptomatic of a
bigger shift in New Labour political culture – towards a postmodern
politics. It is this transformation, and the cultural significance of the
modernisation project to the internal politics of Labour and to party
members such as myself, that this chapter will explore.
1900 – COMPETING VERSIONS OF MODERNITY
The Labour Party has a contradictory and uneasy relationship with
modernity and with modernist thought. In contrast to what appear to
be sister parties in many other parts of Europe, which tend to style
themselves as Socialist or Social Democrat and which are underpinned
by the culturally modernist traditions of theoretical socialism, the
British Labour Party’s political allegiances were defined from the first
as being to a class, ‘labour’, rather than to a specific ideological project.
The Labour Representation Committee was formed in 1900, at the
high point of British capitalism and imperialism and of mass forms of
industrialisation, as a broad-based coalition to represent the specific
interests of the organised (and largely industrial) working class in the
Houses of Parliament. It was this grouping which formally became the
Labour Party in 1906.
Though undoubtedly committed to the grand modern narratives of
progress, morality and social order, Labour was never underpinned by
a coherent and distinctively Socialist party ideology. As Eric Shaw
points out (1996: 3), ‘the original Labour Party exhibited a number of
characteristics which have never been entirely lost. In contrast to continental social democratic parties, it was a party of interest rather than
ideas’. These origins shaped the party’s peculiar relationship to an
‘epochal’ modernity which tied it to processes and allegiances forged
under industrialisation, urbanisation and the development of a mass
society, while also cementing an intense hostility to overtly ideological
forms of politics. It is this epochal modernity, including the links with
the trade unions, which New Labour has struggled with in its attempt
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to redefine both itself and its membership.
Indeed, without a coherent and elaborated ideological model of
society and of itself as a force within the social, the Labour Party
responded in two ways. First, it developed a patchwork of beliefs and
ethics drawn from Methodism, radicalism and trade unionism, all of
which were underpinned by a single fundamental principle: the
commitment to reform not revolution. Second, the party generated an
attachment to its own history and to the actors in that history – Keir
Hardie, Clement Attlee, Nye Bevan, Jennie Lee, Harold Wilson,
Barbara Castle – as a way of making sense of itself. Instead of an ideology it had a story.
The patchwork of beliefs was effectively held together by a philosophical position whose links to common sense in the Gramscian sense
effectively helped facilitate the New Labour project: pragmatism. It
was pragmatism that made the party open to new ideas as long as they
could be grafted onto its reformist version of modernity. It was pragmatism that enabled principles to be abandoned on the grounds that
they no longer ‘worked’, and others to be adopted because they were
voter-friendly. Indeed, it was pragmatism that was frequently defended
as a British solution to a British problem – winning elections through
the first-past-the-post system. And it has been pragmatism that has
formed the basis of the New Labour approach to policy, an approach
that may best be defined as instrumental rationalism.
The emphasis on history as a guiding narrative in Labour’s selfdefinition has been complex and paradoxical. On the one hand, the
party is opposed to ‘tradition’ when it comes in the form of ‘Toryism’
and pre-industrial models of power and privilege (although the
monarchy has been perversely exempt); on the other, it is sentimentally attached to its own story as an explanatory framework and to the
traditions of the labour movement. Even Tony Blair has argued that
‘modernisation is not about diluting traditional values. It is about
breathing new life into them’ (1999: 157). Such ‘traditional modernity’
thus frames the party’s complex relationship both to industrialisation
and the development of liberal democracy, and to a more abstruse
sense of national identity to which Britishness and ‘tradition’ are
closely tied.
This history also worked to define the subject of its narrative, the
hero of its action and the primary beneficiary of the changes it sought
to bring about: the white working-class man. Indeed, the importance of
‘labour’ itself in the form of manual, usually industrial, work remains
valorised in Labour Party discourse. This has meant that other kinds of
work and other kinds of social identities have tended to be devalued or
marginalised. Even as work was struggled over and redefined, ‘feminised’ and casualised during the 1970s and 1980s, masculinism
remained central to the discursive structure of Labour politics.
However, Labour’s relationship to the epochal modern is most
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explicitly if not very effectively expressed in its organisational structure, which is both rigorously ‘democratic’ and materially
exclusionary. It may be useful to see this in terms of Raymond
Williams’s (1980) model of the presence of residual and emergent
elements as well as dominant ones in any given cultural formation; and
these elements can be clearly identified in the battles that marked the
shift to New Labour. The culturally dominant version of the party,
rigorously imposed by Blairism and widely mediated, is effectively of
a ‘post-modern’ organisation, in its emphasis on multiculturalism and
faith communities, sexual liberalism (within certain clear parameters)
and ‘meritocratic’ individualism. This is the party of the posters and
television advertisements, a party which offers space to the white
nuclear family and to the stable gay couple, to the aspiring, ‘postfeminist’ young black woman and to the Muslim Asian man who came
to Britain in the 1950s to make a better way of life: a party for whom
the question of class and the economy has apparently been settled. Yet
the residual culture of the Labour Party, the culture that is lived at the
local level, remains dominated by the social relations of class power
and male dominance, and by the ‘modern’ structures and conventions
that were intended to transform them. So, at least two versions of
modernity have been struggled over in the move from Labour to New
Labour, and these can be identified in the gap between media representations of the party and the structures that continue to characterise its
local base.
THE 1990S – ‘MODERNISING’ STRUCTURES/POSTMODERN
PRINCIPLES
‘The party’ is still officially managed by a system of committees developed in the early twentieth century, all of which are empowered to
debate issues and pass resolutions that are intended – in theory at least
– to shape national policy. These range from the constituency-based
General Committees, which are made up of delegates from local
branches, through to the National Executive Committee, which is
supposed to determine the overall direction of the party. These formal
mechanisms are explicitly tied into both local and national government
structures (local councils, parliamentary constituencies), so that elected
representatives are, nominally at least, directly accountable to the party
membership. At my local branch meetings in Birmingham, for example, the ward councillors, as well as the local Labour MP, attend
meetings and can be variously questioned, reprimanded or congratulated on their actions. Moreover, any branch member can submit a
written resolution on any topic, which will then be debated and voted
upon. If the resolution is agreed it will be passed up the chain to the
Constituency and Regional Parties and, in theory at least, to the
National Party where it may become policy.
Branch and constituency meetings are further marked by their
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formality. Each has a Chair, Secretary and Treasurer with clearly
defined roles; meetings are dominated by lengthy verbal or written
reports by delegates about other parts of the meeting chain; there is a
fixed agenda bound by the party’s standing orders; and members are
supposed to wait to be called by the Chair before they can speak. In
principle, such a formalised way of operating ensures that important
issues are addressed, that everyone has a chance to speak and to be
heard, and that party officers are accountable for their actions.
However, such a structure, with its hierarchies, bureaucracies and
committee-room odour, has all the appurtenances of modernity to be
found in a Victorian telegraph system or a tower block in Tashkent. Its
continuation has led to the increasing visibility of contradictions
around participation and activism in local Labour politics.
By continuing to operate through systems that are ‘modern’ but not
especially contemporary, and through rules that are formally democratic but not especially inclusive, the localised base of the party has been
weakened. The regularisation of meetings on weekday evenings means
that those with family responsibilities may not be able to attend. The
formality of discussion may mean that those who are unused to public
forms of speech are silenced. Even the use of particular kinds of
rhetoric – the register of Labourism – may confuse or alienate new
members, and can look emptily gestural. At my local branch meetings,
middle-aged white men far outnumber any other group attending and
tend, still, to dominate discussions and decision-making. Most belong
to the public sector middle class (or are retired from it), as teachers,
lecturers, social workers, health professionals, council officers or trade
union officials. Women have become increasingly absent from branch
meetings over the last few years (although they were a significant presence during the 1980s and early 1990s), and those who do attend say
less, despite the example of high profile female MPs. There are a
number of black and Asian members, and in Birmingham at least a
significant number of Asian city councillors and Asian-dominated
branches, but in ‘white’ branches such as my own they rarely attend
meetings. In this respect, the party’s residual modernity seems to have
been intensified: rather than extending inclusivity it appears to be withering away. More insidiously, while racism remains publicly (and very
properly) identified as a significant political problem, it is increasingly
difficult to put questions of gender and power on the agenda of local
Labour Party activity, and casual sexism continues to underpin many
aspects of social relations. The extent to which the national party was
complicit in the trivialisation and then vilification of ‘Blair’s Babes’ in
the media is symptomatic of the way in which the party as a whole has
failed to embed a genuine commitment to gender equality.
All this made the case for modernising the party in the early 1990s
convincing. It enabled something called ‘Old Labour’ to be demonised
and helped to secure consent to the first tranche of changes that
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signalled the party’s transformation. First, the voting structures were
completely overhauled, with OMOV (One Member, One Vote) replacing the complex system of union block votes at the party conference in
1993, and the procedures around NEC elections were made more transparent. Committee membership became – it seemed – genuinely more
democratic and more open as a consequence. The removal of the block
vote in particular seemed to signal the recognition that the ‘organised’
working class was increasingly a fraction of the real working class, and
that the party was open to other, more diverse groups and interests.
The climax of the struggle between these two versions of the
modern – between ‘Old’ and ‘New’ Labour – took place over the abolition of ‘Clause Four’ in 1994 and 1995. Clause Four of the original
1918 Party Constitution was drafted by the Fabians Sidney Webb and
Arthur Henderson, and had been the key symbolic statement of
Labour’s commitment to the redistribution of wealth. It pledged the
Labour Party, ‘to secure for the workers by hand or by brain the full
fruits of their industry and the most equitable distribution thereof that
may be possible upon the basis of the common ownership of the means
of production, distribution and exchange’.
Shaw (1996: 5-6) argues that Webb in particular did not actually
believe in these principles (and suggests that the Clause itself was partly
a pragmatic device, partly a product of its historical moment); and it is
certainly true that even ‘Old’ Labour never attempted to carry out its
promise when in government. Indeed, Clause Four was a symbolic text
more than anything else – it represented the utopian dreams and desires
of members rather than their expectations. Yet sentimental attachment
to it was also symptomatic of the way in which Labour’s traditional
modernity could be cast as quaint and old-fashioned as well as tokenistic: what was the point of keeping a clause in the constitution that
committed the party to a form of anti-capitalism that it didn’t believe
in and which was potentially alienating to the private sector, and to the
conservative middle classes who had to be wooed? Its abolition was,
then, also a symbolic act and was the most significant example of the
playing out of the struggle around modernisation and modernity
within the party.
The other significant change in the modernisation process has been
much more difficult to trace or to challenge. It involved the stealthy
introduction of a series of rival or parallel structures to the party’s own
system, in the form of focus groups, ‘independent’ advisers, media
experts and press officers. These groups and individuals are frequently
invisible within party structures, or operate outside them – and are
wholly unaccountable because of this. They are either directly answerable to the Party’s Head Office or to the prime minister’s office at
Downing Street, or contribute to the formulation of policy in ways
that are unavailable to ordinary members. Indeed, the policy focus
groups often appear to have been deliberately constructed without
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party members, presumably on the grounds that we were ‘too political’
to represent public opinion. Such groups represent the mythologised
constituency of ‘middle England’ – a coded rubric describing the
suburban, historically anti-Labour middle classes – that New Labour
courted during the 1990s.
Yet, by the end of that decade party members were themselves being
directly addressed in a glossy newsletter, Inside Labour (now replaced
by Labour News), whose job was to ‘spin’ both the policies of the
party and the main political figures. Although an apparently unimportant journal, Inside Labour was crucial to the redefinition of the party’s
image and identity: from the idea of Labour representing a relatively
homogeneous, unified ‘working class’, to one of it as a coalition of
diverse interests and identities, including women, ethnic minorities,
gays and lesbians. Inside Labour thus helped to manage the party’s
shift to New Labour by representing it as a fait accompli.
These changes seem to me to be symptomatic also of the larger
transformations taking place in British politics over the past decade, as
well as of the ambivalences and contradictions around our understanding of what constitutes the ‘modern’ and how it relates to ‘progress’.
There is a great deal of talk about democracy, and a much more overtly
articulated commitment to it in the form of what appear to be strenuously transparent codes and mechanisms for participation in politics
and accountability to party members. Yet the emergence of a ‘shadow’
Labour Party, made up of anonymous advisers and focus groups whose
precise relationship both to decision-making and to party democracy is
unclear, shows not only that the presentation and management of
public image is often regarded as more important than the social effects
of politics in a ‘real’ world, but also that New Labour’s commitment to
internal democracy is questionable.
1997 – A POSTMODERN PARTY (1): CONSUMPTION
The final break between the old model of Labour Party membership as
signifying (even in a limited fashion) active participation in public politics and the largely passive model that has become dominant under
Blairism took place at some point during the mid-1990s. Up until 1995
the ‘modernising’ project had barely addressed the nature and status of
party membership and the function of individuals within the party
structure. The mass-based and largely urban model that had prevailed
from the 1920s onwards had remained unquestioned. Within this
model membership was a form of active volunteerism. Members were
expected to contribute to meetings, take up posts such as those of
Treasurer or General Committee delegate and, most importantly,
declare their politics in public ways. This volunteerist paradigm structured the party’s character: it helped to determine the issues that were
at stake and the manner in which they were addressed.
The stated goal of the Blair leadership in the years immediately before
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and after the General Election of 1997 was to create New Labour as a
‘mass membership’ party by maximising the transformation of ‘supporters’ into ‘members’. Paradoxically, this desire seemed to articulate the
twin ‘modernities’ of both the ‘old’ and ‘new’ wings of the party; it drew
on the language of ‘Old Labour’ with its attachment to the urban masses,
and it spoke to the Blairite modernisers who were committed to drawing in as many potential supporters as possible by eschewing left/right
political antinomies. What was not overtly acknowledged, however, was
that this process would also produce a shift in power relations by turning the party’s (troublesome) membership of ‘activists’ – already
identified as a problem by Peter Mandelson – into a docile support base.
The new party model was partly achieved by the introduction of a
national computerised membership system. This had several consequences, both for the ‘modernisation’ of the party and for the shift in
power between the local and national strands. The most significant was
the way in which it effectively redirected the dynamics of party organisation from the ‘roots’ of the constituencies and local branches back to
the centre. From being a party whose membership was largely organised around localised recruitment and activism, especially at the level of
local elections, Labour became a centralised, overtly hierarchical
organisation, whose membership was directly controlled at a national
level. The ‘mass’ party that subsequently developed had little in
common with the socialist – and properly ‘modernist’ – model of a
mass movement, and much more in common with the post-modern
phenomenon of the fragmented, individualised internet customer,
‘massified’ in terms of numbers rather than consciousness.
The ‘post-modern’ New Labour party is a much more contingent,
fluid and ‘floating’ entity than the old Labour Party – involving coalitions of interests that are not defined primarily by class, caste or
ideological commitment. While the process of extending and redefining both the nature of membership and the politics of a ‘Labour
identity’ is clearly crucial, it seems to me that the specific version of the
postmodern that has been taken up is one that is reductively commodificatory. Culturally, the party now resembles a cross between a
business and a club (despite the ‘mass membership’), with an annual
return to make to its stake-holders, and a centralised and autonomous
organisational structure. This also means that membership itself has
been destabilised. Are party members activists or share-holders? Are
they entitled to expect a ‘profit’ from their investment or are they to be
seen as akin to charitable givers – donating without expectation of a
specific return other than the warm glow of knowing that they have
done some good in the world? In addition, because the party member
has been stealthily recast as a supporter (despite the declaration of a
desire to do precisely the opposite) – that is, as someone who has little
power to change or intervene in policy – joining New Labour closely
resembles joining the RAC or supporting a charity: membership is
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increasingly represented in terms of specific, individualised and
consumerist benefits.
The post-modern party supporter appears in party literature defined
largely in terms of individualised lifestyle and consumption practices
that are wholly uncoupled from a wider social context (a perennial
‘floating voter’ perhaps). For example, I have a nicely glossy brochure
entitled ‘Benefits of Labour Party Membership’. It offers me discounts
on insurance services, a Co-operative Bank Visa card and personal loan
service, and access to a telephone-based travel club (which promises to
be open 364 days a year – I wonder if they are unionised?). In case I
become nostalgic for the picturesque, I can purchase a series of Labour
Party poster reproductions so that, in a piece of exquisitely postmodern irony, I might have Keir Hardie’s 1900 address to the
impoverished voters of Merthyr Tydfil to hang on the walls of my
post-industrial loft apartment if I am so inclined. Supporters, it seems,
must be repeatedly wooed, their commitment secured and reclaimed
on a regular basis and their membership guaranteed by the promise of
material benefits to themselves if they are to be retained.
Inside Labour especially exhibited profoundly symptomatic anxieties
about the party and the nature of political commitment. And because
New Labour promised to achieve its goals painlessly and consensually,
making things better for everyone, including those who already enjoy a
comfortable life, the tension between the expression of that position and
older, socialist values was especially visible in such texts. In the October
2000 edition, for instance, an editorial letter from then General Secretary
Margaret McDonagh, began with an emphatic assertion of the ‘fundamental differences’ between Labour and the Conservatives, and went on
to remind readers of the effectiveness of the government’s policies on the
economy, presumably on the basis that party supporters, unlike party
members, may take their custom elsewhere.
Equally problematic was the magazine’s emphasis on members as
‘willing hands’ rather than thinking individuals. For example, a 2001
pre-election edition of Inside Labour featured a series of snapshots of
party supporters, showed them stuffing envelopes, campaigning with
national politicians and recruiting new members. Later editions
featured strenuous attempts to demonstrate party openness through
columns in which ‘ordinary’ members quizzed ministers about government policy. All offered in the name of openness and communication;
and, in the sense that we are now receiving regular letters, missives and
documents from party headquarters, this is the case. In contrast to the
dog days of the early 1980s, when Labour Party members were fortunate to be sent a parcel of stickers in time for an election, we are now
bombarded with literature: personalised letters from Tony Blair and
John Prescott, leaflets to hand out, pocket policy guides, all clearly
setting out what we are supposed to say – and think. Yet the political
thinness of so many of these texts, together with their high glossiness,
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makes them powerful reminders of New Labour’s investment in style
and simplified ‘messages’.
One key moment in the run up to the general election in 2001
marked this process for me most clearly. It was a Saturday morning in
early February and, with a general election originally expected in May,
plans for the forthcoming campaign were under way both locally and
nationally. I answered the telephone to a caller who identified himself
as speaking from Labour Party Head Office in London, and who
launched into a scripted plea for a donation. ‘We would like to thank
you for your support’, I was told. ‘The Labour Party is very appreciative of the money you donate’. Although this method of soliciting
funds has become familiar to most party members over the last few
years, this particular moment assumed the status of an epiphany for
me. I responded angrily and somewhat futilely with the retort, ‘actually, I am the Labour Party, not somebody sitting in an office in
London. Political parties are made up of people like us who do the
work locally – they are not something that exists beyond their
members’. Even as I spoke I wasn’t sure whether what I was saying was
‘true’, or could even be said to have been true once. Nonetheless, I was
convinced that the moment was symptomatic of the way in which
party members like me were being systematically marginalised from
the decision-making process and transformed into the ‘docile bodies’
(in Foucault’s phrase) required to leaflet and canvass but not to think
or debate. The caller’s (also prescribed) response was illuminating – it
was to repeat his thanks ‘on behalf of the Labour Party’ for my good
work, which wasn’t really the point.
The main issue that arose out of this brief encounter was the way in
which it crystallised for me the shift that had taken place around the
status of party members in the current structures of the organisation. It
offered a brief shaft of light onto the way in which my – and others’ –
membership of the party had been redefined without my consent or
knowledge and probably outside the existing, if somewhat creaky,
internal political structures – structures that were supposed to deliver a
democratic decision-making process. Someone somewhere had
decided not only that the Labour Party should establish a national callcentre system that would effectively by-pass local recruitment and
fund-raising mechanisms (with all the implications for local party
funds that this suggests), but also that the discursive address through
which members would be solicited should emphasise the need for
financial support rather than political activity. Nobody has ever telephoned me from London to remind me to go out canvassing. They
may prefer me not to.
1997 – A POSTMODERN PARTY (2): PASTICHE
Importantly, this recasting of the role of the party member has been
accompanied by a powerful rhetorical emphasis on our importance,
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but only in this limited, redefined capacity. If anything, as the sense of
belonging to a political movement has declined, the rhetorical emphasis on party membership has become more insistent. There is plenty for
us to do but this doesn’t include thinking about the politics in which
we are supposed to be involved. This specific moment emphasised for
me a larger, ongoing process: that of the party’s effective split between
a powerful, centralised, and undoubtedly metropolitan (and masculine)
executive ‘Labour Party’, and a disempowered, symptomatically
provincial and individualised membership.
In his attempt to identify and define the characteristics of postmodern culture, Fredric Jameson (1984) has explored the extent to
which post-modern texts are themselves both ‘knowing’ and nostalgic
about the modern, while eschewing an overt commitment to its
precepts or ideals. One could argue, of course, that Tony Blair’s insistent restatement of certain ideals that may be said to be ‘modern’, such
as fairness, moral probity and a just world, is clear evidence of New
Labour’s genuine modernity in ideological terms. But one could also
see them as a postmodern evocation of nostalgia of the kind that
Jameson discusses. Blair’s grandiose claims to speak for the oppressed
or to be able to bring world peace appear excessive and therefore
hollow: they have the style and rhetorical appearance of the modern,
but the strong performative aspects involved – especially Blair’s own
self-consciousness about his performance of matey masculinity – make
them unconvincing. This may be because post-modern culture itself
can make little space for grand claims or big ideas, so that the sense that
such speeches are a pastiche of a political mode now largely residualised becomes inevitable. Similarly, the nostalgic references to
Labour’s own traditions seem to situate them in quotation marks.
Jameson (1984: 53-92) goes on to argue that these nostalgic texts
render a historical period, or more generally a concept of ‘pastness’,
through a process of stylistic connotation, in which meanings are
invoked through cultural references, but the specificities of historical
change, especially struggles over power, are removed. In postmodern
culture the 1960s are recast as ‘the sixties’ – a condensed, barely periodised moment in which mods and rockers, Carnaby Street posers,
hippy counter-culturalists and mini-skirted dollybirds are part of the
general maelstrom, and the Vietnam War becomes a groovy epiphany.
For Jameson (1985: 120), such texts are ‘schizophrenic’, occupying the
present and the past simultaneously and with a heightened intensity.
They offer a condensed and largely empty history, dominated by
popular and pop culture, in which the ambience of ‘pastness’ is
produced by a flattening out of temporality and a knowing stylisation
of its artefacts and commodities, as though history were simply a story
of ‘things’. The television series I Love the Seventies (BBC TV) is an
interesting instance of this trend, exemplifying a genre that is both
excessively knowing and hardly knowledgeable enough.
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This tendency to flatten out the past or to see it in terms of changes
in consumption practices is most visible in media culture. But the
extent to which the New Labour project depended upon style, spectacle and a gestural attachment to Labour’s own history came through to
me most forcibly at a particular moment during the General Election
campaign in the summer of 2001. Activist members of my local branch
and constituency, already somewhat depleted in enthusiasm by the loss
of faith engendered by the Blair administration’s conservatism, reluctantly but with a sense of fateful obligation duly began to organise the
nightly canvassing and the weekly street stalls that mark an election. As
part of the election materials from national office, our local
constituency received something extra to be used on the street stalls
and on polling day: a set of ready-made card placards mounted on
short poles, uncannily resembling those traditionally carried on
marches or at demonstrations, yet this time emanating from party
headquarters and bearing a Labour-endorsing slogan: ‘Be Part of It:
Vote Labour, June 7’. The placards were somewhat self-consciously
waved at a couple of street stalls organised by my own branch and
constituency, and I have a set of photographs of friends and members
holding them aloft, but the experience of receiving and using them
seemed to be a further symptom of New Labour’s effective emptying
out of the politics from the political. In a bizarre simulacrum of a tradition of protest, the boards successfully managed to be both a pastiche
of ‘Old Labour’ and an effective incorporation of its traditions. By
carrying Millbank-approved placards which bore messages only the
most die-hard anti-democrat might object to, the weary foot soldiers of
New Labour could, with a brave heart and a clear conscience, occupy
both ‘old’ and ‘new’ ground simultaneously. They invoked a kind of
‘Labour pastness’ that was mysteriously redolent of public protest, of
organised labour, and even of ‘the masses’ themselves in their Jarrow
Marchers romanticised form. Yet they did this without once offering a
proposition that could be interpreted as genuinely radical or resistant –
unless we assume that voting is now sufficiently unusual for it to
constitute a challenge to the status quo. As Jameson observes, the
sensation was one of occupying the present and the past simultaneously – a whole tradition condensed into a single object – yet the
politics of protest and of Labour’s own militant history was erased in
that very moment.
PERFORMING THE POLITICAL
During the 1990s the annual Labour Party conference was slowly
transformed from a forum of political exchange and decision-making
into something else: an increasingly spectacular ‘performance of the
political’, in which the appearance of measured debate replaced the
admittedly dismal spectacle of the union block vote and the heated
exchanges between the floor and the platform that had marked the
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1970s and 1980s. This remodelling of the Labour Party conference
seemed at first to mark a genuine commitment to democratisation, as I
have already noted. Its status as an annual spectacle of power rather
than a forum for policy-making was, however, confirmed by the 2001
conference. Coming so rapidly after the securing of the mythologised
‘second term’ in June of that year, the conference might have been
expected to at least gesture towards the implementation of the radicalism and innovation that had been repeatedly promised and rarely
delivered by the Blair government’s first period in office. However,
notwithstanding the high drama of Tony Blair’s ‘post-11 September’
address, much of the conference was marked by an emphasis on stagemanaged speeches, underlined by a highly mediated style of
presentation, including digital video screenings, ‘mood music’ as
conference delegates filed into the main hall, and intermittent ‘feelgood
moments’ during which party workers were rewarded for their faith
with suitable baubles. All of this seemed in important ways to be part
of an appropriation of the style of the party without the political
substance. It looked like the Labour Party, and there were plenty of
symbols of the Labour Party, but the substance of politics – ideas,
debates, plans – was largely absent except at the level of rhetoric.
For example, on the morning of 10 October I watched a television
transmission of a public discussion carefully staged in the style of the
BBC topical debate programme, Question Time. It was chaired by Tom
Sawyer, the ex-General Secretary of the party, and featured three
impeccably Blairite government ministers, Stephen Byers, Alan
Milburn and Estelle Morris, who were shown responding to a series of
questions from the conference floor. The four main participants were
seated on stage in leather bucket chairs rather than behind a table, and
the style of the proceedings was relaxed and informal, signified by the
flourishing of shirtsleeves and the unbuttoning of jackets. This, the
semiotics of style suggested, was to be a friendly, civilised discussion
between fellow party members. The exchange between the floor and
the ministers that followed was illuminating, but not because it was
marked by radical policy declarations or by lively and engaged debate.
Indeed, the register of the ‘discussion’ – the rehearsal of well-worn
phrases, the avoidance of explicit policy promises and the reduction of
political argument to ‘on message’ platitudes – made it clear that it was
primarily addressed to another audience, one located outside the
conference hall: the imagined television audience of uncommitted
voters whose support evidently had to be secured. It was the emphasis
on the appearance of debate, rather than on debate itself, that was
important.
Two further things were striking about this elaborate charade. The
first was its clear articulation of contemporary forms of hierarchy: the
government ministers were informal in manner yet seated ‘above’ the
conference floor, comfortable with and sure of their authority. The
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second was the way in which it staged more effectively than anything
before or since the transformation of ‘the conference’ – that is, the delegates – from equal participants in a political decision-making process
into an audience for a political spectacle. The performative aspects of
the conference signified its shift from a genuine forum of debate to a
spectacle of political exchange. Once again, I was struck by the extent
to which New Labour has become a ‘virtual’ party, full of members
whose status is closer to that of a ready-made audience or a customerbase for specific products than to a truly ‘modern’ mass movement
with the political power to change anything. I remain wondering
whether New Labour’s official discourse of ‘modernity’ is little more
than a postmodern simulacrum.
CONCLUSION
By winning two successive general elections, by effectively marginalising the Conservative opposition, and by developing a political
discourse that remains powerfully hegemonic, New Labour has
successfully established itself as the major political force in the Britain
of the twenty-first century. As I have argued, it was Labour’s specific
characteristics – its traditionalism and commitment to pragmatism, and
its refusal of ideology – that facilitated this triumph, through the
deployment of instrumental rationalism in policy and the remaking of
the party in a hollowed-out form. However, this process also needs to
be situated within wider changes in political culture, both in Britain
and globally. There has been a real shift in the idea of the political party,
not, despite the rhetoric of modernisation, towards a ‘modern’ model,
but rather to a postmodern one, in which membership is about
consumerism, power structures are diffused, and political commitment
is contingent. Indeed, the rhetorical excess of the modernising project,
its ‘noisiness’ about modernity, is precisely what points to a postmodern reading – it is concerned largely with the modern as style and as
image. And while there is something profoundly disturbing about the
way in which Labour’s tradition of principled (if frequently puritanical) dislike of consumer culture seems to have been replaced by an
uncritical embrace of markets, it is difficult to see how else the party
could have remade itself within the context of postmodern flux.
All this suggests more than a crisis for the Labour Party, however; it
suggests a significant transformation in the practice of politics that
New Labour’s current hegemony disguises. The general election
victory of 2001, for example, was secured with the smallest voter turnout – 59 per cent – since 1918. New Labour is a symptom of the ways
in which political interests and concerns have re-focused, both at local
and global levels, so that conventional ‘left’ and ‘right’ political parties
are no longer always identified as the primary means to effect social
change, and are uncertainly (frequently antagonistically) related to
emergent social groupings, such as the anti-capitalism movement that
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appeared in the late 1990s. The large-scale international economic and
social shifts that produced such resistant groups also suggest that the
confinement of electoral politics within a strictly national context is
increasingly difficult. New Labour began as a Labour Representation
Committee in 1900, an organisation that articulated the interests and
ambitions of a very specific historical social formation – the British
working class. There is no reason to believe that it is the only appropriate vehicle for other kinds of formations – with other interests and
ambitions.
However, despite this, and notwithstanding my concerns and reservations about my own membership of the Labour Party, about the
centralisation of power and the disappearance of accountability, and
about the persistence of masculinism as a dominant feature of New
Labour, I am left with a dilemma. I remain committed to a reformed
version of left politics and to those of the electoral variety, until something that can deliver democratic accountability genuinely appears to
replace it. I also want to be able to engage practically in political activity, not to confine myself to academic commentary or express my
politics wholly within intellectualised terms. While I remain within the
party I can at least feel that I am doing something – however alleviatory, however small-scale – to make a material difference. Perhaps that
is an appropriately diminished ambition in these postmodern times.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Robin Blackburn (1997), ‘Reflections on Blair’s Velvet Revolution’, New Left
Review, 223, May/June: 3-16.
Jean Baudrillard (1983), Simulations, New York: Semiotext(e).
Michel Foucault (1977), Discipline and Punish: the Birth of the Prison, London:
Penguin.
Jane Franklin (2000), ‘What’s Wrong With New Labour Politics?’, Feminist
Review, 66, Autumn 2000:138-142.
Antonio Gramsci (1971), Selections From Prison Notebooks (edited by Quintin
Hoare and Geoffrey Nowell-Smith), London: Lawrence and Wishart.
Andrew Gray and Bill Jenkins (1999), ‘British Government and
Administration 1997-98: Modernisation and Democratisation?’, in
Parliamentary Affairs, 52 (2): 136-166.
W.H. Greenleaf (1983), The British Political Tradition. Vol. Two, The
Ideological Inheritance, London: Routledge.
Fredric Jameson (1984), ‘Postmodernism, or the cultural logic of late capitalism’, New Left Review, 146, July/August.
Fredric Jameson (1985), ‘Postmodernism and Consumer Society’, in Hal
Foster (ed) Postmodern Culture, London: Pluto: 112-120.
Andrew Rawnsley, (2001), Servants of the People: The Inside Story of New
Labour, London: Penguin.
Eric Shaw (1996), The Labour Party since 1945, Oxford and Malden,
Massachusetts: Blackwell.
160
9. Summer of discontent: New
Labour and the fuel crisis
Lisa Smyth
INTRODUCTION
In September 2000 daily life in Britain was severely disrupted when oil
refineries across the country were blockaded by road hauliers and
farmers protesting at the increasing price of fuel. This apparently spontaneous and uncoordinated action, taken in the name of ‘the People’s
Fuel Lobby’, was directed at the Blair administration’s high rate of tax
on petrol, approximately 72 per cent of the purchase price (Guardian
Unlimited, 14.11.00). The ‘people’s party’ appeared to be under attack
from ‘the people’ themselves.
This chapter is concerned with New Labour’s response to the fuel
crisis in particular, as an illustration of the dependency of Blairism
on what can be described as a politics of ‘passive revolution’
(Gramsci 1971:106-114). The party’s time in power has been marked
by crisis management, from the death of Princess Diana during its
first months in office, to the rail disasters, widespread flooding, the
spread of foot and mouth disease, anti-globalisation protests, and,
most recently, the ‘war on terrorism’. The action of the ‘People’s
Fuel Lobby’ represented the first major ‘popular’ criticism of New
Labour’s political legitimacy since it took power in 1997, and the
party’s successful management of this crisis depended on making
explicit the main currents of its cultural politics. New Labour’s
response to the People’s Fuel Lobby, who appeared to have successfully appropriated the distinctively Blairite category of ‘the people’,1
illustrates the ways in which the party’s hegemony depends on ‘the
people’s’ political passivity. In order to maintain its hegemonic position as the political expression of ‘the people’s’ will, New Labour
was dependent on preventing the development of alternative ‘popular’ forms of politics.
Specifically of interest in what follows is the way in which the initial
clash between New Labour’s ‘spin’ on the crisis and the popular news
media account of what was going on was resolved. How did the party
respond to the apparent revolt from the very people it claimed to repre161
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sent? How did the national news media construct the crisis, and the
relationship between the party and ‘the people’?
THE CRISIS
The actions of the People’s Fuel Lobby, blockading oil refineries across
Britain in order to prevent the distribution of petrol supplies, took the
Blair government by surprise. Although France had experienced popular protests against the escalating cost of fuel in the summer of 2000,
similar action seemed unlikely in Britain. Indeed, an attempt to urge
motorists to ‘dump the pumps’ during August 2000 in protest at the
rapidly increasing price of petrol failed to stimulate public action
(Glover 2000). However, as the price of crude oil reached US$35 per
barrel in September 2000, pushing petrol prices in the UK up to new
levels, a group of hauliers and farmers blockaded an oil refinery in
Stanlow, Cheshire, on 7 September. Within three days the protest
blockades had spread across Britain, and motorists began stockpiling
petrol supplies. Tanker drivers refused to leave refineries, claiming that
they had been intimidated by protesters. Long queues appeared at
petrol stations as supplies began to run out.
The protests lasted for one week, and were called off on condition
that the government act to reduce fuel duty within 60 days. However,
by the time this deadline had expired, the protests had lost the public
support they appeared to have enjoyed in September, for a number of
practical reasons. Public attention had shifted towards coping with the
chaos caused by severe flooding and with serious long-term disruption
on the railways following a fatal train crash at Hatfield (Clark et al
2000). In addition, Chancellor Gordon Brown announced his plan to
cut tax on low-sulphur fuel, and introduce a ‘Brit-Disc’ system aimed
at charging truckers from abroad for using British roads. He also
declared an increase to the basic state pension, something which, he
claimed, could not be funded if fuel tax were to be cut. Thus, he placed
the interests of the fuel lobby in conflict with the interests of impoverished pensioners, as a zero-sum option. Finally, the fuel protesters’
plans to organise a slow-moving convoy of vehicles to drive from
Jarrow to London in November, in an effort to draw comparisons with
the Jarrow hunger march of 1936, was reported in unsympathetic
terms. The convoy was strictly controlled by the police, and remained
insignificant in size and public impact.
THE ‘PEOPLE’S REVOLT’?
As Hall (1980) has argued, the media encode ‘news’ events with
‘preferred readings’ through which meaningful discourses are
constructed and reproduced. The news media’s survival depends on its
ability to articulate a national ‘we’ with whom a national audience can
identify (Anderson 1983: 40; Billig 1995: 115). News media are key
sites where political consensus and discourses of nationhood combine,
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not least in times of crisis, when the relationship between a national
‘we’, a political perspective, and a national ‘news’ audience becomes
destabilised (Hartley 1982; Mattelart 1986).
This media preference for national consensus in times of political
crisis was evident in coverage of the fuel protests. The crisis was
constructed initially as a popular revolt against the government, which
suggested that ‘New’ Labour’s newness was questionable. Was this
simply a re-run of the ‘Winter of Discontent’ of 1978/79 which ended
Labour’s last term in power, when widespread strike action caused
massive disruption to daily life in Britain? Was the ‘New’ Labour party
now capable of managing the economy successfully, engaging with ‘the
people’, and maintaining law and order?
The headline on the front page of the Sun newspaper at the height of
the fuel protests read ‘Great Petrol Revolt 2000’ (12.9.00). In the background were scenes of motorists queuing for petrol across Britain as
supplies ran out. As the paper explained, ‘Although all of Britain could
be out of fuel TONIGHT [sic], most drivers at the pumps were backing the protest.’ It seemed that ‘all of Britain’ was united in its revolt
against the ‘people’s party’. The fuel revolts were constructed, particularly by those popular news media that supported the actions, as a
popular protest against a government that was acting against the
people’s economic interests.2 Even the Labour-identified daily newspaper the Mirror urged the government to drop the price of fuel in the face
of the apparently widespread public anger, despite its opposition to the
blockades (Editorial, ‘Time to give motorists a break, Tony’ 12.9.00).
NEW LABOUR AND THE PEOPLE’S ECONOMY
‘Well, at the moment I’m running ten trucks and we’re gradually losing
work, month by month, to continental hauliers that can just come over to
our country with tanks full, disappear back to Germany, Belgium and
Holland. They’ve worn our roads out and not contributed a penny to this
country’s tax, and we’re trying to compete with that’ (Fuel Tax Protester,
interviewed on Channel Four News, 12.8.00).
The capacity of New Labour to manage the British economy in the
interests of ‘the people’ was specifically in question through the actions
of the fuel protesters, as the above statement indicates. Reports relied
explicitly on a nationalist construction of protesters and their supporters as a British ‘we’, who were not going to let ‘them’, i.e. the French
and other Europeans, get away with paying lower prices for fuel. This
national ‘we’ evoked memories of the Blitz spirit of co-operation, and
was a way of minimising public discontent at the disruption the blockades were causing. Indeed, one petrol station owner, who doubled the
price he charged for petrol, was attacked in the press and on television
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news, presumably for his attempts to make a personal profit out of a
national crisis, although this was not made explicit.3
The attack launched by the People’s Fuel Lobby on New Labour’s
ability to run the economy in the interests of ‘the people’ was significant. Labour had lost the 1992 election precisely because of a popular
perception, particularly evident in the tabloid press of the time, that the
party would be incapable of running a successful economy. Labour
was, in the well-known conservative phrase, the ‘tax and spend’ party,
and could not be trusted to keep ‘UK plc’ afloat (Philo 1994: 62-5).
‘New’ Labour’s claim to be the party of ‘the people’, a national-popular, non-ideological party which would support both industry and
labour, the City and the public sector (Gartside 1998: 61), was explicitly under attack in this ‘people’s revolt’. According to news reports,
‘New’ Labour appeared, like ‘old’ Labour, to be incapable of managing
the economy in the interests of ‘all’ the people.
NEW LABOUR AND THE POLITICS OF INCLUSION
The Labour Party under Blair has articulated a distinctly populist politics, which Ryan (1999) describes as reliant on the management of a
public sense of loss, achieved through a concern to re-engage the public
voice in the wake of Conservative elitism. However, this Blairite
discourse of popular inclusion came directly under attack through the
fuel crisis. Newspapers and news broadcasts sent messages from ‘the
ordinary people’ of Britain to the Prime Minister, who was accused of
not listening, and of being out of touch with ‘the people’.4 The prime
minister’s apparent easy access to petrol placed him in an entirely different category from others who were reliant on their cars, something
which the Sun newspaper reinforced in its ongoing depiction of transport minister and deputy prime minister John Prescott as ‘Two Jags
Prescott’ throughout the crisis (e.g. ‘2 Jags, One Hell of a Shambles on
TV’, Sun, 14.9.00). Again, the Labour-identified Mirror condemned
Blair’s attempts to ‘snub’ the fuel campaign, pointing out that the blockades didn’t affect his access to his Jaguar (‘I’m All Right Jag’ 12.9.00).
Thus, Blair and New Labour were constructed in the popular news
media as presiding over a people they not only refused to listen to, but
also actively appeared to be profiting from. As the Mail on Sunday
insisted, ‘the fundamental point of the protest is a rejection of this
Government’s policy of creaming off ever greater tax revenue while
blaming the world markets’ (Leader, 10.9.00). Was this the sort of
action to be expected from an ‘inclusive’ ‘New’ party, particularly a
party that constructs its ‘inclusive’ project in explicitly economic terms
(Levitas 1998)?
NEW LABOUR AND PUBLIC ORDER
Lengthy queues are forming on the forecourts in scenes which we have
not seen in this country in the 20 years since the overweening power of
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the trade unions was broken. Britain has changed beyond recognition in
that time. We no longer tolerate in this country unions that hold us to
ransom. Unlike France, where the government has caved in over the
same issue of fuel prices, we in this country no longer elect governments
that appease blackmailers. This was a battle hard won and there is no
appetite, even among activists, for a return to industrial anarchy (Leader,
Mail on Sunday, 10.9.00).
As Fowler (1991) argues, editorials play a particularly significant role
in constructing or evoking a national consensus, particularly in the face
of confusion or crisis. This is achieved not least by relying on categories of ‘us’ (namely the newspaper and its audience) and ‘them’,
against whom ‘we’ define ourselves (1991: 210).
The explicitly national point of view articulated by the Mail on
Sunday editorial, quoted above, positioned ‘us’ both against France,
and against the ‘old’ Labour politics of the pre-Thatcher era. The editorial concluded by warning that unless he cut fuel taxes, Gordon Brown
would face his own ‘Winter of Discontent’. While insisting all but a few
of the protesters were not militants or extremists, the newspaper
constructed an anti-strike, anti-protest national consensus which high
fuel tax was placing under severe pressure. These protests were
constructed as being unlike those presided over by ‘old’ Labour during
the Winter of Discontent, since these were spontaneous protests by
non-militant, ‘ordinary’, farmers, hauliers, and motorists. High fuel tax
provoked the ordinary British voter to adopt a form of action normally
associated with militant anarchists, and New Labour had consequently
placed public order at risk. This law-and-order failure on the part of
New Labour was not superficial, but raised questions concerning
where the party stood in relation to ‘us’. Was Blairism simply ‘old’
Labour in disguise, creating a culture of ‘lightning pickets’, blackmail
and industrial anarchy, because of its distance from ‘the people’?
The news media suggested that ‘the people’ were staging their own
revolution, bringing the country to a halt in order to demand that New
Labour live up to its claim to be the ‘people’s party’. How did New
Labour contain this apparent threat of rebellion?
DISARMING ‘THE PEOPLE’
The threat posed to New Labour’s populist hegemony during ‘the
people’s revolt’ was successfully reversed, not only as a result of the
impact of unforeseen events such as the widespread damage caused by
flooding and travel chaos, but through a strategy of passive revolution,
aimed at reasserting the party’s position as the only legitimate expression of ‘the people’s’ political will. This was achieved by officially
constructing fuel protesters themselves not as representatives of ‘the
people’, but instead as a threat to the nation’s economy, to its democratic institutions, and to public order. The ultimate success of this
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strategy was such that, by November 2000, when the protester’s 60-day
deadline had expired, the media had adopted New Labour’s construction of what was at stake. Blair insisted in his daily press conferences
that New Labour was indeed ‘new’, and would manage the protests in
a way which would protect ‘the people’s’ economic, political and
community interests.
THE PEOPLE’S ECONOMY
there is one very simple difference with the greatest of respect between
now and the 1970s: we have one of the strongest economies, perhaps the
strongest economy at the moment in Europe. We’ve unemployment at
historic lows, we’ve our long-term interest rates, for the first time […] in
my adult life, below that of Germany, we’ve an immensely strong
economic position. There are problems with particular groups, but this
is a protest that is being caused by a small number of people at oil
refineries. It’s not an industrial dispute, it’s nothing to do with industrial
relations who want to force a change of policy on the government (Prime
Minister’s Press Conference on Fuel, 13.9.00).
During his daily press conferences, Blair attempted to reassert the identification between New Labour and ‘the people’ by insisting on the
difference between the events of September 2000 and those faced by the
previous Labour government in the late 1970s. As the above quote
demonstrates, Blair was at pains to point out that ‘New’ Labour was
presiding over a strong and successful economy, whereas ‘old’ Labour’s
regime was associated with economic crisis and mismanagement. He
insisted that a successful economy depended on strict regulation. Thus,
he argued that to devise economic policy in a context of crisis, particularly where pressure groups appeared to be attempting to extract
concessions which were not necessarily in the interests of ‘the nation’,
would be a mark of bad government.
Blair reasserted the central position of economic management to his
government, insisting that the ‘national’ economic interest took priority over any particular interest or lobby. As he argued:
To put all that [economic success] at risk by emergency budgets in
response either to blockades or temporary fluctuations in the world oil
price would be a gross betrayal of this country’s true national interest
and I will not do it. I do not in any way minimise the plight of some of
the hauliers and farmers who are genuinely suffering, but the way to help
them is not to harm the rest of the country (Prime Minister’s Press
Conference on Fuel, 12.9.00).
The government’s refusal to respond to the demands of the protesters
was precisely what, in these terms, made it the government and the
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party of ‘the people’. Blair could therefore characterise the possibility
of making tax concessions to the fuel protesters as an act of gross
national betrayal.
‘GOVERNING IN THE ROUND’: NEW LABOUR’S POLITICS
OF INCLUSION
We are still listening. But there is a process to decide a Budget [sic]. We
receive representations. There is a pre-Budget report in November and
then there is the actual Budget in March. That is the proper way to listen
and if necessary to respond to what we know are genuine problems
(Prime Minister’s Press Conference on Fuel, 13.10.00).
Blair denied the popular news media’s construction of the protests as
indicative of New Labour’s refusal to listen to ‘the people’. Clearly, the
investment of Blairism in a discourse of inclusivity, which marked itself
out as a ‘third way’, distinct from previous Conservative government
elitism and ‘old’ Labour socialism, was at stake. Blair’s response was
simply to announce that he and his party were indeed listening to ‘the
people’, but that they had to, as he described it, ‘govern in the round’.
In other words, a truly inclusive government should not act in response
to particular pressures, but should consider the broad effects of political actions, while observing established democratic procedures for
decision-making, in this instance the annual budget process.
It is at this point that New Labour’s populism is most fragile, since
clearly ‘the people’ are divided, and make conflicting demands on
government, something that Blair himself recognised:
Some of those people, out as farmers, asking for a cut in duty are the same
types of people I saw a short time ago asking for an increase in government subsidy to the farming industry. Some of those hauliers who want
us to cut duty also want us to increase spending on public transport.
Now, in the end, you’ve got to balance these things as a government, and
recognize you have to govern in the round, and that means occasionally
saying things to people that they don’t want to hear as well as things that
they do (Prime Minister’s Press Conference on Fuel, 14.9.00).
The idea of ‘governing in the round’ suggests that New Labour could
simply take account of local conflicts between ‘the people’ in ways,
which would ultimately reunite them. Thus, the party would not only
represent ‘the people’ in all their different locations, but could actually
reconstruct ‘the people’ as a coherent nation in situations of conflict,
through the decisions that it made.5 Again, this insistence that New
Labour were listening to ‘the people’ relied on constructing protesters
as a threat to national unity, a threat which ‘the people’ could depend
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on Blair’s government to assuage. It seems that there is little room for
democratic deliberation or persuasion in New Labour’s populism. The
need to insist that the party is in tune with ‘the people’ depends instead
on a politics of ‘decisionism’ that obscures substantial disagreements in
the interest of popular unity (Habermas 1996: 295-6).
RESISTING INTIMIDATION AND TERROR: NEW LABOUR
AND PUBLIC ORDER
Whatever the strength of feeling, there can be no excuse whatever for
this type of action which is hurting our people, businesses and emergency services severely. Legitimate protest is one thing. Trying to
bring the country to a halt is quite another, and there can be absolutely
no justification for it (Prime Minister’s Press Conference on Fuel,
12.9.00).
Blair located the activities of the fuel protesters on the terrain not of
politics but of law and order. As the above widely reported quote
demonstrates, he both isolated the protesters from ‘our people’, and
constructed them explicitly as a threat to social order.6
This law-and-order response was characteristic of New Labour’s
discourse of community, security and consensus, through which, as
Levitas notes, Blairism defines the arena of political inclusion (1998:
125). Blair constructed the protests not only as illegal, but also as a
threat to democracy. What he termed the ‘violence and intimidation’
practised by the protesters was contrasted with a distinctly British form
of democratic culture. As he argued, ‘no-one can seriously think that it
would be right for a British Government to allow policy to be decided
by direct action of this kind’ (Prime Minister’s Press Conference on
Fuel, 13.9.00).
Again, this uncompromising construction of the protesters marked
what was ‘new’ about New Labour, a party that would not preside, as
the last Labour government had done, over another Winter of
Discontent. Britain was not, Blair indicated, entering a period of
extended national crisis, when public health itself would suffer as a
result of the government’s inability to manage, or prioritise, competing
interests successfully. The health service had indeed been placed on ‘red
alert’ in response to the fuel crisis, and Blair insisted that blockades
were placing lives at risk. He signalled his government’s intention to
use the police and the army, as well as the oil companies themselves, to
ensure that fuel supply would return to normal. While this again raised
the spectre of the Winter of Discontent, when the police and striking
workers were involved in clashes, Blair’s law-and-order discourse,
combined with his discourse of democratic inclusivity, constructed the
possibility of clashes between the state and the protesters as a necessary
risk, in ‘the people’s’ interests.
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A key aspect to this ‘law and order’ response relied, ironically, on a
contrast between illegal ‘direct action’ and legal industrial action.
Unlike 1978/79, when the Labour Party’s link with the unions was seen
as the source of the government’s inability to run the country, in
September 2000 New Labour relied on the fact that the blockades were
not legally organised through established industrial action procedures
to label them as an illegitimate attempt to influence policy. Indeed, the
government suggested that the success of the blockades relied largely
on the protesters’ ability to intimidate unionised drivers. New
Labour’s discourse of democratic ‘inclusivity’ could accommodate
trade union representation, albeit within a framework of community
and consensus. It would not, as Levitas points out, engage in overtly
adversarial debate, an ‘old’ style of politics which ‘New’ Labour had
cast aside.7
CONCLUSION
What is remarkable about this episode in New Labour’s story is the
extent to which the issue of fuel tax disappeared from the political
agenda. By the time the sixty days had expired in November, the news
media constructed the protesters not as representatives of ‘the people’,
but as a self-interested lobby group. New Labour had apparently
succeeded in pacifying ‘the people’s revolt’, and re-establishing its own
hegemony as the representatives of ‘the people’. As journalist Bill
Neely commented, in his report on the protesters’ slow convoy which
set out for London on 10 November 2000: ‘They passed through Tony
Blair’s constituency. The numbers dwindled. It’s now clear to him, and
to them, this is no mass protest’ (ITV Evening News 10.11.00).
New Labour populism, reliant as it is on a political strategy of
passive revolution, produced two outcomes. Firstly, because its hegemony depends on refusing to recognise the legitimacy of any form of
‘popular’ political agency, it responds to direct action in terms of law
and order, rather than politics. In the case of the fuel crisis, the party
failed to engage seriously in any political debate over high fuel taxes,
for example by defending the high rate of fuel tax for environmental
reasons. Instead, during the height of the crisis, Blair insisted that
protest politics was anti-democratic, and consequently should not be
engaged with seriously by the government.
The second, related, effect of New Labour’s ‘passive revolutionary’
politics is that, because ‘popular’ political mobilisation must necessarily be directed by ‘the people’s party’, Blairism is unable to build
alliances with potentially popular social movements, for example, in
this instance with environmentalism.
The fuel crisis illustrates the ways in which the New Labour project
relies on and re-produces a consensual and passive form of British
political culture, also noted by Kelleher in this volume. The party is
consequently unable to respond to publicly expressed dissent on a
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range of issues in democratic political terms. For example, the May
Day Demonstration in London in 2001 was very heavily policed,
despite the fact that there was no illegal activity and no evident threat
of violence. Indeed, more than 1,000 protesters were imprisoned
within police cordons for six hours.8 Furthermore, Blair’s uncompromising response to the street protests against the visit of US president
George W. Bush to Gothenburg in June 2001, when he characterised
protesters as an ‘anarchist travelling circus’ whose leaders should be
prevented from travelling for political reasons, illustrates his efforts to
define all public protest, whether of left or right, as at the least illegal,
and, at the extreme, a form of terrorism (Guardian 18.6.01). Similarly,
he refused to criticise the policing of the anti-globalisation protests in
Genoa in July 2001, when one protester was killed and a number of
British citizens, among others, were seized and assaulted by the Italian
police.9 The fuel crisis indicates the ways in which New Labour’s
claim to be a distinctly new, revolutionary, party of ‘the people’
depends on a form of populism which refuses to recognise the political force behind competing expressions of ‘the people’s’ will. Such
expressions are treated as problems of law and order, as well as opportunities for New Labour to demonstrate its ‘new’ inclusive cultural
and political programme.
I am grateful to Deborah Lynn Steinberg and Richard Johnson for their
help in writing this chapter. I would also like to thank to Cillian
McBride and Louise Ryan for helpful comments and discussion, and to
the staff at the British Film Institute, for their assistance.
NOTES
1. This is illustrated for instance in Blair’s designation of Diana as ‘the
people’s Princess’ following her death in 1997 (Kear and Steinberg 1999).
2. Five News, for example, characterised the mid-week situation as one
where the government was refusing to back down, and the people in no
mood to surrender (12.9.00). This construction was not, however, universal in the media coverage. See, for instance, Channel Four News’s coverage
of the events on the same day as the above, where the presenter, Jon Snow,
asked ‘Is this the 21st century people’s revolt? We discuss whether this is
the new direct action or just plain old self-interest’ (12.9.00). The evidence
subsequently presented by the programme, including interviews with
motorists queuing for petrol they did not particularly need, suggested the
latter explanation.
3. For instance, he was labelled ‘the meanest man in Britain’ by Five News
(12.9.00).
4. See, for instance, the editorial published by the Sun newspaper on 13
September: ‘The Prime Minister is in a mess for one reason: He has not
been listening. He and Gordon Brown were WARNED [sic] time after
time about the people’s anger about fuel prices’. Only Channel Four News
(12.9.00) explicitly challenged this construction, by pointing out that
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5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
171
motorists had ignored the call to ‘Dump the Pumps’ during the summer of
2000. This news programme also characterised motorists who supported
the fuel protests as typical Conservative voters, by interviewing, ‘Basildon
man and woman’, and subsequently running an interview with
Conservative leader William Hague, thereby underlining the convergence
of views between all three interviewees.
Ruth Levitas (1998) demonstrates the centrality of this Durkheimian
emphasis on social cohesion and integration to New Labour’s politics.
As he argued: ‘whatever the protesters feelings, and I repeat I understand
the real difficulties people have over the high price of petrol, it cannot be
right to try to force a change in policy by these means. No Government,
indeed no country, could retain credibility in its democratic process or its
economic policy-making, were it to give in to such a campaign.’ (Prime
Minister’s Press Conference on Fuel, 13.9.00)/
This point is well illustrated by Blair’s speech to the 1996 Labour Party
Conference: ‘Forget the past. No more bosses versus workers. You are on
the same side. The same team. Britain united’ (quoted in Levitas 1998:
114).
Vikram Dodd ‘Blair praises Met for control of protesters’ Guardian
Unlimited 3 May 2001.
As he was reported as saying: ‘to criticise the Italian police and the Italian
authorities for working to make sure the security of the summit is right is,
to me, to turn the world upside down’ (Observer 22.7.01).
REFERENCES
Anderson, Benedict (1983), Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin
and Spread of Nationalism, London: Verso.
Billig, Michael (1995), Banal Nationalism, London: Sage.
Clark, Andrew, Keith Perry and Sarah Hall (2000), ‘A broken rail – new safety
alert at 100 sites on the network’, Guardian, 19 October.
Dougan, David (1968), The History of North East Shipbuilding, London:
George Allen and Unwin Ltd.
Fowler, Roger (1991), Language in the News: Discourse and Ideology in the
Press, London: Routledge.
Gartside, P. (1998), ‘Bypassing politics? A critical look at DIY culture’, in
Rutherford, Jonathan (ed.) Young Britain: Politics, pleasures and predicaments London: Lawrence & Wishart: 58-73.
Gramsci, Antonio (1971), Selections from the Prison Notebooks of Antonio
Gramsci. Edited and translated by Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Nowell
Smith, London: Lawrence and Wishart.
Habermas, Jürgen (1996), Between facts and Norms: Contributions to a
discourse theory of law and democracy, translated by William Rehg,
Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press.
Hall, Stuart (1980), ‘Encoding/decoding’ in Hall, Stuart, Hobson, Dorothy,
Lowe Andrew and Willis, Paul (eds) Culture, Media, Language: Working
Papers in Cultural Studies, 1972-1979 London: Unwin Hyman: 128-138.
Hyman Hartley, John (1982), Understanding News, London: Routledge.
Kear, Adrian and Steinberg, Deborah Lynn (eds.) (1999), Mourning Diana:
Nation, Culture and the Performance of Grief, London: Routledge.
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Blairism and the War of Persuasion
Levitas, Ruth (1998), The Inclusive Society? Social Exclusion and New Labour,
London: Macmillan.
Mattelart, Michele (1986), Women, Media and Crisis: Femininity and Disorder,
London: Comedia Publishing Group.
Philo, Greg (1994), ‘Politics, Media and Public Belief’, in Perryman, Mark (ed.)
Altered States: Postmodernism, Politics, Culture, London: Lawrence &
Wishart, 46-72.
Ryan, Mick (1999), ‘Penal Policy Making Towards the Millennium: Elites and
Populists; New Labour and the New Criminology’, International Journal
of the Sociology of Law 27:1-22.
172
10. ‘Our radius of trust’: community,
war and the scene of rhetoric
Joe Kelleher
John Humphrys You’ve been in power for six months and a bit now,
and you’ve had a quite extraordinary period in office, I mean, you have
been the most popular Prime Minister since ever. Now people are saying
the issue surrounding you is one of trust. Do you believe that as a result
of what has happened in this past week or so that you have lost the trust
of the British people?
Tony Blair No I don’t believe that … er … and I hope that … people …
know me well enough, and realise that I’ve, person I am, to realise that,
that I would never do anything either to harm the country or anything
improper, I never have. I think most people who have dealt with me
think I’m a pretty straight sort of guy and I am. And I think that … what
I would say to you about that, and I, I do find that, erm, these, these
things difficult, and er upsetting … is … I think there’s been a desire …
[pause] … to say right from the word go. This can’t be as good as it
looks. You know. They’re all the same. The Tories were sleazy, Labour’s
no different. I don’t believe we’re like that, at all.
The exchange is from the opening of Tony Blair’s television appearance
in late 1997, at the climax of a week of mounting criticism of the
government over what was known at the time as the ‘Bernie Ecclestone
affair.’1 In these opening moments, Blair performs the ‘straight sort of
gu’ he claims to be: blushing (or at least rouged up), stuttering towards
sincerity, his focus internalised as he struggles with self-examination,
but becoming open-eyed to meet the gaze of his interrogator as the
words themselves open out into hard-won assurance. The prime minister owns up to a badly handled business, ‘And I apologise for that.’2
Meanwhile the performance makes its claim upon us, weaving our
uncertainty into the very texture of its rhetoric. It says, trust me; and,
in trusting me, trust my party. But most importantly, trust me when the
chips are down not to try and persuade you with the convincingness of
a mere performance. Because the ethos of the party, nay the ethos of the
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government – and, indeed, this is an issue of ethics, of right and wrong,
or at least proper and ‘improper’ behaviour – is wrapped up in the
‘straightness’ of the ‘guy’ you see right here. That is the gambit: to
douse the sting of political contestation in the supposedly consensual
balm of ethical common sense – because we all know deep down what
doing bad and doing good is, don’t we, and how much the difference
really matters? … or how much it might appear to matter, ground up
in the rhetorical machinery and spat out into the theatre of public life.
Because we also all know that ‘theatre’ is not real life. Nobody is
being taken in here. Although, of course, as auditors of the performance maybe we do buy it – just a bit. Just enough. Maybe we do feel
persuaded. Although again, if we are ‘taken in’ we might ask ourselves:
taken in where precisely? And taken in as what?
This chapter seeks to examine the complex of theatricalisms embedded in New Labour’s political rhetoric. I am interested in how this
government’s bid for trust so often takes the form of a moralistic
discourse projected as an imaginary dramaturgy. My conviction is that
political rhetoric is neither trivial nor superficial, but functions as a key
means of including and excluding people from the arena of what is
offered as ‘politics’. What this rhetoric stages, particularly in speeches
given by Tony Blair, is a dramaturgy that summons ‘us’ into its scene,
to inhabit roles already hollowed out for us; to work through conflicts
already marked up as a moral agon, in terms of friends and enemies,
good and evil and so on; and to reap the rewards of a destiny that
already has ‘our’ name on it. This chapter will follow this dramaturgy
by focusing on some of the key terms deployed in this rhetorical
summoning. Those terms are ‘trust’, ‘people’, ‘globalisation’,
‘contract’, and ‘community’. I shall argue, though, that this summoning, even as it gathers us, in its aspiration to an ‘ethical’ politics
predicated on ‘shared values’, also threatens to undermine the trust it
seeks to produce. It may be – as I shall argue – that some of the figures
gathering at the edge of the stage, while they remain crucial to the plot,
are not those to whom the spectacle is addressed. This is particularly
the case when the arena of action extends beyond the immediate, as in
the theatre of war.
THE BID FOR TRUST
If New Labour is ‘about’ anything, surely it has to be about trust. At
least that has been so at the level of the party rhetoric – wherein ‘trust’
is the refracting medium through which rhetorical pledges would
appear transformed, in time, into policy and real-world changes. From
the distribution of watch-this-space pre-term Pledge Cards, to devolutionary policies, and the various promotions of the party leader – as
informal normal-bloke glottal-stopper on the one hand, and clued up
übermanager on the other – trust has been the currency of exchange
between New Labour and those under the sway of its governance.
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175
But trust is a currency of uncertain value. It is a commonplace of the
criticism directed against the current Labour Party that the bid for trust
is all there is, that what is offered up is all appearance without intrinsic
value, ‘all spin and no substance’, as the tired saying goes. At the level
of this everyday anti-rhetorical prejudice, trust is opened to doubt
through denunciations of a pernicious political culture of press secretaries and focus groups, of mediatised soundbites and photo-ops. (Of
course, some of those who denounce rhetoric tend not to acknowledge
their own part in the production of the rhetorical machinery – as if there
were such a thing as journalistic objectivity devoid of interests and
‘values’, or as if the popular ‘common sense’ to which political opponents claim to have a direct line were not the very fuel with which that
machinery (in its most banal and brutal manifestations) fills its tanks.
All the same these denunciations, when presented to the Court of
Public Opinion, seem to offer up a more or less constant set of charges.)
What makes itself felt across this spectrum of scepticism is the problematising of trust in the face of a politics that comes across as
altogether ‘staged’. It is not that staging itself is at issue (what else can
a poor Prime Minister do …); it is more a question of the politics ‘of’
that staging – its poetics let us say. In pursuit of the most literal of
instances, we might take the example of the rather clumsy launch of the
2001 general election at St Olave’s School, and recall Blair in pious
preacher mode hijacking the children’s school assembly – spinning his
image through and beyond the assembled schoolgirls, directly through
the assembled news media onto the screen in the corner of our livingrooms, for our approval and, as it turned out, amusement. What is
indexed in such performances, projections, and relays is the promise of
a politics to come, a politics already underway in the engagements and
practices that we – us others – are summoned to by this or that staging
(to the extent, that is, to which political rhetoric does indeed summon
our critical engagement, rather than merely representing its desire for
our applause).
POWER TO THE PEOPLE
If this talk of rhetorical summoning sounds like some sort of political
necromancy, then let us say right off that New Labour does not believe
in ghosts. In fact, it so doesn’t believe in them, it is unafraid to chant
the magic words. To quote from Tony Blair’s 1999 address to the
Labour Party conference: ‘And all around us the challenge of change. /
A spectre haunts the world: technological revolution. /… / People are
born with talent and everywhere it is in chains’ (Blair 1999a). However,
there is a declared purpose sustained throughout the New Labour
rhetorical corpus, which, if not exactly concerned with summoning the
dead to divine the future, does seem to have something to do with
coaxing breath out of collapsed clay. Blair’s own rhetoric peoples its
projected vision of a future scene with … well… ‘people’. And
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although we might ask what, precisely, are ‘people’, that, it seems, is
not the question Blair is asking. He knows what people are, even if his
version does tend to focus upon a rather enigmatic interiority. To quote
again from the 1999 speech:
The challenge is how?
The answer is people.
The future is people.
The liberation of human potential not just as workers but as citizens.
Not power to the people but power to each person to make the most of
what is within them.
In spite of those famous verbless phrases that imply, on the one hand,
future aspiration, and on the other a vision of rather mysterious
processes already in train (never mind the transitive intervention of
motivated human agents), on the face of it this seems the sort of call
that offers a direct, political address: a challenge, an invitation, an opening. That would be a contractual opening that weaves a promise with
an injunction – the promise to break our chains and restore our ‘right’
to exercise our talents; and the injunction upon us to take ‘responsibility’ for investing those talents constructively by establishing a stake in
the greater social body. And there is at least consistency here. This
contract has long been a key New Labour topic, from the ‘stakeholder’
speech delivered ostensibly to an audience of Singapore business leaders in 1996, to the more coy rendition of that same trope in the 2001
general election manifesto, where the prime ministerial preface revisited the theme of ‘rights and responsibilities’ and concluded: ‘New
Labour is proving that it is only by using the talents of all that we get
a healthy economy, and that it is only by giving a stake to all that we
are a healthy society’ (Labour Party 2001: 5). It is indeed people, the
people (and that is us, presumably), who matter. And what could be the
matter with that?
Well, throughout these several manifestations there remains something phantasmatic about the ‘people’ that are evoked (called forth)
onto the stage of the Blairite rhetoric – something spectral indeed, as if
they were all mask, sculpted in abstract form and hollowed out, awaiting the ignition or inspiration of some spark or breath, call it ‘talent’,
‘potential’, ‘opportunity’, before they might figure forth as regular
embodiment. In short, the drama is being scripted, but something else
is called for – something of ‘us’ – before it kicks into life and pursues
its proper destiny. The effect is given in part, I think, by the tendency
of the Blair speeches to do scene-setting, to exhibit what Norman
Fairclough has diagnosed as ‘a logic of appearances that manifests itself
grammatically in a propensity towards lists’, a pageant, let us say, of
would-be-affective signifiers (Fairclough 2000: 28, 53).
This pageant is usually displayed in the context of discussions of the
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177
irreversibility of global ‘change’. ‘Globalisation’ figures throughout
Blair’s speeches as the ever-intensifying occasion upon which ‘people’
and social relations shimmer with the threat of some sort of imminent
dissolution, losing shape, losing momentum – all that is solid melting
into disorientation. For example, Blair brings before our gaze, in a 2000
speech given to the Global Ethics Foundation in Tübingen, first of all
a masque of ‘fear’:
Globalisation has brought us economic progress and material wellbeing. But it also brings fear in its wake. Children offered drugs in the
school playground; who grow up sexually at a speed I for one find
frightening; parents who struggle in the daily grind of earning a living,
raising a family, often with both parents working, looking after elderly
relatives; a world where one in three marriages ends in divorce; where
jobs can come and go because of a decision in a boardroom thousands of
miles away; where ties of family, locality and country seem under
constant pressure and threat (Blair 2000).
What follows is a logic of governance that applies itself to the scene as
nothing so much as a mode of stage-management:
So the change is fast and fierce, replete with opportunities and dangers.
The issue is: do we shape it or does it shape us? Do we master it, or do
we let it overwhelm us? That’s the sole key to politics in the modern
world, how to manage change.
At stake is a labour over signs and their meaning. As semiotic labour
this involves the ‘shaping’, enabling and relocation of whatever
(humanoid) signifiers are thrown up by the storm in such a way as to
make those signifiers re-appear both fixed and purposive. To put the
‘people’ on stage as proper players. And there is no other way to
achieve that than to insist we all (is that really ‘all’ of us?) sign up to a
contract of agreed conventions, agreed ways of acknowledging and
recognising whatever phantom comes into view. We need, in short, to
agree that this or that figure ‘stands’ for something – something ‘we’
can agree to understand – and trust that it will continue to do so.
THE SPECTRE OF COMMUNITY
Blair tends to speak about this mutual understanding as a matter of
‘shared values’ (from the Tübingen speech again: ‘it is only by clear
commitment to shared values that we survive and prosper in a world of
change…’). That word ‘values’ seems to incorporate an understanding
of contract. (‘But you can’t build a community on opportunity or
rights alone. They need to be matched by responsibility and duty. That
is the bargain or covenant at the heart of modern civil society’.) Then
again, this is a particular sort of contract, because what binds it (what
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binds us to it) is trust: ‘habits of co-operation, the networks of support,
our radius of trust’, which we learn in ‘families, schools, congregations
and communities’.
That last word turns us to what has been the dominant theme
throughout the speech – ‘community’. This is also perhaps the most
spectral, the most hollowed out and looming of all the figures evoked
by the Blair rhetoric to date. In the Tübingen speech this figure of
‘community’ seems to summon up some greater social body that
retains in the hollow of its belly a special space just for me. It is the
figure that summons me, but summons me with spooky presentiment
to a consensus already inscribed – like the junk-mail credit card
contract already filled in with my name and address.
In September 2001, in his annual speech to the Labour Party conference, shortly after the attacks on New York and Washington of 11
September, Blair gave his most elaborate meditation on the term
‘community’ to date. ‘Amidst all the talk of war and action, there is
another dimension appearing. There is a coming together. The power
of community is asserting itself’ (Blair 2001). Again, community functions not as a set of practices or shared knowledges, not even really as
an idea; it functions rather as a quasi-theatrical ‘appearing’, something
that looms behind the dialogue, a rather mysterious ‘power’ that is
already amongst us and summoning us – or at least, amongst those
representations of ourselves that people the stage of the Blair rhetoric.
Again, this emergence of community appears as an effect of ongoing
processes of dissolution and disorientation linked to ‘globalisation’
(‘We are realising how fragile are our frontiers in the face of the world’s
new challenges …’). Indeed, it might not be unfair to suggest that the
notion of ‘community’ being put over in this speech is, basically, a
diagnosis of globalisation (as a set of irreversible social and economic
processes, functioning like nothing so much as natural forces), but reinflected as a sort of ethical aspiration, with a view to managing some
of globalisation’s more pernicious effects – or appearances:
The state of Africa is a scar on the conscience of the world. But if the
world as a community focused on it […] The issue is not how to stop
globalisation.
The issue is how we use the power of community to combine it with
justice.
There are good intentions throughout the speech; that is, Blair’s heart
appears to be in many of the ‘right’ places (social justice, the relief of
poverty, wealth distribution, environmental protection, improvement
of public services, and so on). At the same time there is no disguising,
even in Blair’s own discourse, ‘community’s’ rather spectral appearance
as an ethical aspiration hitching a ride, and an ambitious world tour at
that, on the back of the pursuit of globalising self-interest. When we
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179
consider what the most powerful vehicles may be in the world right
now for the pursuit of interest, and how far these may be trusted to
turn their focus towards that ‘sense of justice [through which] community is born and nurtured’, we may remain unpersuaded by the
rhetoric, whatever its own ethical claims.
PRONOUNS AT WAR
To return to earlier evocations of the community spectre at times of
international political crisis, we might suggest that ‘community’ has
long functioned as a sort of rhetorical ectoplasm, as the doctrinal jelly
that might hold together the several and not necessarily compatible
interests that compete in any given political situation. One set of examples are the various and not necessarily differentiated first person
pronouns evoked by Blair during the time of the NATO military
action over Kosovo. Pronominal slippages over specific, immediate
and, perhaps, unspeakable ‘interests’, rhetorically repackaged as
‘shared values’, have been convincingly analysed by Norman
Fairclough (2000). In his discussion of New Labour language around
the Kosovo war, Fairclough analyses Blair’s keynote speech ‘Doctrine
of the International Community’, delivered in Chicago (again to business leaders) in April 1999. Fairclough gives credit to Blair’s attempt to
represent the NATO action in relation to a complex construction
(‘globalisation’) constituted by the domains of economy, security, and
politics. He picks up, however, on a vagueness as to how these domains
actually operate – a vagueness exacerbated by Blair’s ambiguous use of
the word ‘we’:
The title of the speech … refers to ‘the international community’ as if it
were something well-defined (it presupposes that there is an international community), yet what we get in the speech is a series of
disjunctions between different ‘communities’ referred to as ‘we’
(Fairclough 2000: 152).
In order to make sense of what Blair says, we have to be assuming
something along his lines, and we go along with that assumption until
we realise (if we do, or if we choose to do) that what is being assumed
is not something that could have been explicitly said. Not in public, as
it were. Not in ‘our’ hearing.
A ‘rhetoric-reality’ dichotomy opens then, according to Fairclough,
between the speech and the ‘real’ economic and ‘strategic interests’ of
the western powers and their corporate allies, which are not being fully
acknowledged. At this level we may doubt the human face that is
turned to us in the representation of US foreign policy as down-home
good neighbourliness. We might also pick up on questions about who
is and is not included in this or that ‘we’? Who benefits, how and
where, and from the spread of whose ‘values’? We may even come
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round to questioning the oracular given-ness of the plot itself, with its
sometimes simplistic division of the world into good guys (‘us’ – and
again, who is that?) and bad guys (and these could sometimes include
democratically elected bad guys, or onetime business partners of ‘us’).3
It is not the case, though, that the other stories we might tell are any
the less ‘rhetorical’ than the ones Blair tells. No public intervention
could ever be less than rhetorical. That does not mean, though, that we
cannot identify rhetoric’s material supplement – its flesh and blood
leftovers. That is to say, there are actual bodies involved: all of the
phantasmatic bodies put up for view in the rhetorical theatre are
stitched together, propped up, and paid for, by people who are real
enough, and real enough to be with-held (we might say detained) at
this side or that of the rhetorical prophylactic. Political rhetorics, after
all, are not just about inclusion but also exclusion. And the prophylactic, when it takes the form of a closed border, or elsewhere a sweatshop
factory line, or an order of command, a line of soldiers or police, a
computer screen, a line of tracer fire, the wire of a camp compound, a
hidden grave, can also be ‘real’ enough.
Slavoj Zizek asks us to hold together in the same thought:
… war as a purely technological event, taking place behind radar and
computer screens, with no casualties, and the extreme physical cruelty
too unbearable for the gaze of the media – not the crippled children and
raped women, victims of caricaturized local ethnic ‘fundamentalist
warlords,’ but thousands of nameless soldiers, victims of anonymous
and efficient technological warfare (Zizek 1999: 78-9).
This is, however, incompatible with the sort of rhetoric that would seek
to function as a technology of trust – which is to say a discourse that
asks ‘us’ to take it on trust that an ethically-minded representation is but
a rhetorical shadow for a no less ethical action, in the real world as it
were. Anything but ‘purely technological’, anything but ‘anonymous’,
this rhetoric of ethical action turns out to be a discourse of pronouns and
negotiable distances. An ‘I’ speaks to a ‘you’ about a ‘them’ over there,
a there too close for comfort, where – as in the classic humanist dramas
– destiny sets challenges for those who would make decisions.
Let me try to be clearer. Whether soliloquising in the theatre of war
or stage-managing social exclusion in the domestic arena, the Blairite
rhetoric – rather than drawing a scrim of vagueness across the scene –
itself deploys a clear and principled dramaturgy. This dramaturgy
depicts a peopled space. Again from 1999, on a stage within the stage,
arranged in tableau, pitched to catch the conscience of us all, are the
abject bodies that signify the victims of events:
As far as the eye could see, a queue of humanity stretched through no
man’s land to Kosovo. Dignified in their pain and terror. Eyes glazed,
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mothers trying to soothe children under a blistering sun. Old men staring vacantly into a new country, and a future they could not predict.
Slowly, they were processed from one queue to the next (Blair 1999b).
The spectacle is gathered then into the conscience of Blair’s first
person pronoun, an ethical subject who is neither glazed, vacant, nor
uncertain, who speaks on behalf of those who can not speak for
themselves. This subject (‘I’) speaks ‘their’ unspoken message and
answers it on behalf of an undivided ‘we’ that is itself, already (never
mind the United Nations as an alternative option, never mind China’s
objections, or the possibility of Russia promoting a negotiated settlement), entrusted with the agency of righting wrong, of taking care of
that unpredictable future, which is to say delivering revenge and
reparation:
Their message was simple, and it was dignified. We are leaving for now,
but please, please help us to go back.
I felt an anger so strong, a loathing of what Milosevic’s policy stands
for, so powerful, that I pledged to them, as I pledge to you now; that
Milosevic and his hideous racial genocide will be defeated. NATO will
prevail. And the refugees will be allowed to return in safety to their
homes.
This particular pledge is itself, though, performed for the benefit of
another constituency, a ‘you’ (in this instance the Romanian parliament) who will themselves be beneficiaries of an analogous pledge: a
pledge of communal belonging. This is the reward measured, after all
these years (‘for 2000 years […] Romania has survived’), by the radius
of trust. Indeed, more than a pledge, provisionality is elided here in the
scenic evocation of nothing less than a communal ‘destiny’. Can there,
even amongst such a plethora of pronominal interests, be any argument?
You can and will be part of the new Europe we are creating. At long last
you will take your rightful place, confident and secure, on equal terms
with the other European nations of the world. You will walk tall. And I
extend the hand of friendship of my country, also a proud nation with a
great history, and say we will walk with you into that brighter future. It
is our common destiny.
This is a rousing cadence, and it returns its listeners to the tonic of
communal harmony, projecting behind the masque of fear the humane
features of international community, features that seem to promise
untold returns to those who turn to embrace this shimmering brotherliness, no matter how shimmering, no matter how virtual the
projection.
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THE REMAINING WITNESS
What, though, of those who still labour on the other side of the
rhetoric, the anonymous ones on whom the images, so to speak,
depend? What do they do – do they put down their props and unmask?
Blair himself would seem to suggest not, arguing in a speech to the
Newspaper Society at the height of the Belgrade bombing that ‘the
conflict does not begin or end on a TV screen’. There is a danger, he
tells journalists, that media ‘refugee fatigue’ only serves the interests of
the other side in the propaganda conflict. And Blair draws attention to
an actual backdrop now, a map behind his own podium, which he
insists – and he may be right – serves no less as a cartography of the
‘real’ than the reality-effect of the news photograph:
You may be wondering why I have a map of Kosovo behind me, and
what it shows … it is a story that has to be told, day after day, pictures
or no pictures … These are real places, real people. Real stories of burnt
villages, devastated families, lootings, robberies, beatings, mass executions. These people are the reason we are engaged and the fact that we
cannot see them makes us more determined to get in there and give them
the help they need. This is more than a map. It is a montage of murder
(Blair 1999c).
This is creditable. It is as if, in the theatre, one were to be reminded at
the close of Oedipus Rex of the plague-ridden bodies on whose behalf
the dramatic action was pursued in the first place. Or, at the end of
Hamlet, as if the unquiet ghost might still recount his wounds. But
then again, in the image of Oedipus’s self-blinding, or in the overt accumulation of corpses in the revenge tragedy, that is precisely what the
theatre does do. Furthermore, the theatre also credits these abject
others – ‘real people’, ‘real stories’, – not as faraway victims of an ultimately unimaginable, because altogether exterior, power of evil. In the
theatre those victims are only ever intimate with this scene. In the mediatised, technologised long-distance theatre of modern warfare it has
seemed at times as if war does not occur ‘in our time and place’, but
always in someone else’s. The theatre per se, though, tells a different
story. In the theatre of real illusions and made-up stories that scene (the
scene of mythology, for instance) is always intimate with this stage,
these combustible and corruptible presences, here. So for example,
Oedipus can only prosecute a promised action on behalf of the plague
victims by coming to recognise his own complicity in what ails these
people – a ‘criminal’ complicity, even, that was established even before
he arrived here, when another was in power.
Indeed, the suffering of ‘people’ may be the price being paid,
beneath the makeup as it were, for the reification of community
effected in the present spectacle.4 Something of this sort of recognition
is demanded by Slovoj Zizek in the essay already quoted above,
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183
wherein, recalling how the western powers supported Milosevic earlier
on, he wonders whether phenomena like the Milosevic régime ‘are not
the opposite to the New World Order, but rather its symptom, the
place at which the hidden truth of the New World Order emerges?’
(Zizek 1999: 79). Within the radius of this thought, those ‘real people’
Blair insists we do not forget are set strangely, enigmatically, upon the
scene: gathering at its edge with ‘messages’ but without passports; citizens of the spectacle but, within the remit of trust, aliens,
asylum-seekers.
There is a peculiar economy of rhetorical reproduction at work,
whereby ‘real’ bodies are constantly emerging, only to be incorporated
– virtualised – as subjects of the party political plot. At the same time,
however, the rhetoric can only incorporate so much; it has to exclude
as well, and the figures it is least able to deal with are those who are
least able to speak, even as these are identified as the ones most suitable
to be deployed in a dramaturgy that would claim to speak on their
behalf. In the wake of this dramaturgy, I want to suggest, may appear
a certain sort of belligerent witness – a witness who remains, after the
speeches have been made. This is a witness who appears and remains as
much in the domestic arena as in the theatre of war, as we may see if we
return to that 1999 conference speech. ‘There is no more powerful
symbol of our politics’, Blair tells us – and one must assume it is New
Labour’s ‘politics’ he is symbolising – ‘than the experience of being on
a maternity ward’. From the subjectless opening – ‘Seeing two babies
side by side. Delivered by the same doctors …’ – careful not to obscure
our unmediated spectation, the Prime Minister takes us through the
scenario of a rich kid/poor kid cautionary tale. He incorporates the
newborn as figures in a rhetoric that enables him to locate himself as
their articulate representative, and from that position open up a
contractual pledge that offers up a promise in exchange for trust. The
‘pledge’ here is ‘to end child poverty in 20 years’, a pledge that we
should trust (those of us in the conference hall, and those others indirectly addressed through broadcast) precisely because it is backed up –
‘not just as a politician, but as a father’ – by the rhetor’s claim to ethos.5
Blair describes the scene of a particular life. What the scene hinges
upon, however, is the enigmatic and solipsistic behaviour of the child
dispossessed of the radius of trust. This alienation serves the Prime
Minister’s rhetorical purposes, while at the same time depositing a
remnant that may cause the whole machinery to shudder. The child
whose life-story Blair outlines is fashioned into a familiar enough
phantom upon the scene of domestic political rhetoric in Britain – the
so-called ‘single mother’, culpable, irresponsible, incapable, dependent.
It is her very predicament as a mute witness that suits her to her rhetorical role. Not even a proper player in her own drama, she is figured by
Blair as witness to the scene of her dispossession. ‘A child is a vulnerable witness on life. / A child sees her father hit her mother. / A child
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runs away from home. A child takes drugs. A child gives birth at 12.’
This scenario, though, gives way to the overcoming and expanding
rhetoric (family, community, nation) of belonging. ‘That every child
can grow up with high hopes, certainty, love, security and the attention
of their parents. / Strong families cherished by a strong community. /
That is our national moral purpose.’ And that, presumably, is the
payoff for the trust we are asked to invest in the New Labour rhetoric.
However, even as the phrases swell we cannot help but recall that the
shared values, the communal ‘moral purpose’, evoked in the rhetoric
are predicated upon a montage of alienation. There on the scene the
radius of trust snaps, and the protagonist of the scenario – like that
queue of humanity at the Kosovo border – is witness to the snap, and
struck dumb. In any of these instances the ostensible human objects of
political concern are displaced, dazed, incapable, and silent. Nothing to
say, that is, apart from what the politician pledges to say – and, it is
implied, do – on their behalf.
Acting on another’s behalf seems imaginable enough. There are
always, surely, things that can be done. An ethical foreign or domestic
policy is indeed, at the very least, imaginable. And that doing, the
imagining of that doing, might yet be contested in a politics (a ‘struggle
amongst groups of people over substantive aspects of social life’). But
can the imagination engage to the same extent with the ethical pretensions of a rhetoric, and a rhetoric that asks us not to contest but to
consent and trust? A rhetoric predicated more on the semiosis of
governance (‘the management of relations between groups’) than the
agon of politics need not acknowledge trust as a ‘two-way dialogue’
(Fairclough 2000: 11, 160).6 This is a rhetoric that already knows best.
It is, let us say, a straight guy rhetoric, more and more assured of the
weight of its own ethos, and assured too of its capacity to speak on
another’s behalf. But how does one speak on behalf of a witness, particularly if the witness’s ‘own’ testimony is, for one reason or another,
inadmissible, unavailable, inaudible? Is not the witness’s predicament,
as a living ‘supplement’ to rhetorical exclusions and inclusions, and as
a vantage on whatever it is that rhetoric indexes but can not incorporate, such that it precludes ventriloquism? What do we know, after all,
of what the witness witnesses, unless he or she may speak on his/her
own behalf? Although again, how would or could ‘we’ trust them even
if ‘they’ did?
NOTES
1. A one million pound donation to the Labour party from the motor racing
promoter Bernie Ecclestone came to public attention, just at the time the
government appeared ready to go back on its decision to ban tobacco
advertising at sporting events, after lobbying from Ecclestone. The television programme was BBC1’s On the Record, 16.11.97. The transcription is
my own.
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‘Our radius of trust’
185
2. Blair: ‘I didn’t get it all wrong in relation to the original decision as I’d be
very happy to explain. But it hasn’t been handled well and for that I take
full responsibility. And I apologise for that. I suppose what I would say to
you is that perhaps I didn’t focus on this and the seriousness of it in the
way that I should, as I was focusing on other issues’, Guardian, 17.11.97.
3. For more on the complicity of the NATO powers in the Milosevic regime,
see for instance the essays Fairclough recommends in New Left Review
234, 1999.
4. See Ulmer 2001.
5. See Aristotle book 1 ch. 2 § 3-6; and book 2 ch.1.
6. For an extended analysis along these lines of New Labour ‘good governance’ see Mair 2000, who in turn develops arguments out of Marquand
1999.
REFERENCES
Aristotle (1991) Aristotle, On Rhetoric: A Theory of Civic Discourse, tr. and ed.
G. Kennedy, New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Blair, T. (1999a) ‘Tony Blair’s Full Speech,’ (Labour party conference address),
September 28. last accessed July 20, 2001.
Blair, T. (1999b) ‘Speech to the Romanian Parliament,’ May 4. last accessed July
20, 2001.
Blair, T. (1999c) ‘Speech to Newspaper Society,’ May 10. last accessed July 20,
2001.
Blair T. (2000) ‘Values and the power of community’ (Prime Minister’s speech
to the Global Ethics Foundation, Tübingen University, Germany), June 30.
last accessed July 20, 2001.
Blair, T. (2001) ‘Blair’s Speech,’ (Labour party conference address), September
2. Guardian, September 3.
Fairclough, N. (2000) New Labour, New Language? London and New York:
Routledge.
Labour Party (2001) Ambitions for Britain. Labour’s Manifesto 2001.
Mair, P. (2000) ‘Partyless Democracy: Solving the Paradox of New Labour?’
New Left Review 2, March/April, 21-35.
Marquand, D. (1999) The Progressive Dilemma: From Lloyd George to Blair,
2nd edn. London: Phoenix Press.
Ulmer, G. (2001) ‘The Upsilon Project: a post-tragic testimonial’, in P.
Campbell and A. Kear, eds., Psychoanalysis and Performance, London and
New York: Routledge.
Vidal, J. (2001) ‘Blair attacks “spurious” May Day protests,’ The Guardian,
May 1.
Zizek, S. (1999) ‘Against the Double Blackmail’, New Left Review 234,
March/April, 76-82.
185
11. A sympathy for art: the
sentimental economies of New
Labour Arts Policy
Michael McKinnie
W
hen Labour was elected in 1997, arts workers and observers
hoped that the change in government would herald a different
approach to the arts. Conservative governments had displayed a deep
suspicion of the arts during the Thatcher years and a slightly patronising tolerance under the Major administration. The main thrust of arts
policy under successive Conservative governments had been consistent
with the rest of their legislative agenda during their eighteen years in
power: the arts, comprising activities heavily dependent on public
subsidy, needed to be submitted to the ‘discipline’ of the free market
through greater reliance on private sponsorship; and arts organisations
needed to recuperate a greater proportion of their costs through the
box office than through public grants. Though the practical achievement of these neo-liberal policy goals was often imperfect (and in this
respect the arts were no different than many other areas targeted by the
Conservatives for marketisation), the Conservatives’ approach effectively ended fifty years of political consensus that the arts were a public
good that required state patronage in order to provide access to all.
This consensus may have been somewhat idealist in conception and
paternalist in practice, but its attempt to define a democratic role for
the arts in the political life of Britain was incompatible with
Conservative policy-making, which viewed the arts as yet another
space, albeit a particularly recalcitrant one, in which to entrench freemarket economics.
Labour has, at least superficially, appeared more sympathetic to the
arts than were the Conservatives. The party’s 1997 election manifesto
proclaimed Labour’s support for the arts, stating that the Tories
‘consistently undervalue[d] the role of the arts and culture in helping to
create a civic society’; and though it offered no commitments regarding
public expenditure on the arts, Labour’s rhetoric seemed to offer the
possibility of a warmer relationship between artists and the government than had been the case under the Conservatives (Dale 372). And
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to some degree this possibility has been realised, insofar as the Labour
government has devoted considerably more attention and energy to the
arts than their predecessors. The Department of Culture, Media and
Sport (DCMS), the successor to the Major government’s Department
of National Heritage (DNH), has produced a flurry of studies, ranging
from big-picture ‘mapping’ plans to tightly-focused analyses of the
nether-regions of its purview. The DCMS has also secured the thing
that tends to matter most to artists and arts organisations: more money
from the Treasury. After a lean first few years, when Labour controversially adhered to the previous government’s expenditure forecasts,
the DCMS managed to win over the Treasury to such high-profile
moves as the abolition of museum charges and the first substantial,
above-inflation, increase in arts funding for more than two decades.
These rather ‘old’ Labour achievements may have been accompanied
by a very ‘new’ Labour regime of technocratic bureaucracy, but, at
least in the blunt fiscal terms in which artists and arts organisations
tend to measure their relationship with government, Labour has been
more than a passing acquaintance, if not yet a close friend.
The purpose of this essay is to theorise the ideological anxieties of
arts policy under New Labour, rather than gauging the achievement or
failure of specific policy objectives. Though Labour returned to
government in 1997, it is difficult as yet to measure the results (as
opposed to the motivations and discursive content) of Labour arts
policy, since much of it is long-term in focus but relatively recent in
formulation. This should not, however, preclude an analysis of how
New Labour is attempting, awkwardly, to shift the terrain on which
the arts, the state, and private capital meet, especially since this attempt
circumscribes to some degree the role that the arts might play in the
British public and industrial spheres. New Labour sees itself and the
arts – or the creative industries, to use the term it prefers – as sharing a
broad ideological affinity, and believes that the arts can help in ‘recreating a sense of community, identity and civic pride that should define
our country’ (Dale: 372). This is not a novel idea, but, in formulating its
methods of achievement, it is important to recognise that New Labour
has neither wholly resuscitated older Reithian models of cultural
patronage nor simply extended a Conservative market-led model of
arts sponsorship. Arts policy under New Labour does not abandon the
marketisation promoted by the Tories, but instead recasts how the arts
relate to society, private capital, and the state in more harmonious
ways, and introduces a barrage of tests to measure the success of this
new relationship. New Labour’s arts policy tries to reconcile a number
of conceptions of the arts that no British government has previously
attempted: a particularly affirmative reading of the social function of
the arts themselves – the arts as a medium through which social inclusion occurs, the arts as a virtuous form of economic production
(‘creative industries’), and the arts as an object of technocratic
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‘modernisation’. This arts discourse contains a tension between a
desired social harmony and the market-inflected quantitative testing of
its achievement – something that New Labour hopes is a harmonious
process, but one which, as its policies reveal, is fraught with anxieties
about the possible social efficacy of art and the ability of the state to
regulate the terms of that efficacy.
ARTS POLICY AS A SENTIMENTAL ECONOMY
New Labour’s arts policy attempts to define a culturally affirmative
and sympathetic sentimental economy: it is seeking to imagine a policy
structure through which the arts can create relations of social accord –
in the economic, civic and institutional spheres. It assumes that the
paramount function of the arts is to confirm and reproduce dominant
social ideals, and, in the process, encourage a sense of mutual wellbeing. New Labour’s understanding of the arts, therefore, is wholly
affirmative. Its policy does not acknowledge that art might be critical,
subversive, or socially dissonant, conceptions of art which Labour
Party policy once thought possible, and, to a limited degree, tried to
encourage.1
In order to understand this affirmative logic of New Labour’s arts
policy, it is useful to look at the work of two theorists, one a twentiethcentury Marxist (Herbert Marcuse) and one an eighteenth-century
liberal (Adam Smith). In characterising arts policy as culturally affirmative, I have drawn on a conceptual framework outlined by Herbert
Marcuse, whose contribution to materialist critical theory is widely
acknowledged (albeit usually in the past tense), but whose work is
rarely invoked in performance studies or analyses of the arts today.
This is regrettable, as Marcuse offers a productive way to conceive how
the arts are simultaneously aesthetic and institutional practices. He
argues that art, whether ‘high’ or ‘low’, is characterised by a tension
between social negation and social affirmation. Thus art can, depending on historical circumstances, either sustain dominant social ideology
by reproducing the mystifications on which that ideology rests, or it
can undermine that ideology by making its premises – and the hierarchies those premises serve – visible in a way that they had not been
previously.2
Marcuse argues that art’s dual potential lies in the ambiguous nature
of representation (through which all art functions), and in art’s demand
that its audience negotiate imaginary and social worlds simultaneously.
He argues that ‘negating’ art provokes a schism between these worlds
in the consciousness of the audience member by dialectically opposing
them in the moment of representation and reception. This rupture
undermines the accepted, and often unquestioned, way that the spectator-subject has come to view its world, or its ‘given reality’. ‘The world
formed by art is recognised as a reality which is suppressed and
distorted in the given reality’, Marcuse argues. ‘This experience culmi188
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nates in extreme situations … which explode the given reality in the
name of a truth normally denied or unheard’ (6-7). Art’s representation
of an alternative reality opens up the possibility of creating a ‘rebellious
subjectivity’ and calls into question the ‘rationality and sensibility
incorporated in the dominant social institutions’ (7).
Affirmative art does exactly the opposite, using its representational
power (its ‘overwhelming presence’) to reinforce the given reality,
thereby ‘reconciling’ the subject to dominant social ideals and institutions (6-7). An example from the theatre – in terms of the changing
perceptions of naturalism – is one way of illustrating the tension
between, and historical contingency of, negating and affirming art.
Theatrical naturalism sees the ideal representational relationship
between the stage and its social formation as one of verisimilitude,
where the appearance of subjects and objects onstage mimics, as closely
as possible, their surface appearance in the ‘real world’. This has been
the dominant form in Western theatre since the early twentieth century,
and many critics now argue that naturalist plays have become culturally affirmative because naturalism privileges the imaginary
representation of the social world as it is, rather than as it might be. But
this view does not deny the fact that naturalism was, in its inception, a
new and radical form, whose use in a play like Henrik Ibsen’s Ghosts
changed the ways that audiences saw the relationship between their
imaginary and social worlds.
Though Marcuse is extending a line of Marxist aesthetics inaugurated by the Frankfurt School, his identification of the arts as a
‘reconciling’ activity has a much earlier precedent, one which also helps
theorise New Labour’s arts discourse. In The Theory of Moral
Sentiments [1984], Adam Smith identifies ‘sympathy’ as the intersubjective bond that creates social accord. Like Marcuse, Smith is
concerned with social negation or affirmation (to use Marcuse’s terms)
or sympathetic or unsympathetic social sentiments (to use his own
terms); but he locates the production of these sentiments in a different,
though complementary, place. Whereas Marcuse discusses the production of affirmative or negative sentiments largely in terms of the way in
which a subject engages with the representations of a pre-existing artistic product, Smith discusses social sympathy in terms of the ways that
subjects represent themselves to each other in a pre-defined social
process that functions according to an artistic logic. Marcuse, then,
provides a way to think about a subject’s engagement with an artistic
product; Smith provides a way to think about a subject’s participation
in a social process whose logic is essentially artistic. For Smith, social
accord is achieved through an imaginative subjective transposition: a
subject imagines itself in another’s place, and, as a result, achieves a
‘concord with the emotions’ of the other ([1984]: 22). This process of
imagining, measuring, and moderating behaviour creates an impartial
subject and achieves the ‘harmony of society’ he strongly desires
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([1984]: 22). Smith’s social model, as David Marshall points out, is
fundamentally based on an artistic paradigm – and specifically a
theatrical one. Smith describes social subjects as spectators of each
other, and Marshall describes Smith’s version of a harmonious society
as ‘a theatre of sympathy’ (173). This theatre is not only a forum where
sympathetic social relations are achieved, it is also a forum where
sympathetic social ideals are established: ‘The spectator enters by
sympathy into the sentiments of the master, and necessarily views the
object under the same agreeable aspect’ (179). The artistic/social scene,
then, is at once harmonious and hierarchical. Smith imagines the
socially affirmative tautology that is at the heart of New Labour’s
emphasis on ‘participation’ in its arts policy: social sympathy is art and
art is social sympathy.
It is also true, however, that Smith is worried that social subjects will
be unsympathetic. Since an unsympathetic subject is a failed spectator
in Smith’s social imaginary, he betrays an anxiety about social discord
that is rooted in an anxiety about the operations of art itself. Having
based his social model on a wholly affirmative conception of art, this
affirmation cannot help but reveal the potentially negating force of that
art, and the instability of the model of social relations upon which it is
based. New Labour suffers from much the same unease. Its desire to
use an affirmative art to create civic, economic, and institutional
sympathy reveals profound and unacknowledged anxieties about the
historically ambiguous position of the arts within the British political
system and, ultimately, about the potential for art to provoke a rebellious subjectivity that is unwelcome in New Labour’s Britain.
CIVIC SYMPATHY
Labour’s 1997 election manifesto makes clear that the party is attracted
to the civic role that the arts might play in British society. Such an
interest is not without precedent; the arts have at least a two thousand
year-old history as a civic enterprise in Western culture, and have
generally contributed to the civic as a social ideal, both at the local level
and at the national level.3 A long list of civically-inflected activity could
be compiled from theatre history alone, and it would certainly include:
the City Dionysia, a civic and religious theatre festival that began in
Athens in the sixth century BCE; the mystery plays sponsored by
town guilds throughout England during the Middle Ages; the local
pageants of the Renaissance in Britain and France; and the civic theatre
movement throughout North America in the twentieth century. Each
of these artistic events was part of the training of what it meant to
participate in the public (though not necessarily democratic) life of the
societies in which they were produced.
Rightly or wrongly, New Labour viewed the British public sphere
as diminished after eighteen years of Conservative government, and
saw the arts as a particularly effective forum through which to rebut
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Margaret Thatcher’s infamous claim that society did not exist. Soon
after the 1997 election, Chris Smith, the first Secretary of State for
Culture, Media and Sport, claimed that the arts and New Labour
shared the same core belief, one which was sanctioned by the electorate: that ‘after eighteen years of a contrary doctrine, there is such a
thing as society’ (Smith, 1998: 15). ‘Without culture, there can ultimately be no society and no sense of shared identity or worth’, Smith
argued. ‘For a government elected primarily to try and re-establish that
sense of society that we had so painfully lost, this is a very important
realisation’ (16). Though the importance of society may have needed
stressing in the immediate aftermath of a long period of Tory rule,
Smith’s representation of the arts as civically recuperative is nothing
new; if the immediately celebratory function of the arts has an extensive lineage, then the notion of the arts as a transhistorical marker of
community dates back at least two centuries in British history as well.
It is significant, however, that Labour’s 1997 manifesto explicitly
positioned ‘culture’ – by which it meant the traditional forms of high
art and other representational media such as film and television – as a
central means by which ‘civic society’ is created. The use of the phrase
‘civic society’ in the 1997 manifesto, as opposed to the Habermasian
‘civil society’, reveals a subtle semantic distinction in New Labour’s
arts discourse: the arts are not a forum in which public debate occurs,
but rather the means by which training in pre-determined civic values
takes place. This function recalls Adam Smith’s theatrical scene, in
which the spectator gains sympathy by learning the ‘sentiments of the
master’ and then viewing the world ‘under the same agreeable aspect’.
But this hierarchical sense of civic training through the arts is also
intended, somewhat ambiguously, to promote ‘social inclusion’. A key
policy document released by the DCMS in 1999 focused on how the
arts ‘provide powerful positive role models’ (DCMS, 1999: 29) for
those who reside in neighbourhoods that fail on ‘key indicators’ of
community ‘performance’ (the artistic metaphor is appropriate)
(DCMS, 1999: 22). In this way of thinking, the arts embody a range of
civic ideals that, if instilled in ‘those living in deprived neighbourhoods’, could lead to the rehabilitation of communities in crisis (29).
Moreover, the results of this process can be measured by the state
through technocratic (though vaguely defined) instruments.
New Labour’s conception of the arts as a tool for civic training in
disadvantaged areas uneasily echoes the dominant state interest in the
arts during the nineteenth century in Britain, when the arts were
‘valued chiefly as means of inculcating middle-class attitudes in the
working-class mind’ (Minihan: 229). It also recalls the Reithian ideal of
cultural training through entertainment, education, and information.
But to infer that New Labour’s arts discourse simply resuscitates older
models of cultural education would be to misrepresent the distinct
understanding of artistic efficacy and artistic labour processes on
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which this discourse hinges. Whether old Labour or Conservative,
welfarist or monetarist, the consistent preoccupation of post-war arts
policy was the nation. In contrast, local communities (the smaller the
better, it would seem) are the subject and object of New Labour’s civically-minded arts discourse. The social subject’s location within these
civically sympathetic arts has also shifted, from the consumption of a
civilised artistic product to participation in a civilising artistic labour
process. According to New Labour policy, the arts ‘lend themselves
naturally to voluntary collaborative arrangements which help to
develop a sense of community’; they ‘help communities to express their
identity and develop their own, self-reliant organisations’; and they
‘relate directly to individual and community identity: the very things
which need to be restored if neighbourhoods are to be renewed’
(DCMS, 1999: 30). Furthermore, the arts ‘are things in which people
participate willingly’; they ‘give individuals greater self-respect; selfconfidence and a sense of achievement’; and they ‘can contribute to
greater self esteem and improved mental well being’ (31).
These are highly affirmative glosses on art’s social efficacy and its
labour processes, resting on a series of assumptions that are empirically
dubious, and logically difficult to sustain. The communitarian function
of the arts is more presumed than proven under New Labour. That the
arts can help communities define and articulate themselves is not in
question; that the arts will perform this function in an ideal way is
another matter. Contrary to the claim that artistic activity is ‘voluntary’
and undertaken ‘willingly’, participation in the arts is not necessarily
any less coercive than any other community activity, and the arts are
not an inherently ‘healthier’ form of community participation than any
other. If the arts are supposed to recuperate a supposedly absent
‘community identity’ through providing a sense of self-esteem, selfreliance, and general well-being, the concrete mechanisms by which
these results are achieved are effaced; though ‘participation’ is ostensibly the means of achieving them, the definition of participation is so
broad as to be virtually meaningless: ‘creative expression, co-operative
teamwork or physical exertion’ (DCMS, 1999: 21). Since there is little
human activity that does not involve some measure of these things,
artistic participation becomes a black box where civic aspiration can
masquerade as civic outcome.
Furthermore, the assumption that the arts are inherently collaborative is rarely borne out in practice. While many artistic practices do
involve groups of people working together in order to create an art
object or event, others, such as writing, may involve a single producer
for much of the duration of the labour process. Additional participants
may become involved along the way, but this is little different than
when groups of people work together during any labour process,
making the supposed distinctiveness and normative superiority of the
artistic labour process difficult to discern. Moreover, the peripatetic
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way that artistic collaboration is usually funded in Britain – which
means that it is frequently short-term, badly paid, and punctuated by
extensive periods of unemployment and uncertainty – actually mitigates against building the types of sustained creative relationships that
might prove useful models for disadvantaged neighbourhoods. And
though artistic labour processes may sometimes be collaborative (and
one should not assume that a group of people working together is
necessarily collaborative in the normative sense implied by New
Labour), they are also often rigidly prescriptive and hierarchical. It is
rather ironic that the arts should be vaunted for their flexibility when
most theatre rehearsal processes in Britain rely on a strict definition of
occupation and task that has remained largely unchanged for more
than a century: whether one is a director, an actor, or a technician, one
usually has a very clear sense of the boundaries of one’s job and its
position within a sharply defined pecking order. Though New Labour
uses the arts as models of civic collaboration and training, they are just
as readily models of self-interest, anxiety, and hierarchy.
ECONOMIC SYMPATHY
It would not be an exaggeration to describe New Labour’s relationship
with the market economy as the friendliest yet seen in a Labour
government. This is not to say that previous Labour governments did
not arrive at a kind of détente with the market, but New Labour has
vigorously extended, rather than checked, the process of marketisation
undertaken by the Conservatives. It has done so, however, in a particular way: whereas the Conservatives viewed marketisation as a form of
combat, with the forces of the free market triumphing over the state,
New Labour seeks to extend the market through more sympathetic
means. The counterpart to participation under New Labour, therefore,
is ‘partnership’, where the arts, the state, and private industry not only
collaborate in investment, but where the ideal relationship is one in
which the historic economic ambivalence between the arts and private
industry begins to dissolve. By refashioning the arts as part of the
‘creative industries’, New Labour attempts to place them in a more
harmonious relationship. The creative industries are the industrial
prerequisite for the arts and private capital imagining themselves in
each other’s places, and joining together within New Labour’s industrial strategy.
While the Conservatives attempted to force arts bodies into articulating their social value in monetary terms, and were successful in
achieving this to some degree, they could never completely reconcile
the different conceptions of the arts that they advanced. Even after two
decades of arts marketisation, the Conservatives remained suspicious
that the arts, in economic terms, were a throwback to a time before the
frontiers of socialism had been rolled back. At the same time, however,
the Conservatives’ arts discourse was relentlessly backward-looking,
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seeing the function of the arts as preserving Britain’s ‘national heritage’
(the phrase that the Major government chose for its culture ministry),
and thereby invoking a whole range of social ideologies – such as patriotism, historical nostalgia, and familial allegiance – that may reside
outside the interests of an increasingly transnational market economy.
New Labour, in contrast, has ‘modernised’ the economic relationship between the arts and private capital by refashioning the arts as the
creative industries. According to New Labour, the creative industries
are ‘those industries which have their origin in individual creativity,
skill and talent and which have a potential for wealth and job creation
through the generation and exploitation of intellectual property’
(DCMS, 2001: 5). Arts like theatre and sculpture are now allied with
computer software and advertising, seamlessly linking the old with the
new through ‘individual creativity’, ‘wealth and job creation’, and
‘intellectual property’.4 Though the term ‘cultural industries’ had been
in use by both right-wing and left-wing observers since the 1980s, New
Labour has taken pains to disavow it and promote the creative industries in its place. ‘Some say [the creative industries] is just the cultural
industries under a new label, but that’s not true’, Arts Minister Alan
Howarth claimed in 2000. ‘We take creative industries to include
sectors such as advertising, architecture, design, designer fashion, software and music in addition to what we would recognise as the more
traditional cultural industries’ (DCMS, 2000: 1). Competing connotations of ‘cultural’ and ‘creative’ underpin Howarth’s distinction, and
New Labour clearly wishes to be associated with the sentiments
implied by the latter term: creativity connotes dynamism, individuality,
modernity, and inventiveness, while culture implies heritage, stasis, the
‘forces of conservatism’, and collectivity. Significantly for a government that wants to encourage artistic and commercial sympathy,
creativity is a word that is used by their respective advocates to
describe both artists and markets.
The incorporation of the arts into a sympathetic industrial strategy
salves an anxiety about the limits of the economic value of the arts,
limits that the Conservatives encountered in the early 1990s. Prior to
the 1980s, the arts in Britain were valued mostly for their contribution
to ‘the public good’, which meant the way that ‘the arts are pleasurable
and contribute to our spiritual, emotional and moral health’ (Shaw
1987: 24). Though the arts may also have been an economic good, this
benefit was seen as secondary, and the relationship between artistic and
economic production was ambivalent at best. Roy Shaw, who was
Secretary-General of the Arts Council of Great Britain (ACGB)
between 1975 and 1983, acknowledges that the economic function of
the arts is ‘vital’, but it ‘is more important to demonstrate that the arts
… remind us that man does not live by bread alone’ (27). Shaw suggests
that the arts possess a moral calculus that the market does not, and,
while the arts and the market are not necessarily antipathetic toward
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each other, the former possesses a system of value that is not reducible
to the monetary calculus of the latter.
This economic scepticism is reflected in the fact that, until relatively
recently, data on the arts as industrial activities were not systematically
gathered. As Baz Kershaw comments: ‘Statistical analysis of the arts in
Britain was not considered a priority until the mid-1980s, when the
pressures of neo-Conservative monetarism forced onto the funding
agencies the issue of their contribution to the nation’s economy’
(Kershaw, 1992: 46). Data collection began principally as a way to place
the arts and the market in a more sympathetic relationship; it was
impossible for the market and the arts to comprehend each other if
they did not employ the same financial measurements of value. For
Kershaw, this statistical emphasis was part of a general move away
from the status of the arts (with which Shaw and much of Britain’s
post-war arts discourse was preoccupied) to the scale of the arts. John
Myerscough’s 1986 landmark study, The Economic Importance of the
Arts, marked the first comprehensive attempt to quantify the monetary
value of the arts as an industry, refashioning artists as producers
supplying commodities to be purchased not by audiences but by
consumers. ‘Expressed in these terms’, Robert Hewison argues, ‘the
arts become purely instrumental, a matter of “value for money”, and
the opposition between culture and industrial society has disappeared’
(1994: 30).5
The results of this shift, however, were not completely sympathetic
in the ways hoped for by the Conservatives or by the advocates of
marketisation at the funding councils. If anything, the attempt to
submit the arts wholesale to the logic of the free market threw the
tension between the arts and private capital into sharper relief. Arts
marketisation may have opened up a new avenue for artistic advocacy
by using a monetary logic familiar to the governing Conservatives and
private capital, but the quantitative results of statistical analysis tended
to show that the arts, at least as traditionally defined, were a relatively
small proportion of the national economy. ‘The argument that the arts
return more to governments in taxes than they cost governments in
subsidy should not be taken seriously’, Hewison comments. ‘Certainly
the British Treasury does not appear to do so’ (31). Attempts by the
state to attract more private investment for the arts were also largely
unsuccessful, as corporations saw little benefit for their bottom line in
financing art. Despite successive Conservative governments trumpeting the role for private capital in the arts sector, the Department of
National Heritage reported in 1993 that the Business Sponsorship
Incentive Scheme, introduced in 1984, ‘with the aim of raising the overall level of business sponsorship’ of the arts, had managed to attract
only £32 million during the previous nine years (Central 16). To put
this in perspective, the Arts Council allocation for 1992-93 alone was
£221 million, and this figure excludes the £192 million spent on 11
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national galleries and museums in England and other substantial grants
to organisations like the British Library, the British Film Institute, and
the Crafts Council (Central 16). Despite the rhetoric of ‘industrial and
commercial concerns offer[ing] vital sponsorship’, the arts were largely
ignored as an economic good by private capital (Central: 16).
Boundaries between different expressive and aesthetic media
needed to be dissolved for the arts to enter into commercial partnership in both quantitative and qualitative terms. The shift from the arts
to the creative industries places the arts within a wider range of activities and implies that they are more conceptually and economically
homologous than previously imagined. As a corollary, it creates an
industrial sector whose quantitative economic output is much greater
than previously accounted for. Whereas the arts, traditionally
conceived, were estimated to account for £6 billion of economic activity in 1990 (Central Office of Information, 1993: 1), the combined
creative industries were estimated in 2001 to account for £112.5 billion
(DCMS, 2001: 10), a level of growth that could only be achieved by
expanding the definition of the industrial sector being measured. As
the creative industries, then, the arts became part of much larger
industrial strategy, and New Labour has situated the arts squarely
within its promotion of the ‘new economy’ and export-led economic
development.6 The qualitative benefits of this shift are equally important: the ostensibly collaborative nature of the arts supplies the ideal
labour process that New Labour desires for the broader economy, and
the arts also embody a pre-industrial ideology of artisanship that is
sympathetic to the new economy’s post-industrial privileging of individual entrepreneurs.
This approach helps to explain New Labour’s attempt to redefine
the boundaries of cultural production – direct private investment in
arts projects matters less when the industrial sector as a whole is seen
to combine not-for-profit and commercial enterprise – but it does not
completely efface the contradictions within that redefinition. While
New Labour is somewhat concerned about the arts in terms of their
quantitative economic output, the commercial, profit-making side of
the creative industries is responsible for the vast majority of the
revenues generated by the sector; the economic value of the traditional
arts remains small relative to the rest of the creative sector and to the
larger economy. It is also clear that the fit between the traditional arts
and the other creative industries in DCMS strategy is uneasy, resulting
in either the complete elision of the ‘older’ arts or the awkward insistence that a commercial funding rationale remains applicable in spite of
its acknowledged failure. When the DCMS promotes ‘connecting
creativity with capital’, the creativity with which it is concerned is
almost exclusively that located in high-technology, commercial, and
mass production industries like computer software development
(DCMS, Creative Industries Finance). The section of the 2001 Creative
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Industries Mapping Document on music is devoted to the commercial
pop record industry, with no mention of opera companies, orchestras,
experimental, or traditional music (15). The section on the performing
arts is rather paradoxical, and illustrates New Labour’s inability to find
a coherent economic logic for the ‘old’ arts: the Mapping Document
admits that ‘attendances overall are static [and] the sector does not
demonstrate strong growth’, and partly attributes this to ‘a higher level
of dependence on market support than in other European countries,
resulting in a fear of creative risk-taking’ (DCMS, 2001: 15). The solution to the problem of overdependence on the market, however, is not
greater public funding (as in many ‘other European countries’), but
rather ‘more private support’ (15). The new system of economic value
in which New Labour has placed the arts features as many compromises, albeit of a different sort, than the supposedly unsympathetic
value system it replaces.
INSTITUTIONAL SYMPATHY
The groundwork for an institutionally sympathetic arts model, which
attempts to bring together the arts and the state harmoniously, was
actually laid by the Major government. After the 1992 election, Major
created the Department of National Heritage, which assembled ‘the
whole range of governmental activity that constitutes the state’s
cultural policy within Britain’ (Gray: 59).7 The DNH assumed responsibility not only for the arts councils but also for such things as media
regulation, sport and tourism promotion, administration of the
national lottery, heritage buildings, libraries, and the national galleries,
museums, and theatres. Though the DNH was not intended to be a
grand Ministry of Culture on the French model, it was intended to
provide a broader policy-making framework than had previously been
possible. Equally importantly, the Secretary of State for National
Heritage was made a Cabinet-level position, implying that the state
would take a higher-level interest in artistic production.
The Conservatives may have created a basic institutional structure,
but New Labour set out to exploit it for their own ends. In doing so,
they were attempting to break with the awkward and distinctive institutional arrangements within which the arts in Britain had existed since
the Second World War – the time when systematic state patronage of
the arts in Britain began. While individual and business patronage of
the arts had existed in Britain for centuries, the modern structure of
substantive public subsidy for the arts dates from the establishment of
the ACGB in 1946. As Clive Gray observes:
Prior to 1940 about the only direct state involvement with the arts in
Britain was to be found in local and national museums, financial support
for broadcast opera on the BBC and in the post of Poet Laureate. Apart
from these small areas of activity the British state displayed a marked
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reluctance to become involved in a field that was seen to carry as many
political problems as it did opportunities (Gray: 35).
The 1946 foundation of the ACGB codified a tension that was to dominate arts policy for much of the next four decades: that between a
democratic rationale for artistic subsidy – the ACGB was mandated to
provide ‘access for all’ – and a patrician one based on the dissemination
of pre-determined ideals of beauty and civilisation.8 New Labour’s
cultural policies can thus be understood as efforts to resolve some of
this a tension and muddle.
Although Jennie Lee was made Britain’s first Minister for the Arts
in 1965, the post-war consensus around the institutional structures of
arts policy-making was more motivated by convenience and obfuscation than by thoughtful design. Because public subsidy for most arts
organisations was directed through arm’s-length bodies rather than
through an arts ministry with Cabinet-level representation, the state
could provide resources for the arts without the government having to
answer directly in Parliament for their final allocation (Gray: 44;
Hutchison: 16-19). The system permitted general state influence over
the direction of arts councils through the government appointment of
their members, but reassured arts organisations and artists that specific
decisions over the funding of companies and individual works would
be insulated from direct governmental fiat (though in practice artists
discovered that ministers did not have to issue specific orders for
progressive arts organisations like theatre company 7:84 to be targeted
for funding cuts during the 1980s). This arrangement was also reassuring in a populist sense, in that its development seemed to mimic the
conventional understanding of constitutional evolution in the United
Kingdom, and therefore appeared to be an innately ‘British compromise’ rooted in political incrementalism (Hutchison 16). Janet Minihan
may not theorise this compromise in a way sympathetic to the
approach of this essay, but she usefully describes its logic, which was
promoted by both the state and arts advocates:
The nation’s lawmakers were not asked to approve a dangerous,
unprecedented step into uncharted cultural realms, but merely to transform a temporary arrangement, and one of proven worth and popularity,
into a permanent body dignified by Royal Charter. Over the centuries,
the organs of British Government had developed in just such a way,
through precedent becoming custom and ultimately being embodied in
legal form (228).
Until the 1980s (and arguably the 1990s), state influence on the arts was
present but diffused, and – albeit for different reasons – this arrangement broadly suited all the participants in the system.
The consequences of this structure, however, were two-fold. In the
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first place, it largely devolved arts policy-making to a relatively small
number of quango staff outside government and the state bureaucracy,
making an already minor government interest in the arts even smaller
(Gray 44-47). Gray argues that arts policy formation, though rhetorically committed to access for all, was determined by a tight group of
officials cut off from the major state policy apparatus that was actually
making accessibility a broad reality through the formulation of more
wide-ranging public projects and services. It could also be argued that
the ad hoc devolution of arts policy-making to intermediary organisations like the ACGB stifled within government any political imperative
to fund the arts at levels similar to those in other parts of Europe
(something that was more likely to make universal access a possibility),
and deflected artistic disaffection away from the government and
towards bodies like the ACGB. Even with the appointment of a
Minister for the Arts, the fact that this person was effectively a junior
minister within the Department of Education (and therefore outside
Cabinet), and that responsibility for the arts, broadly defined, was scattered amongst various departments, made intra-institutional pressure
on the government difficult to assert successfully (Abercrombie 2325).9 In addition, this structure implied that the arts owed allegiance as
much, if not more, to the nation (or the union) as to the state. The
Major government allied the arts more explicitly with the state by
creating a single Department specifically responsible for them, but the
name of this Department – National Heritage – served to extend a
preoccupation with the arts’ national, rather than state, relationship.
If the ‘creation’ of the creative industries sought to create an
economic homology between various forms of aesthetic and expressive
activities, New Labour’s ‘performance agreements’ (again, note the
artistic metaphor) attempt to create a bureaucratic homology between
the creative industries and all other areas of state involvement. While
the arts have historically been a distinct forum of policy-making (for
better and worse), they are now subject to the same objective standards
of measurement as other activities that come into contact with the state.
Many of these standards are deeply technocratic and entrench a
market-inflected system of value: the arts are measured according to
their ‘performance’ in ‘key indicators’, their ‘expenditure and outputs’
are analysed, they are subject to ‘best value’ audits, and they must
develop ‘modernised management arrangements’ and ‘improve value
for money’ (DCMS Policy: 11-12). Above all else, they must ‘join up’
with other policies being formulated across other government departments (DCMS, Culture: 5).
The arm’s-length relationship between arts funding, the DCMS, and
the Treasury has also been weakened, as the arts have become an
increasingly indistinguishable part of public policy-making. The Arts
Council of England (ACE), for example, may be an independent
royally-chartered body, but it is now governed by a ‘performance
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agreement’ with the DCMS that is similar to those agreed with (or
imposed on) other quangos. This agreement outlines the ACE’s
commitment to achieving a variety of government objectives on such
things as social inclusion, partnership, participation, and efficiency. The
ACE agreement is, in turn, mirrored by a performance agreement
between the DCMS and the Treasury that contains much the same set
of objectives – and many of these goals would not look out of place in
the agreements between most other government departments and the
Treasury. This arrangement, while perhaps a logical next step for most
areas within government, binds the arts to the central policy-making
apparatus of government in a way that is unprecedented.
New Labour’s more sympathetic structure further entrenches a
strict bureaucratic hierarchy, with the Treasury firmly positioned at the
top. The inclusive language of creativity, participation, and partnership
trumpeted in numerous DCMS documents arises from the Treasury’s
continued scepticism about public funding for the arts and its desire for
the arts to articulate their value in the preferred discourse of New
Labour. Buried deep in Policy Action Team 10’s report on the arts and
social exclusion is the admission that partnership ‘has arisen out of a
political imperative to reduce the public sector funding requirement’
(DCMS, Policy 92). The civic and economic ideals espoused by New
Labour’s arts policy, then, compensate for a blunt fiscal imperative.
While the value of the arts should be expressed and measured as
transparently as possible, New Labour’s sympathetic arts policy privileges a technocratic calculation of value whose ultimate arbiters are
government ministers, and, in the final instance, the Treasury. Other
value systems that could be used to articulate the significance of the arts
have difficulty in being accommodated. For example, it is difficult to
imagine the case for the arts laid out by the Labour Party during the
Callaghan government being understood by New Labour. That case
focused on the institutional governance of the arts, and conceived of
participation very differently: as the direct, elected involvement of arts
workers and audiences in the administration of arts bodies. Moreover,
the ultimate measure of artistic efficacy was whether or not the arts
challenged, rather than confirmed, dominant morality and accepted
beliefs (Labour 7). Even the more patrician and institutionally-friendly
case outlined by Shaw in the mid-1980s, in which the role of the arts is
to transmit national and international ‘cultural tradition’, would have
difficulty being understood within the technocratic context of New
Labour (37). Whether radical or patrician, these discourses imply institutional roles for the arts that are incompatible with the institutionally
sympathetic position in which they have been placed by New Labour.
CONCLUSION
Writing after the first decade of arts marketisation in 1990, Justin Lewis
commented, ‘We live in an age of priorities, not ideals’ (1). New Labour
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places an interesting twist on Lewis’s observation: it promotes its priorities as ideals. New Labour imagines that the arts perform wholly
affirmative civic, economic, and institutional functions, and assumes that
each role brings them into more sympathetic relationships than had been
previously imagined: first with the social formation, then with private
capital, and, finally, with the state itself. But after a long period during
which the arts were hectored by successive Conservative governments, it
should not be assumed that New Labour’s more sympathetic approach is
any less disciplinary or, equally importantly, any less anxious. Instead,
New Labour’s arts discourse must be seen as an attempt to subtly define
the terms on which the arts enter the British public and industrial spheres.
However, the possibility that the arts might still be negating or
unsympathetic is not completely extinguished in New Labour’s
approach to the arts. Indeed, the ministerial shuffle after the 2001 election confirm this possibility: the entire ministerial team at the DCMS
was dismissed and replaced by one led by Tessa Jowell, a Blairite and,
most importantly, former minister at the Department of Trade and
Industry. It is hard to avoid the implication that, with Jowell’s appointment, the new government wanted to encourage even tighter ties
between the state, industry, and the arts. New Labour appears to be
amplifying its sympathetic overtures in its second term, but strictly on
the affirmative grounds laid out in its first. That it believes this amplification necessary betrays the fear in New Labour’s political
unconscious that a rebellious art might yet surface.
I would like to thank David Grant for sharing his insights into, and
professional experience with, arts policy-making in the United
Kingdom.
NOTES
1. This does not mean that the last Labour government was wholly committed to a radical arts policy during its period in office; however, the Labour
Party continued to debate what an explicitly socialist arts policy might be
during the Callaghan administration and formulated proposals on that
basis. See Labour Party, The Arts and the People.
2. Marcuse’s debt to the early Frankfurt School theorists is clear here. His
discussion of cultural affirmation and negation echoes Theodor Adorno
and Max Horkheimer’s earlier attempt to theorise ‘autonomous’ art, which
they viewed as art that exposed the premises of social relations through
novel representational strategies.
3. I have discussed this elsewhere in the context of theatre practice, but the
same statement hold true, in various ways, for the arts in general. See
McKinnie 257-258. It should be noted, however, that this general tendency
does not diminish the culturally and historically-specific nature of these
practices.
4. The complete list of creative industries used by the DCMS is: advertising,
architecture, the art and antiques market, crafts, design, designer fashion,
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5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
Blairism and the War of Persuasion
film and video, interactive leisure software, music, the performing arts,
publishing, software and computer services, television and radio.
For an excellent discussion of how this ‘monetarist’ discourse for arts
advocacy began to supersede all other discourses in the mid-1980s (to the
extent that public funding bodies began using it in embarrassingly hyperbolic ways), see Kershaw, ‘Discouraging’ 274-275.
See, for example, DCMS, Creative Industries Exports.
It should be noted that the creation of the DNH may have resulted as
much from the tradition of personal interest rather than thoughtful design
as earlier institutional arrangements. The Secretary of State for National
Heritage, David Mellor, had been a strong and early supporter of John
Major’s leadership of the Conservative Party and it is an open question
whether the Secretary of State for National Heritage would otherwise
have been a Cabinet-level position.
The Arts Council was the successor to the Council for the Encouragement
of Music and the Arts (CEMA), which had been founded in 1940 as the
artistic wing of the war effort. CEMA’s role was to promote British art as
part of the wider campaign against fascism, and, though initially created by
a private charity, the Pilgrim Trust, the government had assumed the full
operating costs of CEMA in 1941 through the Board of Education. The
wartime government saw CEMA as a useful tool for promoting national
morale and for propaganda purposes, and, as Gray observes, it inaugurated
an institutional cosiness that has dominated the relationship between the
state and arts bodies ever since (though this cosiness should not be reduced
to a crude form of political control).
While the ACGB reported to the Minister for the Arts, its remit was
limited to a fairly restrictive group of ‘fine’ arts like theatre, visual art, and
classical music. Responsibility for related arts industries lay with other
departments; for example, the film industry was overseen by the
Department of Trade and Industry, radio and television communication
were supervised by the Home Office, and the Treasury and the
Environment Department were responsible for arts activities, such as the
national galleries, that were relevant to their remits.
REFERENCES
Abercrombie, Nigel (1982) Cultural Policy in the United Kingdom, Paris:
UNESCO.
Central Office of Information (1993) The Arts, London: HMSO.
Dale, Iain (Ed.) (2000) Labour Party General Election Manifestos 1900-1997.
London: Routledge.
Department of Culture, Media and Sport (1999) Creative Industries Exports:
Our Hidden Potential, London: DCMS.
—— (2001) Creative Industries Mapping Document 2001, London: DCMS.
—— (2001) Culture and Creativity: The Next Ten Years. London: DCMS.
—— (1999) Report of Policy Action Team 10. London: DCMS.
—— (2000) Report on the Creative Industries Finance Conference: Connecting
Creativity with Capital. London: DCMS.
—— (2000) ‘Speech by Arts Minister, Alan Howarth, to UNESCO Round
Table of
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203
Ministers of Culture’. 13 December 2000. London: DCMS.
Egan, Michael (Ed) (1972) Ibsen: The Critical Heritage. London: Routledge
and Kegan Paul.
Gray, Clive (2000) The Politics of the Arts in Britain. London: Macmillan.
Hewison, Robert (1984) ‘Public Policy: Corporate Culture: Public Culture’.
The Arts in the World Economy: Public Policy and Private Philanthropy for
a Global Cultural Community. Ed. Robert Freeman et al. Hanover: UP of
New England.
Hutchison, Robert (1982) The Politics of the Arts Council. London: Sinclair
Browne.
Kershaw, Baz (1999) ‘Discouraging Democracy: British Theatres and
Economics, 1979-1999’. Theatre Journal 51.3: 267-284.
—— (1992) The Politics of Performance: Radical Theatre as Cultural
Intervention. London: Routledge.
Labour Party (1977) The Arts and the People: Labour’s Policy Towards the
Arts. London: Labour Party.
Lewis, Justin (1990) Art, Culture and Enterprise: The Politics of Art and the
Cultural Industries. London: Routledge.
Marcuse, Herbert (1978) The Aesthetic Dimension: Toward a Critique of
Marxist Aesthetics. Trans. and Rev. Herbert Marcuse and Erica Sherover.
Boston: Beacon.
Marshall, David (1986) The Figure of Theater: Shaftesbury, Defoe, Adam
Smith, and George Eliot. New York: Columbia UP.
McKinnie, Michael (2001) ‘Urban National, Suburban Transnational: Civic
Theatres and the Urban Development of Toronto’s Downtowns’. Theatre
Journal 53.2: 253-276.
Minihan, Janet (2001) The Nationalisation of Culture. London: Hamish
Hamilton.
Rawnsley, Andrew (2001) Servants of the People: The Inside Story of New
Labour. London: Penguin.
Shaw, Roy (1987) The Arts and the People. London: Jonathan Cape.
Smith, Adam (1984) The Theory of Moral Sentiments. Indianapolis: Liberty
Fund.
Smith, Chris (1998) Creative Britain. London: Faber and Faber.
Willett, John Ed. and Trans (1964) Brecht on Theatre. London: Methuen.
Worthen, W.B. (1992) Modern Drama and the Rhetoric of Theater. Berkeley:
U of California P.
203
12. Balancing acts: empire, race and
Blairite discourses of development
Pat Noxolo
INTRODUCTION
During its first year in power, in November 1997, the new Labour
government presented a white paper on international development to
the British parliament: Eliminating World Poverty: A Challenge for the
21st Century (EWP). By presenting this white paper, the first since
1980, so early in its term, the government signalled the importance of
development issues in its own self-definition. Its declarations in favour
of poverty alleviation and global equality served as guarantees,
addressed both to interest groups within Britain and to other governments, of the Blair government’s moral character. It is one of the
arguments of this chapter that development policies have been one
important instrument for shaping the economic and political relationships between new Labour and other governments (both those in the
so-called third world, and those in the first).1
In this chapter I explore New Labour’s development policies by
taking the EWP as the point of departure. My method is to read the
report critically, and to place it within a larger historical context, particularly the history of imperial and post-imperial discourses. I suggest
that many of the themes that emerge – especially the stress on Britain’s
fulcrum role, the representation of power as ‘partnership’, and the
peculiar, one-sided constructions of ‘agency’ in the world – testify to
the persistence (though not necessarily conscious) of imperial and
racist frameworks. This only partly conscious colonial legacy is a
pervasive feature of New Labour’s production of Britain’s relationships
in the world more generally, especially in relation to questions of global
poverty and the third world.
BALANCING MANY RELATIONSHIPS
The document is at pains to mark out a network of international relationships that gives to the British government its external shape. It
outlines the concept of ‘partnerships’ to describe the relationships the
British government proposes to have with selected third-world
governments. It places the British government’s development targets
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firmly in the context of international development targets agreed at
United Nations (UN) conferences. At the same time it proposes for the
British government a peculiar position, unlike that of any other ‘on the
fulcrum of global influence’ (EWP: 20). This fulcrum or pivotal role is
based on simultaneous membership of the Group of Seven industrialised countries (G7), the European Union (EU), the UN Security
Council and the Commonwealth, to which is often added the ‘special
relationship’ with the United States. The Blair government’s distinctive
identity is seen as directly derived from its relationships with other
governments.
Managing so complex a network, with such diverse responsibilities
and roles, is a difficult balancing act. Maintaining a visible role in international development is one way of keeping these relationships going.
This integral relationship between development and self-definition can
be seen, in a contrasting mode, in the Fundamental Expenditure
Review (FER) which was the previous Conservative government’s
Overseas Development Administration’s (ODA) final major document
on international development, published in 1996. FER overtly debated
the value of overseas aid for the British government at a time when
international development seemed a low priority for a number of
reasons. It noted how international development was now subsumed
under the Foreign Office, was tied increasingly to spending on British
goods, and had dropped from 0.50 per cent of Gross National Product
(GNP) in 1979 to 0.31 per cent in 1994, a reduction continued through
to1997/8 when aid was a mere 0.26 per cent of GNP (FER: 22). FER
pointed out that, apart from any moral arguments, countries that
receive aid from Britain were much more likely to buy British goods
(with or without tying). Aid could also be used to exert influence on
third-world governments to maintain stable political environments,
and to create economic environments that promote trade with firstworld countries; in addition, membership of the G7, the UN Security
Council and the EU carried with it an obligation to contribute to the
collective aid-giving of these organisations, alongside security and
other costs (FER: 18-22). All this provided the context for the
Conservatives’ Aid and Trade Provision (ATP) – which enabled aid to
be tied to trade – and for the resulting Pergau Dam scandal of 1994.2
In the face of such Conservative scepticism and instrumentalism
towards aid, the Labour government early signalled its strong
commitments to aid, and constructed its patterns of international relationships somewhat differently. It created a new government
department, the Department for International Development (DFID).
It abolished the Aid and Trade Provision, and advocated the untying
of aid (EWP: 43), although bilateral aid is not yet completely untied.3
It committed itself to reversing the decline in government aid spending, pushing the percentage up from 0.27 per cent in 1998 to a
projected 0.33 per cent in 2004.
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However, international development policy not only helps to ensure
continuation of important relationships; it also helps to maintain their
quality, and specifically their power differentials. My argument is that
these power differentials are underpinned not only financially – by the
ability to give aid and the need to receive it – but also discursively – by
post-imperialist and neo-imperialist structures of power that draw
their moral force (their impression of rightness, of inevitability) from
racialised assumptions.
POST-IMPERIAL DISCOURSE? BALANCING PAST AND
PRESENT
EWP begins with a context-giving narrative. It is a story exclusively of
‘the last fifty years’ (EWP: 8), this being the third in a series of white
papers on international development published by Labour governments within a year of taking office (the first two were in 1965 and
1975). This fifty-year time frame defines New Labour as part of a postimperial British tradition in its relationships with a formally
independent third world. The first white paper (1965) is said to have
been a response to the challenge of ‘manag[ing] the transition from
colonial empires to a world characterised by independent states’ (EWP:
8). EWP also places current British interventions within a development
era, the parameters of which are officially defined by the UN and the
Bretton Woods institutions (EWP: 8). This was an era, ostensibly, of
international co-operation to eradicate poverty – but it precedes the late
1970s, since when, according to the document, international development has been dominated by the Cold War and the neo-imperial
preoccupations of the US and USSR (EWP: 9, see also Esteem 1997,
and Escobar 1995). The 1997 white paper itself arrives after the Cold
War, at the beginning of a ‘new era’ (EWP: 9), which is characterised by
the end of neo-imperialism and the start of a ‘global society’ (EWP: 10).
So the new government deliberately excludes itself from the traditions
both of imperialism and neo-imperialism, but includes itself in its own
Labour tradition. The opening narrative describes a ‘quest for international development’ (EWP: 8), during which Labour governments have
done battle repeatedly on behalf of a third world defined by poverty,
but also by incompetence and division. All this has taken place in an
‘international climate’ (EWP: 9) that is as impassive and as destructive
as the weather, and quite unconnected, of course, with what is benignly
described as the ‘international community’.
In this opening narrative, therefore, the new government gives itself
a decisive international shape by shearing off the imperialist and neoimperialist past and aligning itself with an international harmony of
purpose. Whatever Labour is, whether Old or New, it is not imperial,
whether old or ‘neo’-.
However, the internationalism that remains is not, for all this, imperialism-free. A brief look at the narrative’s thumbnail sketch of the new
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era of globalisation illustrates the ways in which imperialism continues
to breathe in Blairist international development discourse:
Decisions taken in London, New York or Tokyo can have a profound
effect on the lives of millions far away. We travel to distant places and
trade with people of whom our grandparents knew little. We are mutually dependent. If our grandchildren are to have a safe future, we must
improve opportunities for all the children of the world (EWP: 10).
The three major global cities, situated at the heart of former imperial
and neo-imperial centres, still stand in neo-imperial relationships of
power and influence over former colonial outposts. As Michael Manley
put it: ‘If America sneezes, we all catch a cold’ (Manley, 1987: 8). The
‘we’ and ‘our’ in the passage from the EWP are (deliberately?) ambiguous, yet the context establishes clear ‘us’ and ‘them’ boundaries in the
very same geographical and political places as before. The slippage of
time and space through which both ‘our grandparents’ and ‘we’ are
coeval with the same timeless ‘people’ – and equally ‘distant’ from
them (despite numerous migrations) – taps into racialised assumptions
of timeless civilisations, kick-started into meaningful history only by
the catalyst of a dynamic western civilisation, and always remaining
distinct. The threat to the safety of ‘our grandchildren’ posed by ‘the
children of the world’ taps into imperial and aristocratic fears of
‘revolting peasants/natives’ that are centuries old. Moreover, these
latent imperial geographies cast shadows over the character of the
‘mutual dependency’ that ‘we’ share – after all, imperial centres have
always relied on their colonies to bring them wealth, whereas for
colonies and ‘post-colonies’, ‘dependency’ has not always been either
desirable or lucrative for any except a small minority.4
I am not of course suggesting that instead of trying to disengage
itself from the old imperialisms, New Labour ought to embrace them.
This opening paragraph of the Blairite document can be read, as can its
policies, as a direct (and welcome) reaction to the attitudes of the previous administration towards international development. The previous
Conservative administration proclaimed all too proudly that Britain’s
formal development efforts began with the Colonial Development Act
of 1929, when ‘the British Government’s responsibility for the development of her colonies on a continuing basis was first recognised’
(FER: 27). Here the possessive pronoun ‘her’ activates the dual force of
‘natural’ maternal belonging and an ‘imposed’ military subjection
related to the colonial iconography of the great Britannia. And the
document which followed this Conservative administration’s preamble
uncritically characterised Britain’s post-war development role as an
extension of this same relationship.
What I want to suggest in this chapter, however, is that a decision to
disengage from imperialism will require much more radical change
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than anything we have seen so far from the Blair government.
Imperialist assumptions continue to infuse Blairite development
discourse, despite attempts to claim otherwise. They are expressed in
the ways in which power relationships – and, as we shall see, agency –
are rendered into spatial and temporal relationships. Race is purposely
not voiced within twenty-first century international discourses: after
anti-imperialist movements, the rise and containment of European
fascism through two world wars, US civil rights struggles, and arguments over South Africa in the Commonwealth (see Chan, 1988), overt
racism has become unutterable in international arenas. Yet the postcolonial underpinnings of British governmental relationships mean
that race continues to form the base for its discourse of development.5
In the rest of this chapter I am going to extend the brief analysis above,
showing that racialised imperialism continues to supply the moral
force for the continuation of international inequalities; the justification
for countless first-world interventions; and the fear that fuels innumerable impositions of order. Again, I am not suggesting that the Blair
government is involved in an overtly racist global conspiracy – in fact
a certain kind of anti-racism is part of the discourse. However, the
continuation of racialised traditions is decisive, in the sense that the
Blair government has decided to continue the inequalities, interventions and impositions of imperialist and neo-imperialist development
paradigms through numerous policies, practices and rhetorics. It is
racialised assumptions, both historical and contemporary, that allow
these injustices to continue and serve to give them their moral force.
BALANCING DEVELOPMENT AND STASIS: RACIST
CONSTRUCTIONS OF TIME
The early twentieth century was a time of great debate in Britain about
the meanings of race and racial difference, heavily informed by the
struggle to retain imperial possessions against the rising tide of antiimperialism. It is in this context that the first Colonial Development
and Welfare Act was passed in 1929. Seven years previously, Lord
Frederick Lugard’s widely read and influential book, The Dual
Mandate in British Tropical Africa, set out one important side of the
debate. Britain, he asserted, had a responsibility to make the wealth of
the tropics available to the rest of the world because ‘the tropics are the
heritage of mankind [sic]’ (Lugard, quoted in Spurr, 1993: 28).
Although the ‘darker races’ inhabited these places, it was only
Europeans who knew how to fully exploit them. Indigenous people,
therefore, had no right to resist the Europeans in doing so. The second
part of Lugard’s dual mandate was that Britain had a moral responsibility to protect the people of the tropics – as weaker and more
vulnerable races – from excessive social disruption. In effect black
people were excluded from entering into industrialisation and
commerce in ways that might compete with British commerce.
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Moreover, the dual mandate did not include either education or social
welfare programmes, since either of these would only disrupt the
‘natives’’ traditional way of life (see Havinden and Meredith, 1993:
312). This version of internationalism turned Britain’s economic
imperative to keep these territories under British control into a moral
imperative. The world’s resources simply had to be taken out of the
control of black people and controlled by whites for the greater good
of all humanity. Black people were to provide the cheap labour to make
it happen.
This conservative racist construction contrasted with forms of
racialised developmentalism that were cohering around the
Commonwealth ideal during the First World War. Developmentalists
opposed ideas of fixed racial difference as the moral foundation of the
British Empire, and argued instead for the Empire as an instrument for
the evolution of the ‘backward races’, arguing that the higher evolution
of the white races, as represented by the English as the highest, was not
so much a question of their ‘breed’ as of their institutions:
In the course of the last few thousand years the people of Europe have
distinguished themselves from those of Asia, Africa, America and
Oceania by their higher capacity for adaptation … The English had
advanced further than the other nations of Europe in replacing the
personal authority of rulers by laws based on the experience of those
who obeyed them and subject to revision in the light of future experiences (Curtis, quoted in Rich, 1986: 62).
It was the responsibility of the British Empire, through its
Commonwealth ideals and institutions, to bestow this rule of law upon
‘backward races’ in order to advance their development.
After the Second World War, these ideas of racial evolution through
the adoption of first-world institutions formed the cornerstone of the
international development discourses put forward by the Bretton
Woods institutions, particularly in the group of ideas known as
modernisation theory, and elaborated most famously in W. W.
Rostow’s The Take-Off into Self-Sustained Growth (1956).6 Rostow
described five evolutionary stages of development, from ‘traditional
society’ (which largely described the societies of the world as they were
‘discovered’ by Europeans) to maturity (which largely described
European societies). All countries would naturally follow this same
path, unless they were blocked by distortions (flawed policy choices
for example, or reactionary cultures). Development policies were
aimed at pushing ‘backward’ or ‘developing’ countries more quickly
from one stage to the next, and often integral to this approach were
complex explanations as to why third-world societies were not developing in the prescribed way – why there was relative stasis. Although
the language had now changed from ‘backward/undeveloped races’ to
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‘backward/undeveloped countries’, the racialised temporal and spatial
dichotomy between development and stasis remained intact.7
Even though modernisation theory has been formally subject to
much criticism, most notably from dependency theorists, the
dichotomy between development and stasis continues to inform
Blairite development discourse. Third-world countries appear as static
in their poverty, and third-world governments appear incapable of the
kind of independent action that might lead to their own development.
First-world intervention is seen as the only means of development for
those whose status as ‘developing’ never seems to end.
Throughout the EWP, third-world countries are repeatedly pictured
as static. The ‘challenges’ of third-world poverty are described in snapshots, frozen in time:
Some 1.3 billion people … continue to live in extreme poverty … They
feel isolated and powerless … (EWP: 10).
Over 1.3 billion people do not have access to safe water. Eight hundred
million people are hungry or malnourished (EWP: 24).
an estimated 150 million primary age children do not go to school
(EWP: 25).
Where there is change, it is itself accompanied by stasis:
The overall proportion of illiterate adults has been falling but the uneducated children of today will be the illiterate adults of tomorrow’ (EWP:
25).
Or it amounts to change for the worse: the same situation – only more
so.
The second half of the twentieth century has seen unprecedented
changes in the size, structure and setting of the world’s population …
Ninety-five percent of the current growth is in developing countries,
least well-equipped to cope with the consequences (EWP: 27).
Any change deemed positive is to be brought about by the first world.
EWP is full of animating pictures of development ‘challenges’ and
‘responses’, and phrases that are replete with active verbs in future
tenses, emphasizing purpose:
Great progress has been made and more is possible if we build on this
experience (EWP: 12, my emphasis).
We will treat water as both a social and economic good … (EWP: 24).
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We will support policies and projects for which poor people are the
immediate and direct beneficiaries … (EWP: 29).
Third-world governments are seen as potential agents of development,
but only in partnership with first-world governments. Otherwise they
make ‘policy errors’ (EWP: 9), or are ‘not committed to the elimination
of poverty’ (EWP: 39). They do not seem to have learnt from past
development failures and moved on, as first-world governments have,
into a new era of synthesis and balance. They must be made to move,
otherwise, according to this discourse, they will not move at all.
There is clearly something quite constitutional and fixed about the
inability of these spatially very separate third-world countries and
governments to join the same time frames as the developed world.
What is preserved here from older imperial discourses is judgement
about others which by implication ascribes stasis to fixed and ingrained
features – which operate with all the necessary determinacy of theories
of racial difference – even where they are social or cultural in character.
ERASING THIRD-WORLD AGENCY
Britain’s role in providing aid is highly visible within its development
discourse, but the agency of governments and non-governmental
groups in third-world nations is erased. Where third-world economies
have in fact experienced growth, independent policy choices on the
part of governments are also erased in (at least) three ways.
First, their agency is hidden away behind the rhetoric of a natural
development that is taking place along the lines of the Rostowian idea
of ‘stages of growth’. So, for example, some countries are deemed
unsuitable as ‘partners’ for Britain: ‘because [they] have progressed
beyond the stage of their economic development where we would be
justified in making available substantial concessional financial
resources’ (EWP 2.23: 39, emphasis supplied). Although, in the document’s own terms, these countries are ‘successful’, success does not
arise from independent third-world agency (choices backed up by
action), but occurs, rather, through a progression that is held to be
‘natural’, but is defined by the first world.
Second, ‘successful’ third-world agency is hidden behind first-world
agency, so that it is pictured as mere compliance or obedience to firstworld policy prescriptions:
The experience of recent years in the most successful developing countries has clearly demonstrated the value of maintaining a sound fiscal
balance and low inflation. Equally it has shown the value of promoting
more open and less regulated domestic and foreign trade (EWP: 18).
These ‘values’ correspond to the policy recommendations of the international financial institutions (IFIs). Independent agency is
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appropriated as first-world agency, the third-world governments
having merely executed the prescriptions of first-world managers.
Third, the policy choices of third-world governments who have
deliberately chosen to go against policy prescriptions are nonetheless
represented as compliance. So, for example, we are told that in the
1980s: ‘in much of Asia growth was robust, reflecting long-standing
investment in education and generally sound economic policies’ (EWP
1.4). ‘Sound’ or ‘sensible’ economic policies in the EWP consistently
means those advocated by the IFIs – an open economy alongside ‘a
framework of law and regulation within which people can exercise
their rights’ (EWP: 16). But the phrase ‘generally sound’ belies a
discrepancy that was the subject of intense debate in the late 1980s and
early 1990s. Writers like Amsden (1990) have demonstrated that in fact
the Asian ‘tigers’ (Taiwan, Singapore, Hong Kong and South Korea)
experienced growth as a consequence of intense state regulation –
which ‘distorted’ prices, used tariffs to protect the home market,
subsidised inputs and controlled big business. Furthermore, their
governments were often extremely authoritarian and anti-democratic,
creating a labour force that was highly educated in terms of the application of new technology, while being politically relatively powerless.
The path chosen was very far from that prescribed in the first world –
it was defiantly deviant and yet outstandingly successful in terms of
economic growth.
BALANCING POWER AND ‘PARTNERSHIP’
The EWP introduces with great fanfare the concept of ‘partnerships’ to
describe its relationships with third-world countries. This concept has,
in fact, a long history in British governmental discourses of international development, stretching back to the immediate aftermath of the
Second World War. At that time, the Labour government re-packaged
the empire, in order to try to reconcile British opinion and US pressures. At a time when many citizens were returning from overseas
having fought hard for the retention of British colonial possessions, it
sought to maintain a consensus in favour of empire, while attentive to
an increasingly powerful US government, which combined an old
grudge against British imperialism with new competitive neo-imperialist aspirations of their own (Darwin, 1988; see also Rich, 1986).
‘Partnership’ at this time was not at all about the British government
sharing international power with independent third-world governments; rather, it was about maintaining unequal power relations whilst
seeking to share international power and status with the key ‘partner’
– the USA.
This suggests that we might read the return of the rhetoric of partnership within Blairite discourse as not so much a signal to third-world
governments of the British government’s desire for mutual acceptance
and equality, but more as a signal to other powerful members of the
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international community of Britain’s desire to continue the inequalities
of power that contribute to its status in the world. Certainly, partnerships are elaborated as thoroughly unequal relationships. The British
government plays the ‘adult’ role of disciplinarian and provider to
third-world governments, who seem to be children, presenting ‘challenging’ behaviour. Britain stipulates the terms and conditions under
which it will enter into partnership, stating moreover that it will only
enter into partnership where it ‘has the influence to play a positive role’
(EWP, panel 14: 39). Crucially, Britain retains the right to assess and
evaluate the performance of its ‘partners’, and to decide when and how
to give ‘partner’ governments more liberty to decide independently
how aid money should be spent:
Where we have confidence in the policies and budgetary allocation
process and in the capacity for effective implementation in the partner
government, we will consider moving away from supporting specific
projects to providing resources more strategically in support of sectorwide programmes or the economy as a whole (EWP: 38).
The terms and conditions that Britain demands for its money are set
out as a kind of contract with a list of bullet points introduced by the
words: ‘We would expect partner governments to: … ’ (EWP: 39). The
document also lists those to whom Britain will refuse ‘partnership’:
countries which are not poor enough, or any government which ‘is not
committed to the elimination of poverty, is not pursuing sound
economic policies or is embroiled in conflict’ (EWP: 39); to which are
added ‘countries in which the UK is not well-placed to make an effective impact, where others [multilateral institutions or other bilateral
donors] must lead’ (EWP: 39). This construction of partnership is a
formal display of power that carries as its moral force echoes of
‘trusteeship’ – the racialised assumption that third-world countries
must be controlled and led by the first world for their own good.
Partnership is therefore as much about the new Blair government
asserting itself as a powerful first-world government as it is about
establishing new developmental relationships with third-world
governments.
IN THE BALANCE?
‘Partnership’, as we have seen, emerged at the point at which old imperial power was fundamentally challenged both by the USA and by
impending decolonialisation. Under the terms of this first partnership,
indeed, the empire was to disappear. In a similar way today, the reemergence of the discourse of partnership is a reaction to the threat of
a greater loss of power.
Development has become an extremely competitive arena for the
buying and selling of international influence, and Britain is increasingly
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unable to compete with other donors for centrality of influence in
third-world countries. In fact, in recent years Britain has been forced
to all but withdraw from some middle-income countries in order to
focus its development assistance on fewer recipients, given that, ‘we
have limited financial and human resources’ (EWP: 39). The moderation of this statement masks the frank admission made by the last
Conservative government. As FER put it, Britain …
… is unlikely to be able to ‘afford’ the size of programme which would
buy it greater influence in [the middle-income regions of] south-east
Asia, Latin America and CEE/FSU. Middle-income countries have
enough resources of their own and enough interest from other donors
(who are likely to get substantial returns on their investment) that the
British government would have to outbid others in order to buy influence. This it cannot afford to do.
It therefore recommended focusing aid on fewer countries (FER: 104).
Due to its need to form alliances for greater strength on the world
stage, Britain has increasingly had to merge its development assistance
with that of other donors. Most of the policy-based grants and loans
with which the British government is involved happen in the overall
context of the European Union (EU), or of the structural adjustment
programmes of international financial institutions’ (IFIs) – in particular those of the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund.
Policy-based loans from the IFIs are characterised by ‘policy conditions designed to increase the probability of repayment’ (Mosley, 1992:
129). British programme aid can either be ‘co-financed’ with the IFIs –
in which case IFI conditionality applies directly – or ‘co-ordinated’
with the IFIs, meaning that:
the programme aid grant is not linked to specific Bank actions but is
generally conditional on the progress of the adjustment programme …
this is normally defined by an IMF arrangement being in place and staying on track (Sandersley, 1992: 58).
Despite the impression that terms and conditions are set independently
by Britain (see EWP: 39), the IFIs define the conditions to which thirdworld countries are meant to comply, and these conditions are very
much associated with the ability to repay as well as with longer-term
macroeconomic agendas. As Sandersley puts it:
Donors rely on the [International Monetary] Fund and [the World]
Bank to do the running and make the important judgements as to when
the time is ripe for a programme to be brought to their Boards, and that
the resulting package is sufficiently substantial and the ‘best’ one available in the circumstances (Sandersley, 1992: 62).
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This is one reason why, in the first section of the EWP, so much emphasis is placed on conforming to internationally agreed development
targets (e.g. EWP: 19-21).
Moreover, the relative freedom of choice of third-world countries in
a competitive aid situation, however constrained, can no longer in
practice be denied. Trading relationships with Britain are not the
primary focus of many former colonial countries (Segal: 1994), and the
bargaining power of aid recipient governments can vary according to
the market. Those who are selling influence may have some limited
space to make decisions in their own favour if the conditions are right
– for example if there is competition for what they are selling, or if the
buyer is ignorant of or intimidated by the situation. Furthermore, the
history of what is called ‘conditionality’ (the tying of aid to definite
conditions) shows that it is far from easy to ensure that donor countries will achieve the results or influence they have paid for. Weighed
and balanced against intra-national political and economic considerations, recipient governments often find that they cannot or need not
make the policy changes that the donor countries have specified. As
Maingot (1994) points out in the context of the small island states of the
Caribbean and their complex inter-relationships with the superpower
on their doorstep, even the most ostensibly weak states do have some
room to negotiate situations in their favour, if they are shrewd and flexible enough.
Maingot argues that Caribbean political leaders have been able to
negotiate in their own favour, despite attempts to constrain them, by
using three main strategies. Firstly, they have recognised that all sovereign states are always to some extent constrained, just as individuals
always exercise their freedom in the context of societal constraints; and
they have sought to work out how best to maximise the advantages and
reduce the costs of those constraints. Secondly they have tried to
understand and manipulate the geopolitical situation in which the US
finds itself at any one time, particularly through highlighting shared
interests. And, thirdly, they have recognised that the US is ‘an open
system’, which means that there is a possibility of …
… skilful use or mobilisation of the transnational networks created by
immigration and racial and ethnic allies in the metropolis. This can result
in their participation in the setting of the bilateral and multilateral agenda
of the region’s international relations, as well as influencing the nature of
the language of the diplomacy of those agendas (Maingot, 1994: 246).
Thus Blair’s development policies have to operate in an environment
where they are in competition for influence with other powerful states,
and where the market for influence confers some bargaining power on
those to be influenced. The marginal power that aid-receiving governments can exercise, however, does not gainsay our larger arguments,
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especially those about the power that is sought by donors, and the
unequal nature of the partnerships proffered
RESTORING THE BALANCE? THE IMPERIAL LEGACY AS
RESOURCE AND LIABILITY
It is clear that the government is involved in a balancing act between
the needs and priorities of many ‘partners’ in an interdependent world.
At best the ‘fulcrum’ position claimed in the EWP is one of ‘influence’,
not of power or domination. But it is in this context that the government has continued to draw on a discourse of development that
constructs imaginary relationships between donors and recipients on
imperial lines. Indeed, as our argument might predict, this rhetoric has
acquired an exaggerated force in the face of the Bush government’s
tendencies to unilateral action, and its repeated breaking of international ‘partnerships’ and agreements. The more British power weakens
in the face of its most powerful ‘partners’, the stronger the imperial
residues appear in political rhetoric.
Thus, in Tony Blair’s well-known speech to the Labour Party
conference of October 2001, in the middle of the anti-terrorist
moment, all the familiar imperial images re-appear. Britain again is at
the centre, between the USA and Europe, part of an ‘international
community’ certainly, but the key element in its orchestration. Again,
there is a deep polarisation between third-world victimhood and firstworld agency. A stereotypical ‘Africa’ is ‘a scar upon the conscience of
the world’. Moreover:
The starving, the wretched the dispossessed, the ignorant, those living in
want and squalor from the deserts of northern Africa to the slums of
Gaza, to the mountain ranges of Afghanistan: they too are our cause.
‘We’ respond to ‘our’ cause by rescuing ‘them’:
This is the moment to seize. The kaleidoscope has been shaken. The
pieces are in flux. Soon they will settle again. Before they do, let us
reorder this world around us.
This ‘heroic’ drawing on racialised traditions, as with the parallel use of
anti-terrorist rhetorics, strengthens the government’s grip on global
power in the short term by giving it an influence – at least a certain
‘moral’ leadership – in relation to Bush’s USA, the partners in Europe
and the wider ‘international community’. In the long term, however,
insofar as New Labour continues to embrace, in the international field,
the dominant neo-liberal solutions of the IFIs, the US government and
the big corporations, it will only compound the long-term global
inequalities that are still on the increase in the twenty-first century (see
Wade, 2001). If the Blair government really wants a mission, it could be
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to make its own decisive break with racialised imperialism, and to use
any influence it has not just to alleviate extreme poverty, but to push
for a fundamental redefinition of the balance of global power.
NOTES
1. Throughout this chapter I will be referring to the first world and the third
world. Although these terms may appear offensive or archaic, I have
chosen them over the other available terms for two main reasons. First,
despite the diversity of these countries and the fracturing of the nonaligned movement in recent years, both of which have led many to
abandon the term (see for example Bayart, 1991, and Westlake, 1991),
‘third world’ retains the hope of a possible ‘third way’ with more prominence given to the perspectives of that majority of the earth’s population
which sees mainly the underside of progress, or in other words: ‘all those
nations which, during the process of formation of the existing world order,
did not become rich’ (Abdalla, quoted in Thomas, 1992). It was with this
hope in mind that third-world leaders began to use the term in the postindependence years. By using the term ‘third world’ within a critique of
unequal development relationships, and recognising the understandable
souring of the post-independence optimism with which it was first coined,
my aim is to reassert the positive oppositional spin of the term. Second,
although ‘third world’ took on a pejorative connotation in relation to the
‘capitalist first world, communist second world, everyone else third world’
split of the Cold War era, I would rather draw attention to the process of
pejoration itself, and to the unfair discourses which surround it, than bury
these unequal relationships under a mound of euphemisms.
Most alternatives to first-/third-world (‘developed’/ ‘developing’/
‘undeveloped’/ ‘underdeveloped’/ ‘less developed’ or ‘advanced’/ ‘backward’) reinforce the idea that some countries are a model to which others
must aspire. The geographically-inspired ‘north’ and ‘south’ appear to be
neutral, but geography is not always as neutral or simply descriptive as it
looks. Finally, although my work does draw on the legacy of dependency
theories, the terms ‘centre/periphery’ suggest a relationship that is too
fixed in a general sense. Although these terms do highlight a general theory
of expropriation, they do not allow for the reciprocity which, though
generally unacknowledged, is immanent in the development discourse, nor
for the ways in which the discourse contains possibilities for decentring
the first world. (See Thomas, 1992: 2-6 for a more in-depth analysis of the
differences between these terms).
2. The Aid and Trade Provision (ATP) – which was designed to support
projects which were ‘of particular industrial and commercial importance
to the UK’ (Overseas Development Administration Information
Department, 1992: 1) – has been discontinued, largely as a result of the
very public scandal around the Pergau hydro-electric dam project in
Malaysia. In November 1994 the British government was taken to court
by the World Development Movement, and was found guilty in the High
Court of acting illegally in abusing the provisions of the 1980 Overseas
Development and Co-operation Act (see Chinnock et al., 1995: 93).
What’s more, studies carried out in the years immediately preceding the
217
218
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
Blairism and the War of Persuasion
rise of the Labour government concerning the economic effects of the ATP
have found that this approach in fact brought very few real economic
benefits for the UK economy as a whole (see Chinnock et al, 1995: 94).
The EWP emphasises that efforts are being made to reduce the levels of aid
tying, although it is worth noting that previous governments have recognised that aid tying reduces the effectiveness of aid and have been looking
into ways to mitigate its effects since 1965 (see Ministry of Overseas
Development, 1965: 26). The FER in fact describes research which shows
that ‘general untying, either in the EU or the OECD, would be greatly to
Britain’s advantage, and that even unilateral untying would, over the
longer term, have small benefits to the British economy’ (FER: 124). In
particular the FER observes that, although there would be short-term
political opposition from the British businesspeople who currently benefit from tying, Britain would gain much in international prestige if it were
to untie aid, because at the moment its levels of aid-tying are heavily criticised by the rest of the donor community.
See dependency theorists such as Cardoso (1982) and Frank (1966), as well
as critiques such as Palma (1981).
Post-imperialism does not mean that imperialism is dead and buried, but
invites a consciousness of what that history means in the present. As Hall
puts it: ‘one of the principal values of the term “post-colonial” has been to
direct our attention to the many ways in which colonisation was never
simply external to the societies of the imperial metropolis. It was always
inscribed deeply within them – as it became indelibly inscribed in the
cultures of the colonised (Hall, 1996: 246).
Bretton Woods institutions are those coming out of the meeting of heads of
state at Bretton Woods in July 1944 to manage the post-war world order,
namely the International Bank for Reconstruction and Development (the
World Bank), the International Monetary Fund, the UN and the General
Agreement on Tariffs and Trade (GATT) (see Hewitt, 1992: 222-4).
The blurred distinction between race and nation, as seen in phrases like
‘this island race’, has been a potent source of racialised conflict in
European countries, suggesting that black immigration entails a loss of
racial purity in European countries racialised as white (see for example
Gilroy, 1987).
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220
13. Mowlam, Mandelson and the
broken peace: Northern Ireland and
the contradictions of New Labour
Beatrix Campbell
O
n Good Friday 1998, a year after the election of the Labour
government, a peace agreement (the Agreement) was signed in
Belfast. The Agreement was hailed as one of the government’s greatest
achievements, and a personal triumph for New Labour’s first Secretary
of State for Northern Ireland Mo Mowlam and for Prime Minister Tony
Blair. Yet, as so often with New Labour, democratic reform grounded
in movements in civil society was to be checked by more traditionalist
and authoritarian forces in government and state. Northern Ireland
reveals with particular clarity the diverse forces struggling for sway
within New Labour’s magnetic field – forces refracted, in this case,
through the first two New Labour Secretaries of State, Mo Mowlam
and Peter Mandelson. In their tenures, which spanned the signing of the
Agreement (1998) and the establishment of the new Northern Ireland
government (1999), Mowlam and Mandelson came to personify diametrically contradictory tendencies within New Labour.
Their differences appeared especially over the warrants of the
Agreement’s founding spirit, which included a new culture of rights,
de-militarization and the de-commissioning of weapons, reform of the
police and security state, and recognition of the British state’s complicity in assassinations. Equality and a new culture of rights were
bequeathed directly by the terms of Agreement, and the constitution it
inaugurated is documented below. The contested areas – policing and
security, militarism, and the nature of the history of state collusion –
were to be addressed within the spirit of the Agreement’s ‘new beginning’ for Northern Ireland. These are the areas explored in this chapter,
alongside the different approaches of Mowlam and Mandelson
Mowlam’s pragmatic social progressivism infused her approach to the
renovation of Northern Ireland and her efforts to represent all its people.
This distinguished her from her predecessors, from Northern Ireland’s
new First Minister David Trimble (who performed unswervingly as a
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unionist First Minister), and from her successor Peter Mandelson.
Mandelson’s authoritarian populism was comfortable with the security
state and sympathetic to the Unionist leader, and led to the breakdown
of the peace process. (It is interesting, but beyond the scope of this chapter, that these differences were repeated later – during President Bush’s
‘war on terrorism’ and the invasion of Iraq. Mowlam’s social progressivism converged with her anti-colonialist opposition to the war;
Mandelson’s authoritarian populism found expression in his support for
Blair’s ‘new imperialism’ (see Noxolo and Johnson, in this volume) and
for the US as the fulcrum of global power in the new millennium.)
BACKGROUND TO THE AGREEMENT
Many of the conditions for the Agreement, even a template for it, were
in place before 1997. Three of these conditions were especially important: first, the longer history of the emerging coalition for peace in
Northern Ireland itself; second, New Labour’s prior commitment to
devolution generally; and, finally, the achievement and contradictions
of New Labour’s own hegemony within the Labour Party.
The making of the equality agenda
During the time of the Troubles it was customary for the principles of
equality to be practically breached and semantically traduced: discrimination against Catholics was simultaneously practised and denied.
Thus nationalism and republicanism were invigorated in the 1970s less
by an affinity to the republic south of the border and more by the quest
for equality and justice. For unionism, on the other hand, ‘so-called
equality’ denoted a ‘republican agenda’. Women’s Coalition members
Monica McWilliams and Kate Fearon have cautioned that the peace
process did not necessarily reconcile unionism to a culture of rights or
to constitutional nationalism. Rather, ‘the emergence of constitutionalism and a culture of rights’ enabled unionists to feel that their right to
remain within the UK was secure. This then enabled the Ulster
Unionist party (UUP) to concede ‘a rights agenda in an environment in
which they have denied the need for such rights’ (McWilliams and
Fearon, 1999). A cross-community dynamic underlay the Agreement’s
adoption of what it called ‘the right to equal opportunity in all social
and economic activity, regardless of class, creed, disability, gender or
ethnicity’.
An important focus for these processes had been the labour movement, simultaneously enemy and practitioner of inequality. By the
1980s some of the most powerful trade unions were forced to face their
own complicity in discrimination (against women and against
Catholics) – under legal and international pressure. This challenged
everyone: employers, the government, trade unions. In 1984 the Nobel
peace prize-winner Sean MacBride had introduced what became
known as the MacBride Principles. These adapted good, anti-discrimi222
Mowlam, Mandelson and the broken peace
223
natory practice from the US (where it was targetted on racism), and
took the form of securing equality measures through contract compliance, using the power of the purchaser or investor as a progressive,
pro-active power. Public employees’ leader Inez McCormack became a
MacBride signatory. The principles were endorsed in Dublin, and by
Labour in opposition at Westminster. The Thatcher government
declared the Principles illegal, while a New York court declared them
legal. Some powerful trade unionists, however, instead of embracing
the Principles as an external tool of internal reform, joined the British
Conservative government’s delegations to the US to oppose antidiscrimination initiatives.
But the evidence of inequality was stark – unemployment among
Catholics was ‘well above the level observed in the worst-hit regions in
mainland Britain … and considerably higher than any disadvantaged
ethnic minority in mainland Britain’ (Rowthorn and Wayne, 1988). In
the 1980s, catholic male unemployment, at 35 per cent, was two and a
half times greater than Protestant male unemployment. As Chris
McCrudden has argued, the campaign for the MacBride Principles
began to fill, however partially and inadequately, ‘the political vacuum
caused by the failure of Northern Ireland’s political institutions to
address the issue adequately’ (McCrudden, 1999).
By 1989, Conservative governments were under pressure, particularly from Europe and the US, to monitor and mainstream equality
policies. Labour in opposition sought to push beyond anti-discrimination law and to impose on government departments a duty to promote
equality and monitor progress, a proposal that the government refused
to incorporate into statute. In 1993, however, guidelines were introduced for all Northern Ireland policy-making. They were the Policy
Appraisal and Fair Treatment Guidelines (PAFT), a bureaucratic
instrument that was to acquire extraordinary resonance among unions,
women’s organisations and a plethora of voluntary organisations
(McCrudden, 1999).
‘PAFT’ entered the language of trade unionists. Inez McCormack
noticed that the acronym acquired a life of its own, even becoming a
verb in activist vernacular. When the award-winning human rights
organisation, the Committee on the Administration of Justice, began to
organise briefings for community organisations and the voluntary
sector, it led to the birth of a loose ‘equality coalition’ (McCrudden,
1999); members included human rights campaigners, the public sector
workers’ trade union Unison, the Women’s Support Network, the
robust disability movement, and Northern Ireland’s small in number
but energetic ethnic minorities. This was one of the few anti-sectarian
movements not to position itself outside or above cultures of difference, and it became what Mary Holland described as ‘a parallel peace
process’, in many ways as important as the talks at Stormont (Holland,
1998). As McCrudden explained in an influential paper, ‘the new
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approach envisaged equality and anti-discrimination as part of the
ethos of decision-making across all spheres of government – in short,
to mainstream fairness issues in public policy’ (McCrudden, 1998).
Mainstreaming, supported by rigorous monitoring, required the
‘participation of those with an interest’, and this was decisive – the
participation of government and civil society in a dynamic dialogue.
This was the background to the equality provisions in the Agreement.
The equality and social need provisions of the Agreement were
popular, not least among parties closest to dispossessed working-class
neighbourhoods in both unionist and nationalist territories. They were
secured by these parties’ active presence as negotiators. Their spirit
infused the Good Friday Agreement and also extended to a Pledge of
Office, which brought the equality duty ‘to the service all of the people
of Northern Ireland equally’. According to Professor of Jurisprudence,
John Morrison, this had …
… the potential to establish the foundation of a society where participation in a public civic space can take place in conditions of real equality,
and where unjust differentials in power, from whatever source, public or
private, can be addressed in an emancipatory project, which may have a
tremendous resonance world-wide (Morrison, 1999).
New Labour and devolution
A second condition of the Agreement was Labour’s policy on ‘devolution’. Along with constitutional reform, it became the marque of
New Labour’s first term, and a focus of internal resistance and early
disappointments. The new government bowed to the neo-nationalist
consensus that had been consolidated by two decades of Toryism –
and de facto Scots and Welsh disenfranchisement at Westminster. But
devolution did not inaugurate a new constitutional paradigm: New
Labour’s approach was ad hoc and tactical, avoiding the re-positioning of England and Britain within a newly constituted archipelago,
and merely reacting to irresistible movements in Northern Ireland,
and powerful ones in Scotland and Wales, where political culture was
left of centre and relatively unimpressed by New Labour’s vaunted
‘Third Way’.
Blairism simultaneously conceded and controlled devolution: it
swiftly introduced legislation launching new governments in
Edinburgh and Cardiff. Northern Ireland, however, presented a different challenge. While devolution there was also seen as necessary, its
restoration after almost thirty years of the Troubles and direct rule
from Westminster depended on a settlement that would both end the
armed conflict and guarantee new terms of political engagement.
Devolution affected New Labour’s Northern Irish profile. It made
the party attractive to unionism as a way to resolve the ‘democratic
deficit’ created by direct rule from Westminster. Labour’s commitment
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Mowlam, Mandelson and the broken peace
225
to inclusivity in the peace process guaranteed unionism’s place at the
table. This was attractive to a unionism disillusioned with British
Conservative governments, and encouraged it to soften its resistance to
accommodation or power-sharing with nationalists, and to move into
a new mindset: only an historic compromise with nationalism could
release it from an adhesion to British rule that yielded little or no selfrespect. In any case, republicanism’s shift from abstention to assiduous
participation in the political process (including representation in local
government) left unionism with no immunity from power-sharing.
Inclusivity and power-sharing were made more attractive for unionism
by the Agreement’s pledge that Northern Ireland’s constitutional
integrity as part of the UK could change only by consent. Trimble saw
this as unionism retaining its veto (Trimble, 1998).
New Labour’s hegemony
By 1997 New Labour and its new prince Tony Blair were enjoying
unprecedented hegemony as the modernising agent in a Labour Party
that had been routed by Thatcherism. I want to stress, however, the
mixed political character of New Labour, which made it subject to
contradictory tendencies, well illustrated in its gender politics.
New Labour in office was rewarded by a key sign of the modernisation of the 1980s – the successful campaigns to get more women into
the House of Commons. Yet the macho megalomania of its leadership
minimised their impact on the archaic and rowdy culture of the
Commons. Regimented in the power-dressing livery of New Labour’s
dress code, these women were dubbed ‘Blair’s Babes’. Mo Mowlam
(along with Clare Short) was one of the few leading women to break
with these constraints (interestingly, they were also among the few
women to have power bases outside the New Labour court). Thus
Mowlam’s modernising politics came from a particular strand within
the Labour Party.
Tony Blair’s coterie emerged in the early 1990s from the centre right,
but was the beneficiary of Neil Kinnock’s centre-left modernising
mission. I have argued elsewhere that this group had tendencies that
were both abject and authoritarian (Campbell, 1997). Successive electoral defeats had demoralised the social-democratic impulse in the
party. New Labour subsequently emerged not so much as an ideology
but as a coup, mesmerised by Thatcherism’s élan and in recoil from the
radicalisms proliferating in the party since the 1960s. The mission was
to centralise the party’s democratic structure and cement the leader’s
‘unquestioned control’ (Hughes and Wintour, 1990). The modernising
project, steered by Tony Blair and his allies, was re-incarnated as ‘New
Labour’. Mandelson, though disengaged from the rank and file, was
one of its architects. Mowlam, a popular presence amidst the rank and
file, had been a long-standing lieutenant of the modernisers. The newly
remodelled party, ‘reformed’ and often ‘hollowed out’ (see Tincknell in
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Blairism and the War of Persuasion
this volume), brought its own contradictions to the handling of
Northern Ireland. As we shall see, the very different modus operandi of
Mowlam and Mandelson confirm that New Labour is no unified block
or strategy.
Labour’s massive electoral victory had opened up a big opportunity
for a peace settlement in Northern Ireland. John Major’s Conservative
government had been paralysed by its precarious majority, and by its
dependence on nine Ulster Unionist MPs. His political misfortune had
effectively empowered the marginal Unionists and enabled them to
impose their veto on the peace process. Labour’s election, with a
massive Parliamentary mandate, released the government from this
dependence on unionism, and this, together with its commitment to
modernising and reform, activated ambitions for a settlement.
NEW WOMAN, NEW BEGINNING: THE MO MOWLAM
EFFECT
Undoubtedly the appointment of Mowlam as Secretary of State
brought an unprecedented tone to the peace process. During direct rule
from Westminster, the civil servants at Northern Ireland Office (NIO)
reigned. The NIO culture was infused by the security ethic and a paranoia towards the equality coalition. It dominated local politicians, for
whom the civil service had little respect, and could over-ride appointed
Ministers for Northern Ireland, who usually had only a fleeting and
often reluctant responsibility for their posts.
Mowlam was a middle-of-the-road social democrat, who personified the shift away from the formidable authority of Methodist
respectability within the Labour tradition. She admitted to having lived
a ‘messy’ personal life before her partnership with Jon Norton, a
banker who later turned to painting. She was renowned for indiscriminate cuddles. She acknowledged that she’d smoked cannabis and that,
unlike President Clinton, she’d inhaled. And she was game: she
appeared hilariously on Graham Norton’s camp comedy TV show in
1999, descending a staircase escorted by two golden men dressed only
in loincloths, to officiate at the marriage of two dogs. She was the
antithesis of the Christian moralism – not to say misogyny – of the
men’s movement that ran New Labour. She was an academic, with a
relaxed (rather than religious) approach to morals and a pragmatic
commitment to social justice. She represented pragmatic social
progressivism within New Labour.
Her raunchy vernacular and affectionate manners extended not only
to the aristocrats who sojourned at the Secretary of State’s official residence, Hillsborough Castle, but also to the woman in the street, and to
former combatants among both loyalists and republicans whom, she
agreed, had to be engaged in the settlement and the new polity. She
acquired a reputation as a raggedy saint amidst a besieged population,
previously habituated to towering, posh patricians, dispatched to do
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Mowlam, Mandelson and the broken peace
227
time in Northern Ireland. She was remarkably popular – though she
was not to the liking of patriarchal, conservative unionism, or to the
jealous god of New Labour. For a British Secretary of State, Mowlam
was unusually familiar with the territory. For all these reasons, she was
the first Secretary of State who was not sequestered by Northern
Ireland securocrats and civil servants – even though she sometimes
seemed unable or unwilling to assert her power against the hostile
NIO, who were not above leaking or briefing against her. Her chutzpah appeared to be exemplified by her readiness to go where Secretaries
of State had feared to tread, whether it was a community centre in the
republican inner city Falls, or the neighbouring loyalist Shankill. This
confidence was consummately expressed by her visit in 1998 to the
Maze Prison, the most fortified in Europe, to meet loyalist prisoners
who were turning against the peace process. ‘It was really of very little
importance what was said – it was the act itself that held the meaning
for them’ (Mowlam, 2002).
Her progressive presence was detectable before and after the election, and within and after the Agreement itself. Before the 1997 general
election she had already lent her endorsement to the movement for ‘a
statutory duty for government bodies to take equality of opportunity
into account through more rigorous enforcement of the PAFT guidelines’ (Mowlam, 1997). This was in opposition to the NIO which,
shortly before the election, and knowing the likely outcome, launched
what McCrudden describes as a sustained attack on PAFT
(McCrudden, 1999). Her support for statutory rights and duties
aligned her with the equality coalition.
It is clear that anxieties about this in Downing Street and the NIO
included the fear of any ‘read-across’ from the Agreement eastwards
over the Irish Sea – any application of the same principles to England.
The NIO fought to mute it in the translation into legislation, and when
the legislation came before Parliament it had a difficult passage.
Secretary of State Mowlem defended the integrity of the Agreeement in
the legislation however. Thus the outcome of these battles, Section 75
of the Act, requires public authorities to have ‘due regard’ – a significant duty – to the need to promote equality between persons of
different religious beliefs, political opinions, ethnicities, sexual orientations, ages, marital status, ability/disability, between persons with and
without dependants, and between men and women generally. This duty
was to be followed through by impact assessment and monitoring.
Mainstreaming, suggests McCrudden, had arrived.
Neither New Labour nor Mowlam created the Agreement’s rights
provisions – they were the fruits of a coalition between social activists
and scholar activists, who had enlisted the resources of both state and
civil society to yield ‘huge change’ in Northern Ireland. But, once
alerted to their erasure in the translation into legislation, by statist and
sectarian impulses, Mowlam used her power against the NIO to
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protect the mainstreaming that had – almost – arrived. The Agreement
was finally signed in Spring 1998, and the referendums north and south
of the border, which overwhelmingly endorsed it, harvested the ingenuity of its multiple participants and processes.
It is important to stress the centrality – and vulnerability – of the
equality and rights agenda in the initial moves towards ending the
Troubles. The Agreement scripted a unique culture of governance,
which required the active engagement of civil society, envisaging a new
dialogue between direct and representative democracy. The discipline
of equality and human rights inscribed in the Agreement was incorporated in the institutional duties given to the new Northern Ireland state
and its mechanisms of governance. These bureaucratic instruments
contained the fascinating potential to ‘move away from absolute
notions of statehood, sovereignty, and territorial integrity, through
devices of consociational government, cultural provision, human rights
protections, and cross-border connections’ (Bell, 2002). The duties of
the new state transcended, and indeed transformed, the orthodox definition of Northern Ireland’s problem. Thus, for example, the
representation of the Troubles as the problem of armed republicanism
– perpetuated through the debate about de-commissioning – found no
echo in the agreement itself. De-commissioning and disarmament were
to be part of a parallel process; paramilitary disarmament was to be part
of the de-militarisation of Northern Ireland. The Agreement was innovative, potentially transforming, and beloved among its advocates. Its
appeal crossed parties and communities. ‘It is a thing of beauty’, said
Gusty Spence, the loyalist former Ulster Volunteer Force combatant
from the loyalist community in the Shankill, whose imprisonment for
the murder of a catholic in 1966 is described by some as ‘starting’ the
Troubles, and whose passion for the peace process in the 1990s lent
vital loyalist support to the ending of it.
Yet the Agreement remained vulnerable. The British government
was under intense pressure from unionism to enforce linkages
between the de-commissioning of arms and just about anything,
particularly the creation of a new executive and the participation of
republicans. Though this had been the major demand brought by
unionism to the peace process, it was not written into the
Agreement. Rather, a de-commissioning deadline was offered by
Tony Blair as a last-minute personal codicil to encourage unionism
to sign up to the deal; and indeed insistence on de-commissioning
remained a hallmark of his approach. But, of course, it was the rules
of democracy that the peace process had to reform. Mowlam, by
contrast, while acknowledging the necessity for disarmament, also
appreciated the high risks being faced by the negotiators, not least
those closest to the paramilitaries. Nor – unlike Blair – did she
traduce the energy and imagination republicans and nationalists had
brought to the peace process.
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229
THE NEW MAN – OLD TIMES: MANDELSON AND
RECUPERATION
Peter Mandelson was Tony Blair’s main man, a confidante, a kingmaker in the beau Blair’s court, whose reputation ranged from ‘the
prince of darkness’, a malevolent and petulant fixer, to a witty and
cosmopolitan exponent of the short-lived Third Way. He designed Neil
Kinnock’s 1987 election campaign, as the Labour Party’s communications director, and left Kinnock deeply disappointed when he became
Tony Blair’s adviser after winning the parliamentary selection for
Hartlepool – an unlikely proletarian constituency adjacent to Blair’s
Sedgefield. Mandelson and Philip Gould, New Labour’s pollster, were
perhaps the most eloquent exponents of the populist discourse of New
Labour and its invocation of traditional power.
Mandelson’s appointment as Northern Ireland Secretary of State
came less than a year after his resignation in disgrace as Secretary of
State for Trade and Industry. His fleeting exile from Blair’s court was
clearly intolerable, perhaps for the Prime Minister too, but his appointment was a response to David Trimble’s hostility to Mowlam. The First
Minister had routinely short-circuited Mowlam and taken himself
directly to the ‘top man’ in Downing Street. And appeasement of the
unionist leader had been accompanied by a toxic campaign of briefing
from the NIO and Downing Street. Northern Ireland’s most popular
Secretary of State ever, the ambassador of new times, had become the
subject of furtive complaint as a brain-damaged, scruffy, foul-mouthed
sloth, an affront to the strait-laced respectability of unionist culture.
Unionism was one of the most unreconstructed political cultures in the
archipelago: intensely patriarchal, it had few women representatives,
and its organised social base lay in the exclusive, secret and sexist regiments of masculinised Protestantism, the Orange Order.
Mandelson’s appointment was represented as a gift to unionism.
Here was Blair’s envoy, a man unionism could do business with, a man
who had assiduously courted the unionist establishment. His regency
at Hillsborough proved to be brief but devastating – a regression to the
ancien régime. His rapport with the security state was not untypical of
secretaries of state, but after Mowlam’s open-mindedness and accessibility, his methods startled those who encountered him. In contrast to
Mowlam, Mandelson asserted New Labour’s impatience with human
rights discourse, and with Northern Ireland’s lively NGOs and social
movements. His main aim, it seems, was to sustain Trimble’s leadership
of the perilously fractured UUP, and to escort the reluctant party
towards participation in a power-sharing, devolved government.
Preserving Trimble had long been a New Labour aim, and had been
shared by Mowlam, though qualified by her commitment to inclusivity. The new Secretary of State, however, did not disguise his function
as a friend of unionism. Many observers close to the process were exasperated by the IRA’s cliff-hanging refusal to de-commission without
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simultaneous de-militarisation by the British; but they were also
shocked by the British government’s acceleration of the crisis.
Mandelson’s most spectacular achievement was to force the collapse of
Northern Ireland’s first experience of devolved, power-sharing democracy, the Assembly and the executive.
When Mandelson arrived in Northern Ireland at the end of 1999 he
was confronted by unionism’s refusal to participate in the new government without IRA arms de-commissioning. As David McKittrick noted,
‘practically everyone in Ireland’, together with an international body set
up to consider the issue, knew that this was ‘an exam the IRA could not
pass’, even though it had ceased armed conflict (Mallie and McKittrick,
1996). Furthermore, de-militarisation also applied to the British Army,
which had refused to make a symbolic gesture (Macintyre, 2000). In this
admittedly difficult situation, Mandelson did in the end succeed in selling
a deal to the UUP, but only at the cost of adopting Trimble’s timetable –
de-commissioning had to be delivered by February 2000, or Trimble
would withdraw from the Executive. In February 2000, the deadline
derived from Trimble’s timetable was reached, without his conditions
having been met, and Mandelson accordingly suspended the newly
created Northern Ireland assembly. This crisis left the Irish government
aghast – it was furious with IRA procrastination, but also with the British
government’s unilateral destruction of the new Assembly, which it
regarded as constitutionally questionable (Kennedy, 2000).
The pro-Agreement parties complained bitterly that Mandelson had
refused to meet with them to avoid the crisis. Though he appeared to
be honouring the Prime Minister’s personal pledge on decommissioning made to Trimble, he was also re-asserting British authority.
Although the Assembly was the creation of an international treaty
between Westminster and Dublin, although it was endorsed by a
massive majority both sides of the border and in Washington, the
wishes of all these parties were brushed aside in a destructive gesture
that confirmed the subordination of the people and the residual
potency of the unionist veto. Here was a Secretary of State behaving
like a colonial Tory, an exemplary Tory for some unionists.
The difference between Mowlam and Mandelson was the difference
between ‘new beginnings’ and the ‘old tradition’. Unison’s Inez
McCormack observed that, unlike Mandelson, Mowlam had understood that the NIO and securocrats were not neutral. But Mandelson’s
choreography of the suspension of the Assembly had followed the
UUP’s agenda on de-commissioning. The precipitation of the crisis and
the collapse of the Stormont government was recidivist, a dramatic realignment of New Labour, and a re-assertion of the colonial habit.
RESISTING REFORM ON POLICING AND STATE COMPLICITY
The reform of the RUC and the security state was promised, though
not prescribed, by the Agreement. Again it was Mowlam who took the
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Mowlam, Mandelson and the broken peace
231
initiative. Because the 92 per cent Protestant RUC was beyond the
reach of internal reform, she appointed an International Commission
on Policing, chaired by former Conservative minister Chris Patten, a
‘left’ Tory, who had himself been exiled to Northern Ireland by
Margaret Thatcher.
Patten’s Commission proposed that the police must be representative, unarmed and accountable (Patten). A time-tabled recruitment
programme was to ensure that a third of the police service would be of
catholic origin and all officers were to swear an oath of commitment to
equality and human rights. Patten criticised the Special Branch, the
security section of the RUC, as a ‘force within a force’, urged action to
deal with it, and recommended ending the power of the Secretary of
State and the NIO over policing. However, by the time the legislation
emerged from the secretive lair of the security-state in the NIO in the
early summer of 2000 (and with Mandelson now in post), Patten had
been shredded: the oath was to be for new recruits only, shielding bigots
already in the force; the recruitment programme was reduced; and the
Secretary of State’s powers were actually increased. By excluding
anyone with a ‘criminal’ record from participation in local police partnership boards, including combatants in the Troubles, by retaining the
powers of Chief Constable and the Secretary of State to block investigations, and by refusing the details of Patten’s plan for a Policing
Ombudsman, the Bill traduced Patten’s principles of representativeness
and accountability. The Committee on the Administration of Justice, an
internationally-renowned human rights organisation, concluded: ‘there
is no way the Chief Constable could be held to account’. Brendan
O’Leary described the bill as ‘a fundamental breach of faith, perfidious
Britannia in caricature. It represents Old Britain; it was drafted by the
forces of Conservatism’ (O’Leary, B. 2000). Seamus Mallon complained
bitterly in the House of Commons on 6 June 2000 that the government
‘takes the report … espouses it then emasculates it’.
It is believed that the NIO’s director of security David Watkins and
the Chief Constable guided the drafting of the bill. Certainly, elected
Members of the Assembly complained that they could not engage
Mandelson. The Secretary of State again appeased unionism and the
RUC, and also created a grave crisis for the government, alienating the
nationalist communities and irritating allies in Dublin and Washington.
Mandelson simply did not appreciate the fundamental importance of
this issue for nationalists and republicans, and their desire, as Seamus
Mallon put it, for nothing less than ‘huge change’. Policing was the
Geiger counter for measuring the government’s good faith in implementing the Agreement’s ‘new beginning’. It was the key to the
stability of the new dispensation.
Perhaps the consequences of the old police regime, the failure of
reform, and the deeper long-term complicities of the British state, were
most clearly revealed in the handling of illegal killings: Britain could
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hardly represent itself as a disinterested broker and simultaneously
acknowledge its complicity with armed loyalism in the lawless killings of
‘the enemy’ – Catholics and republicans. Yet, by the late 1990s an
awesome archive of evidence had accumulated showing that the British
state had been complicit in the assassination of progressive lawyers,
killings that fundamentally breached of one of the basic conditions of
democracy: the independence of lawyers and the judiciary. Suspected
collusion – whether organised or informal – not only assailed the state’s
duty to uphold the right to life, but also menaced the right to legal representation and lawyers’ independence from the state. Yet these
assassinations have not been satisfactorily investigated. (See especially
the cases of Rosemary Nelson and Pat Finucane, both fearless defence
lawyers who had received many death threats from serving RUC officers, and were eventually killed: British Irish Rights Watch, 1998; Davies,
1999; Lawyers Committee for Human Rights, 2002; Campbell, 2001).
In the face of government resistance to investigating such deaths,
Mowlam announced at the end of 1997 a public inquiry into the
Army’s killing of unarmed citizens during a banned peaceful protest in
Derry’s Bogside on Bloody Sunday 1972 (Mowlam, 2002). However,
much of the process has been obstructed by the Special Branch, and Sir
John Stevens’ long-delayed inquiries attracted sabotage and political
fudging. New Labour’s responses to the persistent bias of policing and
to state promotion of assassination in Northern Ireland have thus been
complex and rarely transparent.
Thus Blair’s vaunted challenge to the ‘forces of conservatism’ did
not extend to one of the most conservative and masculinist redoubts in
the British Isles. When it came to a choice between the interests of a
corrupt state and the interests of democratic renovation New Labour
balked. It interpreted its responsibility as a balancing act between rival
traditions, rather than a duty to reform discredited but fortified flanks
of the secret state. This meant that New Labour was once more positioned on the side of the unionist state and against the victims’ relatives
and critics of a corrupt security service. As so often, a line was drawn
in the promotion of justice in Northern Ireland at precisely the point
where the complicity of Westminster, Whitehall and the British state
had to be faced. New Labour therefore appeased unionism, rather than
helping it to confront its own history and embrace the ‘new beginning’.
The interrogation of this cruel and corrupt history could have helped
the Northern Irish in particular and the British in general to come to
know themselves, and, in knowing themselves, to change.
‘PERFIDIOUS BRITANNIA’
Paradoxically, it was a peripheral place, an unloved relic of greater
Britain that offered a context in which the New Labour could have
manifested its newness. Or at least its difference from the forces of
conservatism and colonialism. Peace and a pluralist polity were the
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Mowlam, Mandelson and the broken peace
233
necessary alternatives to either unionism’s failed Protestant state or the
hallowed ‘narrow ground’ of the centre. There could be no return to
unionism’s majoritarian tyranny. And the centre could not accommodate the penumbra of peace-makers – including former combatants –
whose participation was vital to ending the Troubles and creating a new
political culture.
This episode was as revealing about New Labour as about Northern
Ireland. The mercurial political personas of Mo Mowlam and Peter
Mandelson showcased the unstable tensions between Labour’s social
progressivism (Mowlam) and authoritarian populism (Mandelson),
devolution and a pluralist polity and centralising neo-colonialism,
modernisation as cultural and political renovation and modernisation
as managerialist rapport with traditional power and the construction of
a broad coalition versus the holding of a narrow political space.
Mowlam brought a style and substance that derived from cultures
that were either marginal to Labourism or repudiated by it, from her
gender, her generation, her class and her career as an academic. Her
knowledge of Northern Ireland’s political geography released her
from the control of the Northern Ireland Office and the securocrats.
Her social progressivism recognised that the state and civil service was
not neutral and had to be the subject not just the broker of change.
This distance enabled her to engage respectfully with demonised
dramatis personae, and with activists who for the first time felt that a
British minister was accessible. Unlike Mandelson, Mowlam did not
perform power.
By contrast, New Labour’s authoritarianism, its populism, its jealousy of movements within civil society, its dependence on the state
apparatus, its fatal attraction to power and finally its emergent ‘new
imperialism’ were expressed through Mandelson. Gay and apparently
metropolitan, he did not share the particular laddishness of the New
Labour court, but he also recoiled from the new social movements and
the 1970s radical sexual politics that had shaken both old and new
Labours. Northern Ireland was his route back to the Cabinet from
exile. He courted the unionist establishment whose distaste for
Mowlam was simultaneously patriarchal and patrician. He squandered
Mowlam’s popular base and followed the usual British preference for
the ‘narrow ground’ of the centre – a mirage in Northern Ireland. As
an ambassador for the Prime Minister, he could rely on a political intimacy never enjoyed by his predecessor, and this added value, a
veritable treasure chest, to his social capital.
This did not, however, bring with it an appropriate modesty of
engagement with the Republic of Ireland, a country that, despite
perfidious Britannia’s best efforts, had refused to die. Dublin’s rennaissance, its autonomy as a sovereign state, and as Britain’s post-colonial
partner in the peace process, did not always seem to register in the bigpower temperament of the Mandelson-Blair partnership. They steered
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hard towards the politically conservative, managerialist flank of New
Labourism. Hence the tactical commitment to Trimble’s survival, the
adhesion to the state and the status quo and the primacy given to
unionism’s priority of ‘security’ and the securocrats’ suspicion of civil
society. Similarly, Mandelson was a patrician rather than a popular
figure, with a scarcely disguised disdain for the new social movements,
the equality coalition, human rights advocates and parties close to the
paramilitaries – all constituent parts of the tumult of transition, the
movement for ‘huge change’.
Mowlam’s style and strategy, simultaneously an exception and an
embodiment of the engaging newness of New Labour, both promised
success, seemed to articulate New Labour’s insecurity about its own
power. Mandelson, by contrast, exemplified the grandiosity of New
Labour’s dominant faction and its deployment of its power in the
service of existing power.
Overall, and despite some audacious manoeuvres, New Labour has
proved neither willing nor able to re-position the British state within
the process of reform in Northern Ireland. The effect of this has been
to quell renovation and the drama of self-discovery on both sides of the
Irish Sea, for Northern Ireland’s secrets were the secrets of the British
state. New Labour’s hegemony ultimately ensured that the
Agreement’s egalitarian disciplines would not be allowed to travel
across borders and over the sea, where inequality was growing and
political engagement was declining. Once more Britain inured itself
against the ‘winds of change’ blowing from the post-colonial settlement on the edge of the archipelago. While New Labour’s pragmatism
certainly encouraged a supple intervention in the peace process, in the
end it fatally evaded the bigger tensions between stability and change.
REFERENCES
Adams, G. (1999) ‘To Cherish a Just and Lasting Peace’, Fordham
International Law Journal, Vol 22, No 4, New York.
Bell, C. (2002) Peace Agreements and Human Rights. Oxford, Oxford
University Press.
Blair, T. (1996) ‘The Northern Ireland Peace Process’, in New Britain, London,
Fourth Estate.
British Irish Rights Watch (1998) Finucane Murder Summary, London, BIRW.
British Irish Rights Watch (1999) Justice Delayed: Alleged State Collusion in
the Murder of Patrick Finucane and Others. London, BIRW.
British Irish Rights Watch and Committee on the Administration of Justice
(1999, 11 Feb) Press Release, London and Belfast.
Campbell, B. (1995) ‘Old Fogeys and Angry Young Men: A Critique of
Communitarianism’, Soundings, No 1, Autumn, London.
Campbell, B. (1999, 17 March) ‘Suddenly in Lurgan’, The Guardian.
Campbell, B. (2001, 19 May) ‘Who Killed Rosemary Nelson?’, The Guardian.
Davies, N. (1999) Ten-Thirty-Three, Edinburgh, Mainstream.
Holland, M. (1998 12 March), Irish Times.
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Mowlam, Mandelson and the broken peace
235
Hughes, C. and Wintour, P. (1990) Labour Rebuilt: The New Model Party,
London, Fourth Estate.
Jones, N. (2001) Control Freaks, London, Politicos.
Lawyers Committee for Human Rights (2002) Beyond Collusion: the Security
Forces and the Murder of Patrick Finucane, LCHR, New York.
McCrudden, C. (1999) ‘Mainstreaming Equality in the Governance of
Northern Ireland’, Fordham International Law Journal, Vol 22, April, New
York.
MacIntyre, D. (2000) Mandelson and the Making of New Labour, London,
Harper Collins.
Mallie, E. and McKittrick, D. (1996) The Fight for Peace: The Secret Story
Behind the Irish Peace Process, London, Heinemann.
McWilliams, M. and Fearon, K. (1999) ‘The Good Friday Agreement: A
Triumph of Substance over Style’, Fordham International Law Journal, Vol
22, No 4. New York.
Morrison, J. (1999) ‘Constitutionalism and Change: Representation,
Governance and Participation in the New Northern Ireland’, Fordham
International Law Journal, Vol 22, No 4. New York.
Mowlam, M. (1997 25 Feb), The Independent.
Mowlam, M. (2002) Momentum, London, Hodder and Stoughton.
O’Leary, B. (2002, 15 June), The Guardian.
O’Leary, O. and Burke, H. (1998) Mary Robinson: The Authorized Biography,
London, Hodder and Stoughton.
Trimble, D. (1998, 17 April) Speech to Northern Ireland Forum.
Trimble, D. (1999) ‘The Belfast Agreement’, Fordham International Law
Journal, Vol 22, No 4. New York.
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14. Washington’s favourite:
Blairism and the ‘blood price’ of
the international
Richard Johnson with Deborah Lynn Steinberg
INTRODUCTION
Several authors in this volume have argued that New Labour is an
internally diverse political formation. In this chapter we focus attention
on one axis of these differences: the tension between the national and
the transnational. This involves giving priority to those tendencies in
New Labour that we term ‘Blairite’.1
By Blairism, we mean the political forces, rhetorical repertoires and
social alliances clustered around the Prime Minister himself and his
Office in Downing Street. Blairism is centrally – and often very explicitly – a politics associated with global forces, global interests and global
social alliances and linked to international organisations and policies. It
takes its agenda – and much of its rhetoric – from this larger transnational sphere. This affects its relation to national institutions and local
movements, particularly to those we can call ‘national-popular’
(Gramsci, 1971). Blairism is, in a very particular sense, a ‘cosmopolitan’
politics. Typically, as we shall argue here, national-popular elements are
to be controlled, ‘reformed’ or ‘modernised’. Politics bcomes a means
for transmitting transnational requirements to national agents. Blairism
represents, therefore, a fundamental re-positioning of national politics,
without, however, as the excesses of globalisation theory might
suggest, rendering them redundant.
The nation state is, rather, a vital link in transnational chains of
power. Political elites must win power there to secure an international
presence. They must represent and articulate both national and
transnational interests. We have two strikingly different examples of
this negotiation in the figures of Tony Blair and President George W.
Bush. Blair has used his long-term domestic political capital to become
an international statesman, aspiring to ‘reorder this world around us’
(Blair, 2.10.01).2 Bush’s shaky electoral beginnings were rescued by the
attack of 11 September 2001 through which he established himself – in
the years immediately after the attack – as an all-American hero236
Washington’s favourite
237
President, installing also the neo-conservative agenda of his circle.
Thus Blair drew on his national successes to project himself internationally, while Bush used his world-wide ‘war on terrorism’ to
establish himself nationally. As we shall see, these differences underlie
their complementarity in diplomacy and war.
Articulating the national and the transnational is a two-way process.
Transnational demands and dynamics must be ‘sold’ to the nation, while
convincing versions of ‘national interest’ are woven into international
projects. During the ‘war against terrorism’ and the war against Iraq, it
has been easier for Bush than for Blair to make these links. While the US
public was rebounding from the unfamiliar experience of victimhood,
Blair was forced into excesses of spin and an implausibly long chain of
argument to link British national interests to the twin towers and to Iraq.
On the eve of invasion, for instance, he agreed with a BBC interviewer
that Britain must be ‘prepared to send troops to commit themselves, to
pay the blood price’ for the American alliance (Blair, 6.9.02).
This admission, and the widespread recognition today that Saddam
Hussein’s Iraq was not a threat to Britain, has opened up a line of critical assessment that has focused on the costs of international ambitions,
especially to the nation. Included here are the lives lost and young men
wounded or traumatised, but also the diversion of resources from
peaceful uses, the strengthening of fear, terrorism and militarism
worldwide, and the erosion of democratic institutions and civil rights
in the name of a spurious security. Blair has been attacked, from left or
right, for neglecting ‘domestic’ issues and ‘sacrificing’ the nation. Yet
he is right to stress the transnational dimensions of politics today, their
human or global scale. The old division, between ‘home’ and ‘foreign’
policy (e.g. ‘Home Secretary’ and ‘Foreign Secretary’ in Britain) no
longer works today. Every nation’s future is transnational. If this is so,
appraisal must not halt at national boundaries. We must investigate
Blair’s version of the transnational or global too.
We start with looking more closely at the idea of the transnational
state and how this might fit Blairism. We then analyse Blair’s rhetorical
deployment of ‘globalisation’ as a keyword in his speeches. We ask
what ‘global’ means exactly in Blairite theory and in practice, and
whose ‘universality’ it encapsulates. We consider how Blair represents
and positions the British state and its peoples within this global politics. Throughout this, we will consider both the outward projection of
power in military and diplomatic manoeuvres (before and after 11
September 2001) and the subordination of domestic politics to this
global emphasis. We stress the vulnerabilities as well as the strengths of
this extended political formation.
BLAIRISM AND THE TRANSNATIONAL STATE
In debates about globalisation and international political economy the
idea that the state and its power function at transnational as well as
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national levels is now commonplace. In one version of this argument,
Robert Cox, a founder of the so-called ‘Italian’ or ‘Gramscian School’
in International Relations, has applied some of Gramsci’s insights
about hegemony to international processes (e.g. Cox, 1981; Cox and
Sinclair, 1996). Cox’s work is of interest here because of the long
engagement of cultural studies with Gramsci’s ideas. It suggests ways
of bridging a long divorce between the cultural and the economic
analyses of power.3
Cox’s version of ‘the internationalisation of the state’, however,
refers not only to supranational organisations like the World Bank, the
International Monetary Fund (IMF) and the World Trade Organisation
(WTO), which lay down rules for national policies, but also to tensions
within national states themselves. Some parts of nation states have a
transnational orientation. As Cox puts it: ‘The internationalisation of
the state gives precedence to certain state agencies – notably ministries
of finance and prime ministers offices – which are key points in the
adjustment of domestic to international economic policy’ (Cox,
1981:146).
Moreover parts of the state that grew up to promote narrowly
national interests have come to be subordinated to ‘the central organs
of internationalised public policy’. Cox cites old-fashioned Ministries
of Labour or Industry, once preoccupied with labour relations and
national manufacturing. To this we might add those ministries associated with education, health, social welfare or law and order. Even the
more outward looking parts of government, concerned with finance,
trade, aid and development and war and diplomacy do not necessarily
take their agenda from outside. Although always involving crossnational relations, they can be pursued primarily according to ‘the
national interest.’ It is arguable, for instance, that Thatcherite foreign
policy foregrounded national interests in this way – and that this has
changed under Blair.
These state developments are linked to long-term changes in the
international economy; they institutionalise economic interdependence
and dependence. The huge growth of transnational corporations means
they more than rival some national states in their wealth and political
clout. There is the closest of relations between ‘international policy
networks’ and ‘big business’. Together these form ‘a new informal
corporative structure’ overshadowing those parts of economies that are
‘nationally oriented’. Cox sees this process as also affecting class
formation, so we can speak of a ‘transnational managerial class’ with
‘focal points of organisation’ in IMF or OEDC, but also among executives of multinational corporations and those who manage the
internationally-oriented sectors within major nation states. This
transnational managerial class may also coincide with the social formation discussed elsewhere in this volume as the (gendered) ‘superclass’
(see Johnson and Walkerdine chapter in this volume).
238
Washington’s favourite
239
There are many indications that Blairism is somewhat separate from
the rest of government, dominant within it and distinctively oriented
towards the international. Blair’s own political style has often been
called ‘Presidential’. The frequency of his travels around the world
have often been a subject of comment. His oratory expresses a highly
personal vision of the nation in the world and of his own mission, reiterated all the more insistently in the face of opposition. In political
terms, his circle is large and powerful enough to constitute a faction –
the hegemonic faction indeed – in New Labour’s larger constellation.
Institutionally, the prime minister has huge powers of patronage,
including rewarding loyal MPs with office. His circle has instant access
to public media, and is uniquely close to the secret ‘inside’ of government, crucially the military and the Intelligence Services, though these
relationships are not without tensions. Another feature of this power
and partial autonomy is the large-scale employment of special advisers
and communication experts or ‘spin doctors’, who are more or less
independent of the civil service and are immune from parliamentary
responsibility and, usually, scrutiny. The government currently
employs 70 such advisors, at the cost of £5.4m a year. This is a threefold increase since 1997, suggesting it is a distinctively New Labour
feature. Of these advisors, no less than 38 work in or for Number 10
Downing Street. Some of them – famously Alistair Campbell, the
Director of Communication until his resignation in 2003 and Jonathan
Powell, the Chief of Staff – are as influential and better rewarded, than
many Cabinet ministers. Nowhere is this Blairite hegemony more
obvious than in ‘foreign affairs’. With the advice of Powell, David
Manning (who became British Ambassador in Washington) and key
military figures, Blair himself has come to dominate the foreign policy
arena, especially on matters of going to war. According to Kampfner
(2003), Downing Street in many ways has displaced the Foreign Office
as the key locus of decision-making in this sphere.
The complex relationships between prime-ministerial power, the
civil service, special advisors and the most authoritative news media
entered evident crisis in 2003 around the government’s gross exaggerations of the threat posed by Iraq’s so-called ‘weapons of mass
destruction’. Aside from widespread public scepticism, government
claims were openly contested by the more usually compliant British
Broadcasting Corporation and by some weapons experts, and queried
more discretely within the security services themselves. The evidence
given to the Hutton Inquiry, set up on a narrow brief to investigate the
suicide of Dr David Kelly the leading British expert on Iraq’s
weaponry, was important in showing the extent of Number 10’s
controlling ambitions. Although ‘intelligence’ about Iraq clearly had
its own limits, its public presentation was dominated by the overwhelming imperative of justifying the war. The (con)fusion of spin and
intelligence was signalled by Campbell’s chairmanship of the Joint
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Intelligence Committee, the government’s key link to the secret
services, and by his resignation when the whole strategy came under
public scrutiny. Crucially, for our argument, this affair concerned the
relation of national interests to international ambitions. Saddam
Hussein’s very modest armoury was presented as an immediate threat
to two of the most powerful and best armed nations in the world.
Implausible though this claim was – and remains – a project of regional
and world dominion had somehow to be squared with the much more
modest scale of national interest, not to mention international law.
Another feature of the Blair circle is its close connections with big
business, the very rich, and, generally, with uninhibited aspects of capitalist ‘enterprise’. The more ‘respectable’ end of this link is represented
by the relationship with Lord Sainsbury, head of one of the largest
supermarket chains in Britain, a minister and major funder of New
Labour; the less respectable was represented by Lord Eccleston
through whose influence with Number 10, including a £1million donation to the Labour Party, Formula One motor racing was temporarily
exempted from a ban on tobacco advertising. Then there is the list of
wealthy personal benefactors, including the evangelical pop star Cliff
Richards and the Italian newspaper proprietor Prince Girolamo
Strozzi, whose gifts have included holiday facilities used by the Blairs.
There is a longer list of wealthy people who have given substantial
sums of money to the Labour Party and been rewarded with honours
bestowed at the prime minister’s discretion. (For a recent instance see
Sir David Garrard’s £200,000 uncovered by the Electoral Commission
and reported in The Guardian 13.8.03.) Blair has also sought surprising political alliances with the media tycoon Rupert Murdoch, the
Italian prime minister/media mogul Silvio Berlusconi, and of course
the neo-conservative Republican President of the USA, with his close
links with oil and other corporate interests. The very close relationship
with Peter Mandelson, a key organiser of New Labour, has something
of the same character, since Mandelson himself has twice fallen foul of
financial scandal and twice been exiled from government, once in
connection with another scandal-dogged Labour politician businessman, Geoffrey Robinson. In spite of this, Mandelson continues to be a
major spokesman for Blairism (see also Beatrix Campbell’s chapter in
this book). These entanglements sit somewhat askew with Blair’s own
self-image as a particularly erect public figure.
Much the most significant evidence for Blairism’s business orientation lies in the content of policies and the forms of their rhetorical
framing. Just as Naomi Klein has argued that branding is a distinctive
feature of corporate capitalist culture, so the style of New Labour’s
politics can be understood as a kind of political re-branding (Klein,
2001). New Labour has been redefined as a party friendly to business,
while retaining, as we shall see, a certain ‘idealism’. This businessfriendly party also deploys keywords from a socialist past like ‘social
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justice’ and ‘community’. Just as corporations hide exploitative labour
relations behind their evocations of style and consumer identity, so
Blairism’s ‘realist’ edge – cf his rather consistent neo-liberalism; and see
especially Blair’s Wars (Kampfner 2003) – is softened by his ‘idealism’.
As in the case of branding, these rhetorics are very audience specific,
very ‘targeted’, socially and spatially. Blair’s idealism, like much branding discourse, addresses audiences ‘at home’ while often concealing the
detail of global exploitation which happens elsewhere, particularly in
East or South.
We will discuss Blair’s idealist rhetoric in more detail later, but his
realism is clearest in speeches to corporate and state managers and
investors, at home or abroad. In Japan he says: ‘A modern Britain, a
Labour Britain, is offering more – a better skilled and educated workforce, better infrastructure, and a macroeconomic environment more
conducive to sustained investment’ (Tokyo, 9.1.98). In the Hilton
Hotel in Chicago, he recalls the US origins of the British retail chain
Selfridges and urges mutual inward investment (Chicago, 22.4.99). In
South Korea, he presents Britain as ‘the gateway for Asian investment
in Europe’ (Seoul, 19.10.00). To an audience of scientists and managers
in the biotech industries (but not to workers and professionals of the
National Health Service), he is happy to stress that Britain should be
‘the bridge between the European and US healthcare markets’
(London, 17.11.00).
In these moments, while not altogether dropping his ‘national’ identifications and invitations, Blair also speaks as a kind of general
manager for collective capital. He points the way to good investments,
he hails a less regulated, more uniform and profitable future and he
offers almost every aspect of social provision and scientific discovery
for commodification and profit. In Gramscian terms, he is a new type
of ‘organic intellectual’ or ‘director’ for transnational economic interests. In all this, however, we would be better to speak not only of ‘he’
or of ‘Tony Blair’ but also of ‘the Blair figure’, recognising in this odd
term that he is not only an individual but a kind composite political
author, a particular embodied person; he has his own masculine styles
and bodily resources and vulnerabilities, but is also a product of many
hands and minds, formed in dialogues with the different constituencies
with which he allies. It is to such representations and policies, especially of the global, that we now turn.
BLAIR’S GLOBAL RHETORIC
‘Globalisation’ is a favourite Blair word, particularly emphasised in a
series of speeches delivered at home and abroad in 2000 and early 2001,
during a period of renewed public expenditure, and before the preoccupation with terrorism and war took over after September 2001. The
theme of these speeches was ‘the choices I believe Britain faces’. Yet
Blair’s ‘choices’ are paradoxical:
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Round the world, virtually irrespective of a country’s state of development, the choices, however tough, are at least clear. As the old left/right
ideologies recede into memories of the 20th century, the 21st century
posits a set of fairly clear rules to follow on that road to success. These
rules originate in the forces of globalisation and technology. No matter
where you are, the global economy is where you do business; and technology will transform the business you do (Seoul, 19.10.00).
So these are not choices between alternatives exactly, since the age of
alternatives – of left and right – is over. They are not really choices at
all. What Blair says we have instead are ‘fairly clear rules to follow’, and
that it is ‘the forces of globalisation and technology’ which prescribe
future actions, however hard and unpalatable in the short-term this so
called ‘choice’ may be:
Economic reform, the willingness to change is the absolute essence of
future prosperity. Reform is hard but right and will succeed. Failure to
reform will inevitably lead to failure. There is no escape from this rule.
We can see what it is we need to do (Seoul, 19.10.00).
Blair uses this argument in a wide range of applications. It applies to
nations naturally: ‘successful nations, round the world, are flexible
enough and adaptable enough to change as the world changes around
them’. It applies to the European Union, which is also positioned as a
potentially resisting ‘local’ within the dynamics of global change. It too
must turn from past introspection to face the future process of globalisation, a ‘challenge that has to turn it outward’ (Warsaw, 30.5.03). Thus
Britain can have a role in Europe, but only if Europe respects certain
conditions, hence ‘our commitment in principle to go in’ but also to
‘structural reforms in relation to Europe’ (London, 26.6.03).
Blair preaches the same message in Britain, Europe, E. Asia, Russia,
Eastern Europe, and even to the G8 richest countries, where he finds
everyone talking about ‘reform’, that is ‘adapt[ing] and adjust[ing]
your public services and economies very quickly’ (Evian, 4.6.03).
On all these scales, then, policy is (properly) under the dominance
of globalisation as a process whose social, spatial and temporal features
are only lightly sketched. Although change is uncomfortable, Blair
always denies there are any contradictions or deep conflicts between
the different scales of policy. Speaking to a Polish audience, for example, he stressed that it was patriotic to be pro-European in Poland or in
Britain, but that the real ‘task’ is to re-shape and reform it, ‘to withstand and then harness the force of globalisation’ (Warsaw, 30.5.03).
Typically he ‘finds’ – or rather seeks to construct – a consensus on
these issues. He calls this ‘the coalition’ or, better, ‘the international
community’, a ubiquitous phrase which transposes a key term of Third
Way domestic politics to the world. As at home, the main effect of this
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is to tuck away major differences or conflicts and stress solidarities.
‘Community’ articulates a general human interest certainly, but it
denies differences rather than dealing with them. In the international
context it refuses any hint of ‘multipolarity’ in the world (e.g. Evian,
4.6.03). When major differences impose on policy, Blair still hastens to
restore ‘consensus’. In speeches in the aftermath of the Iraq war, when
his ‘coalition’ dwindled dreadfully, he hailed UN Resolution 1483 (on
Iraqi ‘reconstruction’) as evidence of ‘the international community
pulling back together again and working together’. His most optimistic
production of potential world harmony, however, was his discovery of
‘lasting good’ out of ‘the shadow of this evil’ in the famously idealistic
October 2001 speech to the Labour Party Conference, a few weeks
after the attack on the twin towers:
The critics will say: but how can the world be a community? Nations act
in their own self-interest. Of course they do. But what is the lesson of
the financial markets, climate change, international terrorism, nuclear
proliferation or world trade? It is that our self-interest and our mutual
interests are today inextricably woven together. This is the politics of
globalisation (2.10.01).
This speech was a seeming high point in Blair’s progressive world
vision, winning plaudits from the left of his party. It argued for the
‘international community’ to tackle the issue of world poverty and
debt, to address the state of Africa, attend to the environmental crisis
and also wage war on terrorism and ‘fanaticism’. A closer reading
shows the characteristic splitting of idealist aims and realist means that
runs right through his politics. Internationally, war and if necessary
occupation (of Afghanistan, then of Iraq) are means to peace, prosperity and self-government, and a way of defending ‘our way of life’. At
home, testing children almost every year of their school lives and
setting their teachers targets are means to ‘the joy of art and culture and
the stretching of imaginative horizons that true education brings’.
Meritocracy and ‘the reward of talent’ are, as we have seen, the very
contradictory ‘means’ to social justice and equality of worth. As he
puts it himself, ‘our politics only succeed when the realism is as clear as
the idealism’. Blair’s global idealism is addressed to those elements
within the Labour Party that remain attached to social-democratic
goals of social justice, or to humanitarian interventions abroad, or
indeed to forms of working-class representation. For these audiences at
least, idealism is a key feature of the brand.
This takes us back to the paradox of rules and choices, which is
another example of the same ideal/real opposition. Here again, the
ferocity of constraints matches the strenuousness of ideal imaginings,
so that heroic efforts are required. Another favourite Blair phrase –
‘huge challenges’ – expresses this perfectly. The nation’s pursuits are
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never modest; we seek success, greatness and exemplary performances,
and we are haunted by failure or decline. It is important, in the footballing analogy, that Britain is ‘a major player in Europe’; similarly,
‘Britain and Poland can win in Europe. But we can’t do it standing on
the touchline’ (Warsaw, 30.5.03).
But whose tremendous efforts, whose agency is evoked here?
Agency is quite strictly reserved for certain spheres of action and to
certain key agents. There is rather little scope for it economically. The
global economy and its main dynamics – globalisation, liberalisation,
the commercial direction and exploitation of scientific knowledges –
are seen as fundamentally untouchable by critical agency. On the
‘basis’ of this typical New Labour economism, everything else must
strenuously adapt to these realities, including all forms of social provision and human subjectivity. The heroism lies in this massive painful
process of adaptation. We are told, again and again, ‘it won’t be easy.
Nothing worthwhile ever is’. And that it must be managed – ‘it will
require more tough choices’ (London, 14.3.01). Blairism is profoundly
‘passive’ in what it leaves outside the sphere of political agency; it is
‘revolutionary’ in the grandiose adaptations or assimilations it
demands.
It is, however, only certain agents that have choices. Professional
subjects and ordinary citizens are, as we have seen, put under intense
pressures; while fuller (but not untrammelled) agency lies with government. For more popular agents, most choices that really matter have
already been made, if not by government then by the process of global
change itself. While governments are capable of clear long-term vision,
the electorate is seen as suffering from myopia. This means that elections can be a difficult challenge for those who want to manage change.
As Blair puts it:
Both globalisation and technology bring change in people’s lives. With
change comes insecurity. Governments have to become managers of this
change, a helping hand through it. But change is often resisted and
always difficult. So the temptation for governments to slip back into
short-termism is acute, especially given the pressure of elections. But we
know where short-termism leads, it leads to decline (Seoul, 19.10.00).
So, as we argue throughout this volume, Blairism is a fundamentally
elite, or managerial, form of politics, profoundly non- or anti-popular
in the sense of disallowing popular agency. Globalisation, a version of
the transnational, is integral to this spatial and social allocation of
agency. The stress is on cosmopolitan initiatives by elites; the main
duty of the citizens of the nation states is an active compliance.
Blair’s relation to movements for global justice is the most relevant
instance here (though see also Lisa Smyth’s chapter in this book on
the way the fuel crisis was managed). He misrepresents global justice
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movements, steals their slogans and spins their keyword – ‘justice’.
He argues that these movements are against globalisation as such: the
‘demonstrators’ (who have challenged him so directly at G8 meetings
and elsewhere) are ‘right to say there’s injustice, poverty, environmental degradation’, but the answer to these problems is always
more, not less, globalisation. The task, as usual, is ‘to use the power
of community to combine it with justice’ (Labour Party, 2.10.01).
There is no question, apparently, of allying with popular global
movements to put pressure on recalcitrant governments or corporations, nor any concept of alternative forms of globalisation.
WHAT IS GLOBALISATION? BLAIR’S GLOBAL VISION
Blair is an interesting politician because he has a worldwide vision and
says he is concerned with ‘the choices facing humankind’. He seeks to
persuade us all to take the new reality of global interdependence on
board. As we have seen, he develops a global agenda, embracing issues
of poverty, the environment and (from September 2001) on military
intervention against rogue states and terrorists. We can agree thus far:
an adequate progressive politics today requires a vision as global as
this, without refusing local initiatives.
How exactly does Blair define global interests? He is not an advocate of global citizenship, global government or new forms of
humanitarian international regulation. He opposes global power in the
shape of a reformed UN or a united Europe. His conception of the EU
is a union of nations, not a federal superstate. The UN is more a source
of legitimation than a locus of a power that might qualify national or
imperial might. Blair can play the humanitarian card, and can seek
international legitimacy, but this not primarily the way he sees the
globalising dynamic.
Nor is he much concerned with the social and cultural themes that
have preoccupied sociological theorists of the global, although Third
Way politics shares the sociologists’ fixations on modernity, the
dynamics of change and the phenomena of emergence. There is a
connection with social theory, but it is not as close as that of ‘old
Labour’, with its tradition of empirical sociological research into social
inequality, from the 1930s to the 1970s. Blairism, like much social
theory, has a pronounced tendency to describe contemporary social
change (often without much empirical grounding) as more or less a fait
accompli. Blairite politics shares in common with much social theory a
tendency to ‘discover’ key dynamics as necessities which demand a
radically new political agenda – rather than to acknowledge that the
discovery and description of such trends is often itself a form of intervention. In particular, Blairites follow Anthony Giddens in jettisoning
all notions of capitalism as a worldwide, unstable and unequal social
system and accept its dynamics with little critical thought. (For these
affinities see especially Giddens, 1998, 2002.) They carry forward very
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little from earlier social(ist) theory, especially from Marxism or a left
Weberianism. The problem is rather the classical liberal one – how to
‘modernise’ – that is, keep up with the new global challenges. In so far
as Blairism belongs to this larger anglophone, sociological,
‘modernising’, Third Way tradition, with its characteristic substitution
of passive social description for thoughtful critical engagement, we can
say that Blair’s universality is a thoroughly ‘British’, or even English,
universality.
In his economic policies, however, Blair is a quite strict neoliberal. He is strongly in favour of extending markets into public
services. This is what he usually means by ‘reform’ which is generally the price (to professionals and workers) of state investment in
public services. Much of the money granted to ‘public services’ is
therefore destined to end up in the pockets of those international
capitalist corporations that are moving everywhere into previously
public services, often through labyrinthine forms of sub-contracting.
He is happy to woo the big corporations to take on health provision,
water supply, transport infrastructure, the building and management
of prisons, hospitals, schools, and detention centres for asylum seekers. In the schemes termed Private Funding Initiatives (PFI), for
instance, corporations are given state support and conditions of
unfair competition with what remains of public services to achieve
this extension of capitalist commodity relations (Monbiot, 2000).
Blair envisages a time when 60 per cent of retirement pensions will
be funded privately. He is opposed to a ‘social Europe’, while stealing social-democratic language to redefine the social itself. He
favours of course a ‘flexible’ Europe, ready to reform economically
to meet the challenge of globalisation, and with a proper stress not
on employment protection but on ‘skills and education … throughout life’ (Warsaw, 30.5.03).
Science and technology are also viewed within this neo-liberal
frame. This is particularly clear in discussions of biotechnology –
science’s ‘new frontier’. In a classically modernist stress, science is
crucial to progress: ‘It is science and moral judgement together that
drive human progress. Scientific innovation has been the motor.
Judgement the driver’ (London, 17.11.00).
But here again realist science and ethical-political judgement, ‘facts’
and ‘values’, are split. Moral judgement should come after discovery; it
should not limit or guide it:
Let us get to the facts and then judge their moral consequences. There is
a danger, almost without noticing it or desiring it, we become antiscience. The distinction I believe is this: our conviction about what is
natural or right should not inhibit the role of science in discovering the
truth; rather it should inform our judgement about the implications and
consequences of the truth science discovers (17.1100).
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Resistance to particular technologies – GM crops for instance – is
therefore a kind of ‘blackmail’. Such forms of resistance are also, ‘realistically’, self-defeating since Blair envisages Britain as the ‘European
hub’ of biotechnology and as a ‘bridge’ for US corporations. There is
no attempt to distinguish between the possible human benefits of some
scientific advances and the sectional interests that drive much of
biotechnology, the search for corporate advantage and control.
As we have seen throughout this volume, however, there are distinctive marks of Blair’s neo-liberalism that distinguish it from the
Thatcherite phase. First, there is the concern to translate and ‘liberalise’
all the key terms of socialism and Labourism rather than simply to
bury them – and to re-articulate, rather than to defeat, Labour’s older
class constituencies. Second, there is the interest in producing subjects
suitable for a neo-liberal future, including amenable, knowledgeable,
skilful, but also proletarianised labour – labour, that is, that has lost
much of its control of the nature and tempo of work. To these definitions we can now add a very distinctive emphasis on the global, which
is closely linked to neo-liberalism too.
WASHINGTON’S FAVOURITE AND BRITAIN’S PLACE
Critics have often expressed surprise at how closely Blair has clung to
the US alliance, especially to a president who moves to the right of his
own politics. The US alliance has been the touchstone of his foreign
policy even when it has threatened to wreck his long-term prospects at
home. It seems to us, in explanation of this, that the US alliance is the
most over-determined aspect of Blairite internationalism, and that it
has many roots.
First, the US alliance is central to the way Blair understands the
place of his own nation in the world. Britain should be ‘at the centre of
the alliances and power structures of the international community’: it
is a fulcrum or ‘pivot’ nation (see especially Noxolo’s chapter in this
volume). ‘Although not today a superpower, Britain is a pivotal power
in international relations’ (Guildhall, London, 13.11.00). As we have
seen, this centrality flows, in part, from the promotion of Blairite neosocialism as a model for other nations to follow. Similar manoeuvres
are attempted in relation to ‘our own peace process’ in Northern
Ireland, in its applications to Israel/Palestine (e.g. Northern Ireland
with Bush, 8.5.03), and the boast that Britain’s ‘multiculturalism’
makes it the globalised nation par excellence (London, 28.11.01).
Britain’s ‘pivotal’ status crucially refers, however, to the double relation with Europe and the United States, and to Blair’s ‘committed
Atlanticism’ (e.g. Canadian Parliament, 23.2.01). Sustaining this double
relation is crucial both for Britain’s centrality and for its national interests. This is why Blair fiercely opposes any conception of Europe as a
counter-balance to US power in a ‘multi-polar’ world, and why the
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tion were such tests for his politics. He sees no need to choose between
Europe and the United States:
The whole of my political philosophy is based on the fact that the choice
is false in the end. We’ve got to get Europe, America, and, indeed, Russia
working together. The reason for this is that our relations with America
are vitally important; it is a strong historical relationship, but it is also
based on values we share and common challenges we face.
For Britain, the more I do this job, the more convinced I am, that for us,
we have to keep both alliances in place because they are both vital for our
own strategic interests (London, with Putin, 26.6.03).
The relationship with the USA is presented as a huge national asset,
which it would be mad to throw away – ‘many countries aren’t fortunate enough to have the possibility of that strong relationship with
both Europe and America’. He is therefore utterly committed to ‘a
Europe dedicated to upholding the transatlantic alliance’ (Warsaw,
30.5.03). Although he has favoured the capacity of the EU to undertake
military actions in its own right, the use of any joint military capacity
should be strictly subordinate to the NATO ‘partnership’.
Blair typically uses the term ‘partnership’ for grossly unequal relationships of this kind, whether in the domain of aid to the
underdeveloped world or in relation to US/UK relations.
We regard the United States as our allies and partners. We are proud of
what we have achieved together against tyranny and in the defence of
freedom, most recently in Iraq (Warsaw, 30.5.03).
‘Partnership’ disguises relations of dependence, which are in fact deepened by intensifying this kind of subaltern relation. (In this case Blair’s
conception of partnership seems to prevent him from recognising his
own subaltern role; more usually the partnerships he proposes obscure
his own dominant position.)
This partnership/dependence applies to trade relations but also to
the military. Thus there is a close intertwining – set to increase with
‘star wars’ and British military reorganisation – of the military and
coercive powers of the British and US states. This kind of relationship
is evident in intelligence and surveillance, in the procurement of military hardware and technology (including nuclear), in the US bases and
listening posts on British soil, and in the longer-term and many-sided
re-shaping of the British services to be compatible with, and complementary to, the US military. This subordinated complementarity is
precisely what the Pentagon looks for in its military allies – in the
newer contributions of eastern European states for instance.
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ism. The USA is the world hub of neo-liberal ideology and of capitalist consumption as a way of life. Blair is an uncritical supporter of this
way of living. ‘Our way of life’ is one of the things, which, like Bush,
he sees as stakes in the war against terrorism (Johnson, 2002).
Blair also adopts and adapts classic figures of US ideological politics,
especially ‘freedom’ and ‘the free world’. He weaves these ‘American’
terms into his more ‘European’ vocabulary of ‘community’, ‘justice’
and ‘coalition’. His stance on terrorism and pre-emptive war has
become indistinguishable from that of President Bush. Indeed, a study
of his speeches over time, especially in transatlantic venues, shows him
to have been a principled interventionist in the affairs of other states
long before 11 September 2001 (e.g. Chicago, 22.4.99). In other areas of
policy – in education, crime, the pursuit of civic ‘decency’ and ‘welfare
for work’ – his government has borrowed from policies tried (and
sometimes failed) in parts of the United States. It is hard not to see in
Blair’s stress on equality of opportunity, hard work and talent an anglicised version of ‘the American dream’. Certainly when he describes –
to a Canadian rather than a US audience – ‘the core package of our
political canon’, it includes not only ‘democracy’, ‘individualism’ and
‘human rights’, but also ‘the primacy of the market as the engine of
growth’ (Canadian Parliament, 23.2.01). We might add that some characteristically US social pathologies – including gun crime, urban decay,
family break-up, and chronic everyday insecurity – are also emerging
consequences of neo-liberal ‘Americanisation’, often unaccompanied
by the countervailing ‘American’ virtues.
In quite a strong sense, then, Blair’s globality is a US universality. It is
imagined certainly as Anglo-American, fruit of a long-term Atlantic
alliance. In practice, Blair has given away much of his own political capital, many of the social benefits of ‘his’ citizens, and even the blood of ‘his’
soldiers, in the service of an alliance with the Bushites. It is easy to see
what the Bushites gain from this alliance: Blair’s international profile,
coalition-building aptitudes, ideological versatility, military back-up and
ultimate compliance. No wonder he is Washington’s favourite, enrapturing, it seems, even politically sophisticated US audiences.
An account of this relation would be incomplete, however, without its
strongly imaginary character. This stems from Blair’s personal idealism
(and his public-school Christian background), and from larger imperial
legacies in Britain. Both elements find expression in Blair’s moral absolutism. Like Bush, but in a different register, Blair represents his greatest
enemies – from terrorists to the leaders of rogue states – as absolute
embodiments of evil, with whom there can be no negotiation, and whose
motivation we should not, in the end, even seek to understand:
Understand the causes of terror? Yes we should try, but let there be no
moral ambiguity about this: nothing could ever justify the events of
September 11, and it is to turn justice or its head to pretend it could …
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There is no compromise with such people, no meeting of minds, no
point of understanding with such terror. Just a choice: defeat it or be
defeated by it. And defeat it we must (Labour Party, 2.10.01).
Here even a ‘realist’ knowledge of the other seems irrelevant, as
enemies are excluded from the human race. As Pat Noxolo argues in
this book, there is a distinctively imperial element in such constructions, which parallel those found in the discourses of aid and
development. Not only are rogue states mainly to be found in nonwhite, non-western-European spaces; but the voices of complete moral
superiority which clear the way for the military forces are distinctively
imperial. It is now common knowledge that the neo-Conservative
group around Bush developed a systematic strategy for dominating the
world, partly to secure remaining resources, partly to pre-empt the
growth of rival powers. There is a kind of historical symmetry in the
alliance with a predecessor imperial power, especially one that retains a
military capacity and a willingness to go to war.
This militarism is one further strong continuity with Thatcher’s
Britain. Blair has taken the nation to war, with or without UN and
popular support, in Bosnia, Kosovo, Afghanistan and Iraq – and has
involved the military in other struggles – peacekeeping in Sierra Leone
for example. All these wars – the pros and cons of which, in our view,
have varied widely – have been justified in the same morally absolute
terms. It is this kind of moral imagination – unable to distinguish understanding as knowledge of the other from sympathy for its causes – that
underlies what one ex-cabinet colleague (Clare Short) has called Blair’s
‘recklessness’. The refusal to understand – enemies especially, perhaps –
signals a suspension of political rationality (see also Kampfner 2003).
There is also a strongly moral-imaginary element in Blair’s typical
answers to what he calls ‘anti-Americanism’. He insists on being the
‘partner’ of the US, not its ‘servant’ (London interview, 31.5.03). He
argues that the only way to influence the US government is to support
its projects but to influence its actions with ‘our’ (Europe’s? Britain’s?)
own principles. This, is another version of the splitting of principle and
realism, with Europe as the bearer of ethics and the US as a kind of
amenable but amoral beast, not too hot on the diplomacy. It is this
hope that draws Blair into being a facilitator for US power. The central
failure of his international career – his failure to draw the world and
even his own national public behind an Anglo-American invasion of
Iraq – revolved around a fantasy of British influence in the world, both
the power to influence the US government and the power to win the
world to its causes.
Blair’s own ideals, stated in 2003, seem to be this:
I think my attitude to this is you can construct an agenda which takes
really seriously the issues of terrorism and weapons of mass destruction,
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but adds to that then the Middle East, global poverty, climate change, the
issues to do with, if you like, the concerns of other countries other than
America, and I think that global agenda is there and can be accepted
(London interview, 31.5.03).
The trouble is that the agenda itself is self-contradictory, mixing idealist aims for a better world according to broad human interests, with a
realist (but not very farseeing) strategy to defend the privileges of the
richer nations and the global elites. The Bushite agenda against ‘international terrorism’ and ‘rogue states’ is, predictably, only serving to
produce more violent reactions among oppressed peoples and more
defensive reactions in threatened states, including new attempts at
nuclear armament.
Furthermore, pursuing terrorists (often loosely defined) everywhere
and playing fast and loose with national and international law makes
the pursuit of a different kind of world order less and less believable.
CONCLUSION
It is still too soon to say just how vulnerable Blairism will be to the
political contradictions of its mediation between (Americanised) global
demands and national interests. The Iraq war introduced a note of
pathos into the public representation of a prime minister who knew
that his international policies were deeply unpopular and that his war
of persuasion was very widely disbelieved. Blair himself, though, still
appears to believe that the invasion and corporate take-over of Iraq was
fundamentally for the Iraqi people. Though deceptions have certainly
been involved, he and many of his circle succeeded in persuading themselves that invasion was morally and realistically justified. This fits with
our analysis of the Blairite international project, subsumed as it is
within a US-centred version of the global force field. Yet the terrible
unfolding disaster of the war and occupation in Iraq has also brought
out the huge gulf between Blairism’s idealist branding and its pragmatic
realist underpinning, its crazily optimistic face and its hard pessimistic
side.
While the credibility of Blairite politics in this sphere has been very
deeply wounded, its political fate will also depend on the fortunes of its
adversaries. It could be vulnerable to two forms of politics. The first
would be a politics (of the left or of the radical right) that managed to
bring together an opposing set of national-popular interests and
symbols – whether in defence of the NHS or in a demand for greater
international independence (and this could be in opposition to the
USA and/or the EU). Since Blair is fundamentally right about transnational interdependence today, however, the longer, deeper challenge
will come from a globalising politics of a different kind, one that aims
at global justice, and seeks to transform or regulate existing capitalist
dynamics; but this would also need to be a more broadly based politics,
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more concerned with human interests, and much more ecologically
aware than most groups currently to the left of Blairism.
ENDNOTES
1. For the themes of New Labour as an alliance of rather different political
tendencies and of Blairism as the hegemonic fraction of New Labour, see
also the Introductions and Chapters 5, 6, 8, 11, 13 and 14 in this volume.
2. All speeches by Tony Blair referred to in the text are referenced at the end
of this essay in date order.
3. On another occasion it may be useful to question Cox’s reading of
Gramsci, especially for its stress on institutions, and neglect of popular
agency. This neglect is a serious one because unjust wars and unfair rules
of trade have prompted large-scale and transnational popular opposition
in South and North.
From www.number-10. gov.uk unless otherwise stated.
9.1.98, ‘New Britain in the Modern World’ (Tokyo).
13.1.98, ‘Address to the North Atlantic Assembly’ (Edinburgh).
22.4.99, ‘Doctrine of the International Community’ (Chicago).
19.10.00, ‘Britain: Gateway for Asia in Europe’ (Asia-Europe Business Forum,
Seoul).
13.11.00, ‘Britain’s Choice: Engagement not Isolation’ (Guildhall, London).
17.11.00, ‘Biotechnology: Investing in the Future’ (European Bioscience
Conference).
23.2.01, ‘Speech by the Prime Minister to the Canadian Parliament’ (Ottawa).
14.3.01, ‘Prime Minister’s Speech on the Launch of the Employment Green
Paper’ (London).
2.10.01, Speech to the Labour Party Conference (printed verbatim in The
Guardian, 3 October 2001).
28.11.01 ‘Speech by the Prime Minister at the Annual Meeting of the Network’
(London).
28.6.02, ‘PM: Press Conference at G8 Summit’ (Canada).
6.9.02, ‘Britain will pay ‘blood price’ – Blair’, Interview with BBC, BBC News
Online (http//news.bbc.co.uk).
8.5.03, Press Conference: PM Tony Blair and President George Bush
(‘Northern Ireland’).
30.5.03, ‘PM Speech on Europe in Warsaw’ (Warsaw).
31.5.03, ‘PM interviewed on Iraq, Weapons of Mass Destruction, Europe and
Euro’ (London).
4.6.03, ‘PM says he is “100 per cent” behind Iraq evidence’ at G8 Summit (Evian).
26.6.03, ‘Press Conference with the Prime Minister and President Putin of
Russia’ (London).
REFERENCES
Cox, R.W. (1981) ‘Social Forces, States and World Orders: Beyond
International Relations Theory’, Millennium Journal of International
Studies, 10 (2): 126-155.
Cox, R.W., with Sinclair, T.J. (1996) Approaches to World Order, Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press.
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Washington’s favourite
253
Giddens, Anthony (1998) The Third Way: The Renewal of Social Democracy,
Oxford and Cambridge: Polity Press and Blackwell.
Giddens, Anthony (2002) Where Now for New Labour? London, Cambridge
and Oxford: Policy Network, Fabian Society, Polity Press and Blackwell.
Gramsci, Antonio (1971) Selections from the Prison Notebooks, London:
Lawrence and Wishart.
Johnson, Richard (2002) ‘Defending Ways of Life: The (Anti-)Terrorist
Rhetoric of Bush and Blair’, Theory, Culture and Society 19, (4) 211-232.
Kampfner, John (2003) Blair’s Wars, London: Free Press.
Klein, Naomi (2001) No Logo, London: Flamingo.
Monbiot, George (2000) Captive State: The Corporate Takeover of Britain,
London: Pan Books.
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Notes on Contributors
Beatrix Campbell is a visiting professor in the Centre for Gender and Women’s
Studies, University of Newcastle upon Tyne. Her publications include: Sweet
Freedom (with Anna Coote, Virago, 1982); Wigan Pier Revisited (Virago, 1984);
Iron Ladies: why do women vote Tory? (Virago, 1987) Unofficial Secrets: Child
Sexual Abuse – the Cleveland case (Virago, 1988); Goliath; and Britain’s
Dangerous Places (Methuen, 1993).
John Clarke is Professor of Social Policy at the Open University. Drawing on
a background in cultural studies, his interests have centred on the political,
ideological and organisational conflicts around social welfare. Much of his
recent work has addressed the role of managerialism in the remaking of welfare
systems, including: The Managerial State (Sage 1997), co-authored with Janet
Newman; New Managerialism, New Welfare? (Sage 2000), co-edited with
Sharon Gewirtz and Eugene McLaughlin; and Changing Welfare, Changing
States: new directions in social policy (Sage 2004).
Debbie Epstein is a professor in the School of Social Sciences at Cardiff
University. She has published widely on sexuality, race and gender particularly
in education. Her most recent book on these issues, co-authored with Sarah
O’Flynn and David Telford, is Silenced Sexualities in Schools and Universities
(Trentham, 2003) and The Academic’s Support Kit, a six volume boxed set, coauthored with Rebecca Boden and Jane Kenway (Sage, 2005).
Chris Haywood and Mairtin Mac an Ghaill currently teach at the Faculty of
Humanities and Social Sciences, University of Newcastle. They have just
completed Men and Masculinities: Theory, Research and Social Practice (Open
University Press).
Richard Johnson taught at The Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies at
the University of Birmingham from 1974 to 1993, and retired from his post as
Professor of Cultural Studies at Nottingham Trent University in September
2004. He has written on Thatcherism (and education), nationalism and national
identity, the anti-terrorist rhetorics of Bush and Blair, and masculinities and
politics. He has recently completed a collaborative book about method in
cultural studies: Richard Johnson, Deborah Chambers, Parvati Raghuram and
Estella Tincknell, The Practice of Cultural Studies (Sage, 2004).
Ken Jones is Professor of Education at Keele University. He is author of
Education in Britain (Polity Press). With other members of the education
network of the European Social Forum, he is currently working on a book
about neo-liberalism and education policy in Europe.
254
Notes on Contributors
255
Joe Kelleher works in theatre and performance studies at Roehampton
University. His current projects include a book co-edited with Nicholas
Ridout, Contemporary Theatres in Europe (Routledge 2005), and a collaboration with Italian theatre-makers Societas Raffaello Sanzio, The Theatre of
Societas Raffaello Sanzio (Routledge 2006).
Michael McKinnie teaches in the Department of Drama and Theatre Arts at
the University of Birmingham. His research focuses on theatre and urban
development, cultural theory and arts policy, and Canadian theatre. Recent
publications include articles in Theatre Journal, Essays on Canadian Writing,
and Shakespeare in Canada: A World Elsewhere? (ed. Diana Brydon and Irena
Makaryk, University of Toronto Press).
Janet Newman is Professor of Social Policy at the Open University. She has
worked extensively with public service managers experiencing the changes
introduced within the modernising reforms of New Labour. She has also
undertaken a range of research projects on these reforms, including projects on
public service innovation, on partnership working, and on public participation.
She is the author of Modernizing Governance: New Labour, Policy and Society
(Sage 2001), and co-author, with John Clarke, of The Managerial State: Power,
politics and ideology in the remaking of social welfare (Sage, 1997).
Pat Noxolo is a research associate with Leicester University. She is currently
working on a project that explores the relationships between popular television
drama and socio-spatial identities in Britain, New Zealand and Australia. More
generally, her research focuses on the application of postcolonial theory and
insights from cultural geography to discourses of international development
and globalisation. Her thesis explored the racialisation of British governmental
development discourses.
Liza Schuster is T. H. Marshall Fellow in the Department of Sociology at the
London School of Economics. She was previously a Research Fellow in the
Faculty of Humanities and Social Science at South Bank University, London.
She is the author of The Use and Abuse of Political Asylum in Britain and
Germany (Frank Cass 2002).
Lisa Smyth is a lecturer in the School of Sociology and Social Policy at
Queen’s University Belfast. She is the author of the forthcoming book
Abortion and Nation: the Politics of Reproduction in Contemporary Ireland
(Ashgate 2004).
John Solomos is Professor of Sociology in the Department of Sociology, City
University, London. Before that he was Professor of Sociology in the Faculty of
Humanities and Social Science at South Bank University, London, and he has
previously worked at the Centre for Research in Ethnic Relations, University of
Warwick and Birkbeck College, University of London and the University of
Southampton. His two most recent books are The Changing Face of Football:
Racism, Identity and Multiculture and the English Game (co-authored with Les
Back and Tim Crabbe, Berg 2001); and A Companion to Racial and Ethnic
Studies (co-edited with David Theo Goldberg, Blackwell 2002).
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Blairism and the War of Persuasion
Deborah Lynn Steinberg is a Reader in the Department of Sociology,
University of Warwick, where she teaches feminist, media and cultural theory.
Her books include Bodies in Glass: Genetics, Eugenics, Embryo Ethics (1997);
Border Patrols: Policing the Boundaries of Heterosexuality (with Debbie
Epstein and Richard Johnson, 1997); and Mourning Diana: Nation, Culture
and the Performance of Grief (with Adrian Kear, 1999).
Estella Tincknell is Associate Head of the School of Cultural Studies at the
University of the West of England and has researched widely in the area of
gendered identities and popular culture. She is the author of Mediating the
Family: Gender, Culture and Representation (Arnold, 2005); and co-author of
The Practice of Cultural Studies (Sage, 2004). She is also on the editorial board
of Body and Society.
Valerie Walkerdine is Professor of Critical Psychology, Cardiff University.
She has been researching aspects of gendered and classed subjectivity for many
years.
Jeffrey Weeks is Professor of Sociology and Executive Dean of Arts and
Human Sciences at London South Bank University. He is the author, coauthor or editor of some twenty books, and has published numerous articles,
mainly on the history and social organisation of sexuality and intimate life.
Recent publications include Invented Moralities (1995), Sexual Cultures
(edited with Janet Holland, 1996), Making Sexual History (2000), Same Sex
Intimacies (with Brian Heaphy and Catherine Donovan, 2001), Sexualities and
Society: A Reader (edited with Janet Holland and Matthew Waites, 2003), and
Sexuality (2004).
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