A Useful Fiction

Use this link to buy A Useful Fiction by Patrick Hannan and earn the Devil a few pennies.

'When it comes to being British, everyone is an outsider.'

So begins the introduction of Patrick Hannan's A Useful Fiction, and he is not far wrong. In my four years as a non-British person living in Britain, the only times I've encountered a 'Britishness' that seems convincing is when the term is applied in contradistinction to someone who is, like me, demonstrably not British. It is not an easily defined identity; Hannan spends three chapters trying to determine just what constitutes Britishness and delivers, at the end of them, a half-hearted shrug. To be British is to be exclusive, it appears: although there are no hard and fast rules, as the British are a nation of many nations, religions, cultures, and even races, yet non-Britishness is readily apparent and obvious; thus in a curious sort of syllogism, Britishness is all that which is not non-British.

Or so A Useful Fiction makes it seem.

Ostensibly, the book's thesis is that, since devolution reared its head in the early decades of the twentieth century, the national and political culture in the United Kingdom has become something that would be unrecognisable to people only a few generations ago, especially since formal devolution took place in the late 1990s. Much of the book is devoted to an exploration of this process, taking in turn Wales, Scotland, and Northern Ireland, and describing the way in which devolution has affected, and been affected by, the prevailing political character in those nations. Hannan also discusses what this has meant for England (the only nation in the United Kingdom without any semblance of home rule) and for the United Kingdom as a whole.

His conclusion appears to be that the ceding of sovereignty to devolved governments in the 'Celtic fringe' has created a bizarre mishmash of governance wherein some authority is shared, some is not, nobody is quite sure where that distinction begins and ends, and further independence (or, indeed, the opposite) depends entirely upon economic circumstance, constitutional reform, and contemporary political expedience. He touches upon many disparate subjects—Welsh language television, the North Sea oil, the Rev. Dr. Ian Paisley, Peter Hain, and that without which no discussion of devolution would be complete, the Barnett Formula—without achieving much in the way of cohesion or organisation. Devolution, he claims, has not been as much of a disaster as its opponents predicted, nor has it been as much of a success as its adherents hoped. National governments have little real power, particularly because the desire for central control at Westminster means that the UK government still holds the purse string; abandonment in Wales and Scotland of traditional party allegiances has created doubt, amongst Labour more than anyone else, that devolution will shore up party power in Westminster.

And whilst devolution has exposed many political and cultural differences that were previously overshadowed by the umbrella of a single British government in Westminster, it has also created an unsteady and perhaps temporary but no less real peace in Northern Ireland, which even thirty years ago few people would have believed possible. Where, then, will it lead the United Kingdom in the coming years? Much of that depends, Hannan claims, upon the outcome of the next general election. Will the Conservatives stand by while voters in Scotland and Wales return another overall Labour majority, even if the Conservatives have carried England, as they did in 1974? Will the call for independence in Scotland, and perhaps Wales, increase in volume if a Conservative government is returned? Either of these outcomes could raise important, and possibly divisive, constitutional questions.

One of the themes that comes across rather blatantly in Hannan's book, amongst a great deal of what I perceive as topic-hopping, is that constitutional reform is the refuge of desperate governments. Whether at the height of their popularity and in need of delivering what it promised its voters—as with Blair in 1998—or at the absolute nadir of its public support and in need of distracting the electorate from other woes—as with Callaghan in 1979—mucking about with the constitutional character of the country is usually done hastily, sloppily, and for ill-considered political advantage. I'm not sure whether Hannan intended this theme to come across as strongly as it did, but it paints a rather depressing picture of what this final year of Brown's government might be like. Already within the past nine months his ministers have considered changes to the Act of Settlement, a written constitution, a bill of rights and responsibilities, further reform of the Lords, electoral reform, and they have created—hastily, sloppily, and unnecessarily, according to many commentators—an independent regulator of Parliament and its members' conduct. Is it right that constitutional change should be undertaken in these ways, and for these reasons? Hannan's book, intentionally or not, answers with a resounding NO. It results, almost always, in the creation of an illogical, anti-democratic mess.

The problem with A Useful Fiction is that these themes and conclusions are extraordinarily difficult to extract. Although it is well written—witty, compelling, and in places downright amusing—it is poorly structured. Its thesis is never explicitly stated, and although the exploration follows a rough plan, with each chapter devoted to the broad subject of Britishness or a discussion of a particular region, within the chapters there is little in the way of topical or visual organisation (no section breaks or subheadings, for instance). The conclusion is also hard to find because, in typical journalistic fashion, Hannan (a journalist, in case you were wondering) finishes the work with a personal anecdote, followed by the rather broad and indeterminate statement:

New frameworks have been created in Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland and they're not going to be dismantled. In these circumstances England, or the regions of England, may join in. What is clear is that Britishness, being British, is something that in only a dozen years or so has been radically reconstructed. It isn't going to stop there. The builders are still at work.

This statement, as far as I see it, makes the rest of the book obsolete; whilst everything he writes does back it up, he never suggests that there are any arguments against it. Writing a book, however interesting, in support of a broad and rather uninspiring premise nobody disputes seems slightly like a waste of time.

And when I say it 'finishes the work,' I'm actually being slightly inaccurate. The last chapter, which reads like an epilogue, is devoted to the peculiar brand of Britishness exhibited by Enoch Powell. After an encomium on Powell's political astuteness a description of his career (complete with disquisition about his views on immigration), Hannan says:

Yet a quarter of a century on [from 1985] and Britain remains recognisably what it was then and what it was fifteen years before that, when Powell was making the most famous speech of his life at the Midland Hotel, Birmingham. The Tiber has not yet foamed with much blood.

Enoch was about as British as you can get and Enoch was wrong.

This final chapter is the only place in the entire book where immigration is dealt with in relation to what it means to be British. Why is it there? Throughout, there has been an examination of what is Britishness, and what is devolution, and where they commingle; Enoch Powell fits into that scheme not at all. The most generous interpretation I can give of its inclusion is that Enoch Powell was supremely British, and Enoch Powell made a mistake; therefore, of all the things that might constitute Britishness, an exclusive claim to infallibility is not one of them.

Not content with bringing our Parliament into disrepute, now—through ignorance—they would destroy it

So, the dust has settled on the expenses affair and our elected representatives have been found sorely lacking. MPs have raped and pillaged the expenses system, using our money not only to fund their lavish lifestyles but also to exempt themselves from the laws that they impose on us—most notably ensuring that they need pay no tax on benefits-in-kind (for many of these claims were not expenses at all, but benefits that, for anyone else, would have been taxable).

However, with truly astonishing stupidity, these venal idiots have come up with a set of solutions that are worse than the original problem. After all, fixing the expenses system would not have been difficult: forcing the annual publishing of all (unredacted) receipts, removing the benefits-in-kind tax exemption and allowing the recall of any MP by his or her constituents would have gone a long way to sort out even the perception of wrong-doing—let alone the ability to get away with it.

But no: the government has decided that they need yet another stupid, expensive and unaccountable QUANGO to ensure that our lords and masters can keep their pudgy, grasping little hands out of the cookie jar.

Your humble Devil opposed this from the outset—if only because it would potentially stop us being able to obtain the details of the expenses under FoI. Besides, if our 646 MPs are unable to manage themselves, then what possible moral (or practical) justification can they put forward for attempting to manage 60 million of us?

None.

However, it gets worse, as Raedwald pointed out, having examined the text of the proposed Bill.

Make no mistake. This is an anti-democratic, pernicious and malign little Bill. Consider this provision;

• An order under this section may provide .. for specified property, rights and liabilities which subsist wholly or mainly for the purposes of the House of Commons to be transferred to the IPSA by a scheme

You see, Brown's new Quango doesn't merely check MPs' claims—it pays them. Rather than Parliament owning its own pay chest and being its own master, MPs will now be employed by the government. Brown has taken Parliament's resources from them. And who decides just how much of Parliament's property, rights and liabilities are to be transferred to the government? Why, a government minister, of course! With the complicity of Brown's Speaker, Mr Bercow;

• A scheme made by virtue of subsection (8) is to be made by a Minister of the Crown with the consent of the person who chairs the House of Commons Commission.

The last thing this nation needs is an Act that would pack the chamber with vile apparatchiks and 'professional' politicians, rob the Commons of its authority, turn our parliament into just a department of government and treat our MPs—returned by us to Parliament to exercise the thunderous powers and sovereignty of that body—as mere hirelings, irrelevant juniors.

As distasteful as we may find the corrupt and venal behaviour of the 646 bastards within the House of Commons, we should not confuse or conflate these odious people with Parliament itself. And what this Bill proposes to do is to make Parliament the servant of the government—to make the entirety of Parliament subservient to the Executive.

This is incredibly dangerous; part of the problem with governments over the last few decades is that they have increasingly come to see themselves as the masters of this country—the supreme power over you and I.

What many bloggers have campaigned for is a return to the situation wherein we, the people, wield the power in this country, and wherein MPs acknowledge that we only lend them our power for a short term. And, yes, we were gleeful at the expenses scandals because we thought that the power of the people might be reasserted over a chastened Parliament.

This Bill proposes the very opposite.

Ineffective though the House has been at holding the Executive to account, it was at least able to do it in small respects—especially as the power of this government has waned.

This Bill would remove even that check on an over-weaning Executive, and it most certainly returns no power to us. Indeed, as EUReferendum notes in a comment on Raedwald's post, it does the very opposite.

Such is the sagging morale of our MPs, and their slender grasp of constitutional and democratic principles, that they look to approving this with minimal debate and scrutiny, intent only on "restoring public confidence" in Parliament. Not for them the lesson of the Dangerous Dogs Act, the classic illustration of the principle that rushed law is always bad law.

As to The Telegraph's concerns about inhibiting high-quality people from standing for Parliament, the main deterrent is the singular fact that, progressively, this institution has been robbed of its powers (with the willing assent of its incumbents). Yet this Bill seeks to neuter Parliament even further, continuing its march towards irrelevance.

What is lost here is the very rationale for having Parliament in the first place. It does not belong to the MPs, or government. It is—or should be—our Parliament, there as a bastion against an over-powerful and oppressive executive. Anything that diminishes Parliament diminishes us.

Having lost the plot so long ago, however, our MPs are now conspiring in destroying what little authority they have left. But while they act in haste, we will be the ones to repent at leisure.

I have argued for sometime that Parliament has been giving away powers—to the European Union—that it has no entitlement to: the power is, I repeated many times, lent to them for a period no longer than five years—at the end of which, it must be returned.

Once again, it seems that MPs simply do not get it: yes, they have behaved disgracefully, and they should feel suitably ashamed. Yes, many of them should resign—and some already have.

However, this Bill will not make amends—this Bill will not fix the system. Indeed, it is more akin to them—having been found with their hands in the till—murdering the shopkeeper and burning down the store.

All is not lost, however: as The Sunday Times reports, some MPs seem to have realised the enormity of this desecration and strapped on some testicles.

GORDON BROWN’S plans to create a legally enforceable “code of conduct” for MPs are in turmoil as MPs and peers prepare to reject the scheme.

At least four senior MPs are to table amendments to water down or remove the proposals from the Parliamentary Standards Bill, which is going through the Commons this week.

They include Sir Stuart Bell, the Labour MP on the Commons Commission; Sir George Young, who chairs the committee on standards and privileges; and Alan Duncan, the shadow leader of the Commons. The House of Lords has also threatened to throw out the scheme.

It has emerged that neither Jack Straw, the justice secretary, who is charged with pushing through the legislation, nor Harriet Harman, the leader of the Commons,who unveiled the bill last week, knew about the plans for a code of conduct until they were announced by No 10 in The Sunday Times. Whitehall officials drew up new clauses to “fit the press release”.

The wording of the proposed law leaves it open to individuals to take parliament, or MPs, to court. Malcolm Jack, the most senior Commons official, has warned of “litigants trying to make a point”.

Another key section of the bill raises the prospect that the words of MPs, evidence given by witnesses to select committees and other Commons business, could be used as evidence in criminal proceedings, which would undermine the tradition of free speech under “parliamentary privilege”.

Again, via EUReferendum, it seems that the danger is so severe that Mystic Mogg has been coaxed out of his box to bend his great mind to producing a stern warning.

The House of Commons is in danger of cutting its own constitutional throat, but the Clerk of the House is trying to stop them. The clerk is Malcolm Jack, a man of scholarship and courage who is the ultimate referee on all constitutional questions which affect the Commons. His core duty is to advise the House, its Speaker, the committees and MPs on the practice and procedure of the House, and its rights.

Last Friday Dr Jack sent a memorandum to the Standards Committee on the “Privilege Aspects of the Parliamentary Standards Bill”. He gives a serious warning about particular aspects of the Bill, which is expected to be rushed through both Houses of Parliament before the summer recess. The Lords is due to rise on July 21, so time would be very limited. Rushed legislation is usually a disaster, and this would be legislation in a panic.

No shit. The article is well worth reading in full, as Mystic outlines the main concerns with the Bill, and Dr Jack's pedigree and position. But his conclusion is spot on.

The morale of the Commons has of course been shaken by the expenses scandal. I have never seen a comparable loss of confidence. Any healthy institution wants to extend its own authority. The Parliamentary Standards Bill is seeking to deal with a problem which is only too real. Yet the remedy which has been proposed is to reduce the existing rights and functions of the House of Commons, including self-regulation. This is a move in the wrong direction. If the Commons cannot restore its reputation by doing its job better, it will certainly not do so by demonstrating its lack of confidence in its own authority.

The new Bill proposes to create a regulator — the Independent Parliamentary Standards Authority — to be called “Ipsa”, which will act as an independent authority for disciplining Parliament. No one in his or her right mind would contemplate joining such a preposterous body, which will start with no authority and is likely to be abolished as soon as anyone finds out that it has been built on sand. Quangos are always vulnerable: they have too many enemies and hardly any friends. They are appointed by politicians to suit their self-interest.

The Clerk of the House should be trusted, partly because he is the 50th in his line, of whom the first was appointed in 1363. If Ipsa is now appointed by Gordon Brown in 2009, it will be lucky to survive through 2010. Britain needs a strong and independent and new House of Commons, which would mean an early election; no one needs an ipsy-dipsy quango.

Quite so. Not only are QUANGOs subject to cronyism and manipulation by higher powers—in this case, the government—but they are democratically unaccountable and that is precisely what is not required in this case.

We need more information published on the internet—with scrutiny being driven by bloggers, if necessary. And, crucially, we need a channel to be able to do something about any abuses that we find—such as the ability to recall MPs.

After all, have politicians not bemoaned the lack of public engagement? This apathy is caused—I, and others like me, believe—by the sense that we can never find out what these bastards are up to and, even if we could, there is nothing that we can do about it.

The publication of documents—such as department spending and MPs' expenses—would give people the opportunity to find out precisely where their money is going; the ability to recall MPs would give the people of this country the sense that they are able to ensure that our politicians are made accountable for their actions.

With a few simple strokes, we can go some way to making our politicians more honest, less proligate and less wasteful and we can re-engage the voters in the politics of this country.

Instead what they have presented us with is something that Raedwald quite rightly terms a Bill that...

... treats us all like fools and is as insulting as a gob of spittle in the face for the voters of Britain.

Well, seriously: what did you expect from the Cyclopean Gobblin' King?

The man has got to go, and so has this government; most of the rest of the MPs have proven themselves untrustworthy and stupid—at best. The only solution is an immediate General Election.

And how shall we force that...?

What were you doing when...?

I have been tagged to do a new meme by Iain Dale. The conceit is quite simple: every few years there is a momentous event and, much like the Kennedy assassination, you will always remember where you were and how you felt.

So, please forgive my somewhat rambling reminiscences and let's kick off with...

• Princess Diana's death—31 August 1997
  
  I had just finished my first year of Microbiology at the University of Edinburgh, and moved into a new flat in the Marchmont area of the city. The other flatmates were incumbents—people that I had met through the Bedlam Theatre—and, though Caro, David, Wystan, Claire and Steve were all a little older than I, we all got on very well. We were all vaguely thespian (apart from Steve) and I always describe that flat as being made up of "a clash of five massive egos—and Steve. I started writing a play based on the characters and incidents in this flat once, but I never finished: besides, it would probably have come out as a larger cast version of Withnail and I).
  
  Caro (one of the founders of Unlimited Media) had written a play called As Good As The Next Man, which, directed by myself and her brother, David, had originally been performed in February (with myself taking one of the roles) and we had just finished performing it again during the Fringe. The performance, and the typical Fringe lifestyle of a month of consistent drinking and late nights (we were all also (occasionally) working, and also reviewing for the Three Weeks festival newspaper) had taken their toll somewhat.
  
  Such was the background to the morning of the crash. Caro had a habit of sitting around in her pajamas and a massive woollen jumper and she was so attired that morning; sat cross-legged in one of the sofa chairs in the living-room cum kitchen, hunched over in a position that I called her "gargoyle pose".
  
  Somewhat bleary-eyed and dressed in a blue satin dressing-gown (that I still possess) and a pair of very old red moccasins (which I do not), I slouched into the kitchen, where Caro—in her gargoyle hunch—was looking even more exhausted than I.
  
  "Diana's dead," she intoned.
  
  "What? Princess Diana? How?"
  
  "Car crash." She pointed at the tiny TV, where the rolling news was reporting every single known fact about the crash—which, at that hour of the morning, was precious little. I watched for a few seconds.
  
  "Oh," I finally said. "Do you want a cup of tea?"
  
  "Please..."
  
  So, I made the tea—mine, as was traditional, in the huge white mug that we called "The Donkey"; hers in the only slightly smaller, pale green one known as "Little Donkey"—and I joined her on the sofa, watching the drama unfold. It was essentially rather tedious: someone who I had considered a deeply selfish, boring, media-seeking tart was dead and, not entirely surprisingly, I couldn't give a shit. But, both Caro and I thought that we should probably remember where we were, just in case people asked: someone was bound to eventually.
  
  My most violent emotion was the disgust at those collecting in London to mourn this dreadful woman: the crocodile tears, the wallowing in this fake emotion, the "whole country united in grief" attitude was, to someone of my disposition, almost unbearably kitsch, maudlin, embarrassing. And over the ensuing days, it only got worse...
  
  It was in that flat, by the way, that I first heard of the concept of bathos.


• Margaret Thatcher's resignation—22 November 1990
  
  I would have been thirteen at this time, and I don't remember the precise moment that I heard about it for I was boarding at Eton at this time. Each House was run like a small independent state, according to the whims of the housemaster, and ours (unlike some) did not allow boys to have televisions in their rooms (we weren't allowed a music system with separate speakers either, until you were in your A Level years). As such, we only had access to the big TV in the prefects' room ("Library" was the name given both to prefects and the room itself, though I do not recall books being particularly associated with either the place or the people).
  
  As such, I believe that I may have read it in my morning paper—everyone took a morning paper: I, following on from my father, took The Telegraph. This paper was often pinched by one of my sport obsessed compatriots who, though he preferred one of the tabloids (I forget which: The Mail, I think) maintained that The Telegraph the best for sports coverage.
  
  I was not particularly surprised: Thatcher's failure to win the first ballot outright had convinced me that she was likely to go—her unpopularity in the country (for even I perceived it) made her continuance impossible with such ambivalent support from her own party.
  
  I was neither thrilled nor disappointed; I tended to support the Tories, but even then I was deeply suspicious of politicians of all stripes. I disagreed violently with the pro-EU Tories (who seemed to me to now be in the ascendant) as I viewed the EU as the most crucial issue of the day (a view which has not entirely left me today) and the prospect of a Labour government was even worse.
  
  I munched on the huge plate of fishfingers which I had served myself, and wondered whether my Physics prep was adequate...


• Attack on the twin towers—11 September 2001
  
  In 1998, I dropped out of university—convinced that Microbiology really wasn't for me, and that a stunning career in graphic design beckoned instead. After a year, the Marchmont flat had disintegrated—the power of the egos, like a collection of similarly charged magnets, breaking us apart and firing us in opposite directions (and we remained essentially out of communication for over a year—even Claire and David, then boyfriend and girlfriend, and now husband and wife, split up)—fuelled by rows over money and pride (and not helped by my very heavy drinking—which was, in fact, bordering on alcoholism. Again).
  
  I found myself living—through a series of coincidences and the help of a rather older girl who I'd been sleeping with, on and off—with a married couple only a few years older than myself. Although I was not drinking so much (mainly limited by a lack of funds), I was smoking gear quite regularly with the husband, in between looking for my dream job.
  
  As it happened, I settled for the first vaguely suitable job that I could get, working in a small printhouse in the south side of Edinburgh. That had actually been a good day: I had become friendly with one of the barmaids in the Greyfriars Bobby pub (another student drop-out who was hanging around the city waiting for her life to start), and I was going out for her birthday that night.
  
  So, when I went for the interview and they asked me "what time tomorrow can you start?", in the expectation of a big night's drinking, I harumphed and made an excuse about having a meeting closing off a freelance job that morning, and could I call them about 1pm? No problem.
  
  We had the birthday party, I got on very well with the girl in question, we kissed and so, by the end of that night, I had got both a new girlfriend and a new job. That was a good day.
  
  By September 2001, that girl had long-gone (another one who couldn't stand my drinking. She's married now, with a child and living in Brussels) and I was, I think, going out with someone else (who's drinking was worse, by far, than mine had been) and the job was beginning to lose its lustre somewhat.
  
  The workplace was split into two—both in terms of the building and the people. The printers, including the boss, were salt-of-the-earth Scots and boisterous. Myself (the designer and Mac operator) and the guy who dealt with the film and plates for the presses, Terry, were rather quieter. Having become bored by Radio One's tediously short playlist and Chris Moyles, we had switched to listening to Radio Scotland.
  
  This was mainly talk radio, and we particularly enjoyed an afternoon programme hosted by Leslie Riddoch; as an interviewer of politicos, Leslie was like Jeremy Paxman in a really bad mood and she was great: listening to her ripping Margot MacDonald to shreds over the MSPs' massive salary rise remains a beautiful moment.
  
  Anyway, it was her show that we were listening to when she suddenly broke off and said that they were getting reports of a plane hitting the World Trade Center. Whether it was an accident or not was unknown, as was the extent of the damage... No! Wait! A second plane has hit the towers! This appears to be deliberate... Oh my god... Terry and I raced through to the print room, where the boys had the ancient telly on, and we started to see the footage, and hear about the other attacks...
  
  Well, it was a bit of excitement, but did it really affect us? Well, I was flying to London that Friday in order to see my brother's band play a gig—although they had been playing around London for about a year, I had never seen them. However, I had left quite a small window, and the banning of hand luggage meant that, after my somewhat epic journey, I arrived at the pub just as they had finished playing their set. It was thoroughly irritating.
  
  I have covered this issue before, in fact; I'm not one to feel lots of emotion for people I do not know and I did not find the whole things particularly upsetting or harrowing. It was simply another big event in the history of the world and what happened next was likely to be rather more important. The event was a catalyst, the first big blow in a war, the first skirmishes of which had been fought in fringe theatres for at least ten years previously.


• England's World Cup Semi Final v Germany in—4 July 1990
  
  I'm not sure if I remember this one or not, to be honest. I remember some England vs. Germany game in which there was a penalty shoot-out. I was at some club in Tunbridge Wells, and I remember people crowding around a portable TV that someone had brought with them. But was it this one? I honestly can't remember—I can't even place it in the context of other events...


• President Kennedy's Assassination—22 November 1963
  
  My parents were 13 and I was not even conceived of. So, unless someone wants to give me hypnotherapy and see if I was living another life then, I doubt that we shall ever know...

So, that's enough of my ramblings: I shall, in fact, nominate another five—of an assortment of ages—to pass this on to.

1. John Redwood MP


2. Mike Rouse


3. Timmy


4. The poor little Greek boy


5. Freedom and Whiskey

Over to you, chaps...

D'oh!

Alerted by Dizzy, I find this rather entertaining photo, at The Daily Dish, taken at a pro-Tibet rally in San Francisco.


Erm... yes.

Coast

One of your humble Devil's guilty pleasures is a little-known BBC2 programme called Coast [iPlayer link]. It's fronted by an ebullient Scot (Glaswegian, I think), Neil Oliver, who brings the almost mystical enthusiasm to the study of Britain's coastline that only a Scot could possibly embue to such a programme.

Coast has been going for some time and, if you want to know just how fantastic and diverse this wee island of ours is, I highly recommend it. They examine local rock formations, industries, engineering, history and culture in a way that makes you appreciate how amazing this country is. (And I fucking love the Scots, as I've said before.)

Watch them—they're just wee fifteen minute shorts; you won't regret it.