I do love Britain. I guess I love England more. London most of all. I hope that in my life I’ve honoured the place I live and not disgraced it or undermined it (I support England and GB in sporting events – I fly a little flag on the car during the World Cup). So I really don’t want to sound like one of those annoying people who can celebrate Britain but only to the extent that it is mixed and polyglot (“food from every continent all on one street!” and so on). I also will not reject patriotism as some kind of moral defect (something for ‘gammons’ or Telegraph readers) or a false consciousness (a malign by-product of capitalism). Patriotism is a profound and probably necessary effect of birth and upbringing and rootedness.
But I don’t have it. It is, from my soul, absent. What am I to do? Will it one day just arrive? Will it land, eventually, on wings or something, in my vicinity, announce itself and then become part of my outlook? So that I might bristle appropriately when my nation is defamed or attacked? Proudly assert Britain’s superiority in matters military, economic and cultural?
I’m sorry to be flippant. This is a serious question. I’m an ordinary human being. I was brought up in a working class household in the approximate middle of England. I’ve enjoyed the benefits of living here for over sixty years. I went through the state education system like everyone else (well, most of us), my loyalty to the NHS is solid. Is there something wrong with me?
For all sorts of reasons I’m receptive to patriotism. But where is it? What has stopped it from lodging in my psyche? What do I lack? I obviously don’t buy any of the really dumb explanations for this sort of thing – I’m not more intelligent than the average patriot. I’m not better-informed or more open to the world or whatever. I have approximately the same intellectual assets as everyone else.
It’s obviously plausible that my broadly left-wing upbringing has brought this about. Mum and dad were both trade unionists, Labour Party members. But dad was in the army reserves ffs. Mum came to Britain from Ireland at 17 specifically to join the women’s auxilliary (ATS). Dad would sob through remembrance services and parades (he’d go out of his way to see a parachute display or a restored Spitfire). And I’ve inherited a lot of this. I’m not hostile in any way to nation or people or land. So where is my patriotism? I’m getting old. It’s overdue.
And I guess the reason I’m interested is because we’re now deep into a period of weaponised patriotism, of furious patriotic denouncements of every category of disloyal behaviour and beliefs. And, of course, of hateful racism premised on a lack of ‘assimilation’ or respect for British customs and norms. I look at the politicians and commentators whose patriotism is prominent, public, proudly asserted and I wonder, what is actually different about us? What caused this fervent love for nation to take root in you and not in me? Can it really just be our somewhat different political perspectives? That seems implausible. Political differences are – by necessity – essentially intellectual, superficial – not deep-rooted, not determined by my place of birth or my connection to this nation. Or did politics somehow short-circuit my patriotism? Divert its energy into something else?
I wonder if my 1990s entrainment with ‘global Britain’, with Blairism (and the tail end of Big Bang-era Thatcherism) – with technocratic politics and end-of-history pragmatism – has in some way neutralised any patriotism that did exist. Did the constant, strident assertion that there was no alternative to the globalised outlook leave me high and dry? A hollowed-out, unpatriotic shell? Likewise, did my later interest in internationalist politics – the whole idea of the Imagined Community and the general disdain for things national, local, parochial – innoculate me in some way?
And is this something I could work on? Should I just make more effort? Study the great patriotic texts? Find an online course? Is there a store of patriotism, a source that I could access? A place to go to tap into my lost patriotism? I’m serious about this too. I never decided not to be patriotic, never consciously rejected it or worked to exclude it. It’s just not there. Is this, in itself, a defect? Is there something wrong with me?
Anyway, I’m ready. If it does arrive I’ll greet it happily. I don’t presently own a flag-pole but there’s room for one out the front.
It’s September 2005; towards the end of the Blair era, a few months into his third term, long after the thrill of the great millennial project has faded, spavined by a series of shockingly bad decisions. The Labour government, re-elected with a much-reduced majority, is unpopular but, somehow, the Tory opposition is even more unpopular. The Conservative party’s leadership campaign is about to begin. One of the party’s ‘modernisers’, an ally of the ultimate winner David Cameron, baby-faced George Osborne, has been appointed shadow Chancellor (he’ll go on to be a ruinously bad actual Chancellor, of course). He gives a speech to a think tank the centrepiece of which is an oddly fashionable fiscal wheeze called the ‘flat tax’.
Young Osborne, with a weapon
Most commentators dismissed Osborne’s idea as infantile, not a serious proposal. Just the kind of gimmick new shadow ministers come up with all the time, especially when they’ve never had a proper job and only been in Parliament since the last election. The FT said, bluntly “…the politics of a flat tax is electoral suicide.”
As usual, commentators read this odd intervention as a diagnostic, the kind of idea that gives you a sense of a person’s fitness for office. They weren’t impressed. It was like something from an undergraduate debating society: “this house proposes that the tax regime that supports one of the largest and most sophisticated polities on earth be thrown in the air and replaced with a scheme the millionaires think would be cool.”
Somehow, as you know, Osborne transcended the flat tax (and various other debating society ideas), found his way into an actual government and wound up impoverishing the nation instead.
The tax
…a single-percentage income tax rate applied to all taxpayers regardless of income.
Investopedia
I could burn a couple of paragraphs explaining the flat tax and its history – but it’s honestly so simple I think I’ll just leave you with Investopedia’s definition (there’s a pretty good Wikipedia entry). The reason I’m writing about it at all is that another sophomoric parliamentarian, this time Conservative leader Kemi Badenoch, has rolled it out again. It seems to be a kind of compulsion on the Conservative front bench when in opposition. It might actually be a kind of cathartic necessity for a recently-defeated party to recycle two or three of the old favourites. Probing the collective memory. A rite of passage?
Kemi Badenoch, apparently on a farm
In fairness, Badenoch didn’t actually write a speech about it. She just answered a question from the floor at a farmers’ event. But she did express some enthusiasm for the idea, as if she were back in that undergraduate debating society. If we’re to read it as a diagnostic on this occasion, it doesn’t look good. Instead of dismissing the idea, providing a bromide about the Tories’ committment to tax cuts, she actually gave it the time of day: “It’s very attractive, but if we’re going to get to that sort of scenario, there’s a lot of work we will need to do first…”, “We need to make sure we rewire our economy so that we can lighten the burden of tax and of regulation on individuals and on those businesses that are just starting out.” Something caused her to qualify her enthusiasm, though, perhaps she remembered her job title or something: “We cannot afford flat taxes where we are now.”
Others have pointed out that Badenoch, six weeks after her election as leader, still seems to be talking to the membership, offering up free-market and culture wars treats to her loyalists while, apparently, forgetting she’s going to need to win an election with ordinary human beings in four years. But there’s obviously an appetite for this kind of idea among the activists, or at least the commentators. Let’s look at this thing:
The project
First of all, it’s important we’re not mugs and don’t get hung up on the obvious, narrow purpose of a flat tax: redistributing wealth upwards. Almost any flat tax will do that because the rate has to be set at a level that ordinary workers can tolerate. Abolishing the higher rates will, of course, produce an absolute torrent of money for the already-wealthy. That’s nice for them but it’s not the actual point of the thing. The larger ideological purpose of a flat tax is to further remove fiscal policy from political control, a core goal of the neoliberal project. This thing has layers.
Nuke it from orbit
This is one of those supervillain situations. The neoliberal overlords observing all this from a cloaked, orbiting space-station cackle when they see the stupid pols act on their instructions. It’s possible that Badenoch and the others advancing this idea don’t know about the orbiting supervillains. They genuinely might not realise that making the rich richer isn’t the policy’s primary purpose. The supervillains, floating around up there, bump fists and woop appreciatively.
Badenoch is not idiot but neither is she an intellectual. It is plausible that she, like other politicians from the free-market right – believes a flat tax really is a simple redistributive measure, tidying up the code, reducing collection costs and moving wealth to the owner class, where it ought to be.
But this policy is lifted directly from the programme of Hayek, Friedman et al – the neoliberal economists who inspired Reagan, Thatcher and their advisers – to shrink the political state in every dimension. In this case to reduce government to a powerless ‘administrator of things‘, collector of a single, tightly-constrained stream of tax income (see also related concept starve the beast).
Democracy is the target
Neoliberals want to limit democratic control of the economy because electorates cannot be trusted not to break things. In their ideal scenario, bolshy, self-interested electors would be reduced to the status of compliant consumers, voting mainly in reality TV formats; the state to a slimmed-down operation that defends the borders and collects the bins and the market allowed to run everything else. Everyone interested in democracy should oppose this – especially populists and popular sovereignty fans. I mean, seriously, It’s a dystopian, technocratic nightmare that capital wants to overlay on democracy, to neuter it. Kind of a final victory.
The flat tax is a persistent idea and, intriguingly, it’s not really a partisan issue. Parties from far-right to centre-left, even third-way types, have bought in (in the US it’s been part of platforms from Dems, GOP and Libertarians). The nations that have adopted it are on a pretty broad spectrum too. In Britain, we learn, while George Osborne was getting excited about the flat tax, the Treasury under Gordon Brown was quietly researching it. LibDem Coalition cabinet member Vince Cable thought the idea of a flat tax had strong public appeal, and – apparently completely misunderstanding the idea – hoped to come up with a version that was also progressive. Classic LibDem. Tony Blair never publicly embraced the idea but was, in his pomp, as he tipped over from political opportunist into weary, messianic world saviour, rather fond of its kooky cousin the Laffer curve. Don’t get me started on the Laffer curve.
Wanna see Rob “When Harry Met Sally” Reiner and Carroll “Archie Bunker” O’Connor supporting Democrat Jerry Brown’s 13% flat tax?
Those supervillains
So this establishment blindness to the actual purpose of a flat tax is material. And it may have something to do with the fact that the people promoting it literally never mention it. You’ll find hundreds of documents like this one from the IEA and this one from the Cato Institute on the think-tank web, all focused on supposed improvements to efficiency and fairness:
The core principles were to tax income at one low rate, to eliminate double taxation of saving and investment, and to wipe out the special preferences, credits, exemptions, deductions, and other loopholes that caused complexity, distortions, and corruption.
In Britain, the Adam Smith Institute supports a flat tax, obvs, although Adam Smith didn’t. It’s entertaining that this paper promoting it, from the Institute named for him, quotes the Adam Smith Institute but not Smith himself, who wrote:
Subjects of every state ought to contribute towards the support of the government, as nearly as possible, in proportion to their respective abilities; that is, in proportion to the revenue which they respectively enjoy under the protection of the state.
Smith’s understanding of the purpose of a progressive system is of its time, of course. We’re two or three levels of abstraction away from a state of nature, most of us no longer feel that we pay tax in acknowledgement of the protection we’re granted by the state (do we? Perhaps unconsciously). The flat tax sets this aside all together, though, deleting the reciprocal relation of state and subject and reducing taxation to a simple penalty for being. No wonder we resent it. So the flat tax is a device intended to kneecap the social state, to diminish the public realm, sever the subject’s connection with institutions and to limit government’s room for manoeuvre.
Countries that currently operate a flat tax fall into two categories: relatively fragile states recently split from larger blocs and tax havens. It would be interesting to know what the economic composition of these states is. It seems likely that few of them have the top-heavy wealth structure of a Western European state or the USA, so the effect of transferring wealth upwards would likely be muted and the positive benefits for people on lower or median incomes amplified. The largest economy on the list is Romania, with a GDP of about a tenth of the UK’s: Abkhazia (10%), Armenia (20%), Belize (25%), Bolivia (13%), Bosnia and Herzegovina (10%), Bulgaria (10%), East Timor (10%), Estonia (20%), Georgia (20%), Guernsey (20%), Hungary (15%), Jersey (20%), Kazakhstan (10%), Kurdistan (5%), Kyrgyzstan (10%), Moldova (12%), Nauru (20%), North Macedonia (10%), Romania (10%), South Ossetia (12%), Tajikistan (12%), Transnistria (15%), Turkmenistan (10%), Ukraine (19.5%), Uzbekistan (12%).
Of course, it’s interesting that the flat tax – the kind of thing the most genius in a gillet will bang on about for hours at the table next to yours in the pub – came up at a farmers’ inheritance tax ‘summit’. These grass-roots movements of business owners often seem to find friends at the oddball end of the policy spectrum.
The Telegraph, instinctively in the flat tax camp, presumably, in a follow-up explainer, is remarkably level-headed about the risks as well as the apparent benefits. Still no mention of the underlying purpose, though.
Tl;dr: Our medical/care system is screwed, governments are all efficiency- and cost-obsessed. They’re fixated on ageing and on the explosion of the ‘economically inactive’ population. This system would like the idea of more people taking the voluntary way out.
Am I being neurotic? My concerns about the assisted suicide bill, currently in the UK Parliament, are not with the risk of coercion by family members or doctors or scumbags of one kind or another – although I’m quite sure this is a real risk.
I’m also not particularly worried about ‘the slippery slope’ or about the risk that old people might want to avoid becoming a ‘burden’ (isn’t that actually a perfectly legitimate reason to go?). My concern is much simpler. It’s about this system, a healthcare system that is less and less humane; more and more obsessed with measurement and control, with efficiency and throughput and the management of shrinking resources.
In this system – this diminished and dehumanised system – the pressure to move the sick and elderly, the incurable and the intractable (the awkward, the unemployable, the unproductive) along the expensive health and care timeline and onto the fast track, onto the slip-road out of here, is already enormous.
My grim suspicion is that there are managers and administrators and government ministers (not forgetting the management consultancies and insurers and private equity firms) who would quite like to speed things up a bit, to increase the system’s throughput, to just slightly improve the ratios.
Thanatology? Just down the corridor
To deliver on this new policy, once it’s on the statute books, NHS managers will have to add death to the roster of treatments available and, presumably, add a Death Unit to every major hospital. They’ll mechanically formalise the process, setting targets and, quite plausibly, tweaking incentives to ‘nudge’ the sick and old onto the pathway. There can be no better way to address bed-blocking in our hospitals than by permanently removing the problem.
This system would like to reduce the pointless expenditure on keeping the sick and the inactive alive and to create in the citizenry – the customer-base, you and me – a new habit – the habit of volunteering to step off this mortal coil a bit early.
Not too early. Just a few months or a year. Barely noticeable, just a tiny statistical effect. But every little helps. Move along now. Off you go. Thank you for your contribution. It’s been lovely knowing you… See ya!
I’m ready to make a small bet that within a few years we’ll see the first ‘Dignity Unit™’ or ‘Goodbye Suite™’ in the grounds of a hospital or a care home. It’ll be all pastel colours and there’ll be a wild-flower garden maintained by volunteers. A minor Royal will cut the ribbon…
This, incidentally, explains why politicians are not freaking out about the fact that life expectancies are now falling in parts of the developed world – including Britain. That looks like a self-adjusting system to these people.
I don’t want to be too pedantic. When people – some of whom are well-informed, even brilliant – become hysterical about the alleged damaging effects of mobile phones, in particular on young people, I know they’re not proposing that we give up on decades of technological progress or deprive our kids of access to knowledge. They’re worried about harm to our children, which is very reasonable. Honestly, I get it. But what is it about these devices that they’re actually upset about?
Is it the portable supercomputer? The general-purpose powerhouse they’re carrying around with them? The device that’s capable of running a complex AI model, shooting and editing a 4K video, translating speech in real time, making a 3D model of your house?
Or is it the universal communicator? The multi-channel messaging device they can use to reach essentially anyone on earth (including you), to share their creations worldwide, to locate and contact practically anyone?
Or the unlimited access to information? The infinite photo album they can flick through on the bus? The continually-expanding encyclopaedia of human knowledge, the inexhaustible library of movies and books? The deep archive of world art and creativity they can access in class or in breaktime?
Of course not. It’s none of these things. What is it then? Well, if you don’t mind my saying so:
It’s the predatory corporations. Excuse me while I state the obvious: the problem is the corporations. And not all of them, either. Just the handful of vast, stock market-listed businesses whose robotic, out-of-control profit-seeking cannot apparently be impeded.
Another smartphone precursor
This is a variant of capitalist realism – the sense we all have that THERE IS NO ALTERNATIVE. We’ve convinced ourselves that, somehow, a modern state – a nation, a people – cannot say ‘no’ to manipulation and exploitation by these huge companies, with their trillion-dollar valuations and their megalomaniac management. It’s a remarkable bind to have got ourselves into. The seventh largest economy on earth – a nuclear power, a permanent member of the UN security council etc. etc. – cannot even try to protect its population from the various depradations of the platforms – from the anxiety and misery they produce to the literal fraud and theft that they enable on their platforms to [insert your own risk here].
Remarkably, in the Guardian, Torsten Bell – a famously clever man, a superlative communicator and now a member of parliament and a junior member of the UK government – cannot imagine any exit from this dilemma better than chucking our children’s smartphones – the most sophisticated technology most of humanity will ever own – in the bin and replacing them with something from an earlier era – from the era, to be specific, before they became general purpose computers.
Steve Jobs called computers bicycles for the mind – capacity multipliers, accessible devices that would amplify the capabilities of human beings in remarkable ways. The smartphone is perhaps the ultimate expression of this vision – a powerful computer you can carry around in your pocket and use to transform reality, create and communicate.
Teenagers wasting their lives on a smartphone precursor
But, for some reason, instead of asserting our sovereignty, expressing the independence and the self-confidence of an ancient democracy, Britain must just cave in, dump the smartphones and surrender our kids to primitive, pre-IT era kit. Here in this advanced economy, in the nation where the stored-programme computer was invented, we must not expose our children to the unlimited possibilities of the computers in their pockets but rather shelter them from the evils of the computer era because we have no idea how to tell these plutocrats to fuck off.
In modern monarchies it’s tricky. The sovereign can no longer send soldiers from town to town to extract funds and, since the end of empire, the plunder route is basically closed off too. In Britain no one pays tax directly to the monarch any more. But many of us do pay rent…
Britain is home to one of the most important monarchies in the world. A big operation with branch offices all over the kingdom and in dozens of other countries that retain affiliate status.
The options for monarchies in the modern period have been limited. They’ve either disappeared all together, withered to an essentially showbiz function or – in a few important cases – retained their absolute power. In the Gulf states, for instance, the royals still run the show. When you’re executed in Saudi Arabia you’re executed by the king. No arguments.
In Britain, though, we have a kind of hybrid situation. The monarch has limited powers under the constitution but huge prominence and a large, although quite ill-defined official role. Right now, Britain’s sovereign is well into his seventies and he’s not been well. Although you might expect him to have chosen a quiet retirement over a full-time job, he’s actually more-or-less constantly on the road, providing figurehead duties and walking along lines of fenced-in royalists seeking cures and indulgences.
And what do you do?
Britain’s is considered to be a relatively modern monarchy. It hasn’t blocked a law in the parliament for over 300 years, showing up politely to open new sessions and taking an essentially deferential public stance towards whoever currently controls the executive. But there’s a tension. The British monarch holds various powers in reserve and there are several privileged back-channels connecting the monarch with government. The head of government is obliged to travel to Buckingham Palace for weekly meetings, for instance, and, remarkably, there’s a full cabinet member whose job it is to safeguard one of the sovereign’s historic estates. This awkward balance is said to be what’s most precious about the British crown-constitutional settlement, the arrangement that guaranteed peace in Britain across the centuries while Europe was roiled by revolution and unrest. But it’s assumed that, were a sufficiently radical government to come to power – perhaps one elected on a republican mandate – the monarchy would be less quiescent, more engaged. In ordinary circumstances, though, the king agrees to stay in his lane.
But the trade-off is a costly one. The British monarchy stands back from the polity – the senior royals have accepted the somewhat humiliating role of constitutional zoo animals (they must smile and wave and never lash out in public) – in exchange for essentially unlimited wealth. It’s not a bad deal. The king is one of the wealthiest men in Britain. Likewise his immediate family. His children and their children will want for nothing and will enjoy cosseted, globetrotting millionaire status for life, whether they choose to get involved with the firm’s official business or not. There are men and women in the royal orbit – people none of us have even heard of – who are millionaires because of this clever settlement with the state. Even errant family members are promised accommodation for life provided they STFU and toe the line.
The present British monarchy, installed on the death of Queen Victoria – the House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha (renamed Windsor once being German became an issue) – has had its ups and downs. The Nazi thing, the divorcee (who was also a Nazi), the uncooperative Sloane ranger, the one accused of sexual abuse and so on. The long reign of Queen Elizabeth II is said by everyone to have largely restored the institution’s reputation but, crucially, also shored it up against future crises. What she achieved, in that record-breaking 70-year period, was to provide a platform for her family – and for her successor King Charles III – to operate freely.
As a result, the present king, brought up in extreme luxury, isolated from ordinary people and indulged since childhood, has a degree of freedom to operate that few of his modern predecessors could claim. His entrepreneurial activity is diverse – both in business and in his official role. He’s able to intervene in nationally-important matters – from sustainability to urban planning to youth unemployment. Many thought that his ascent to the throne would in some way limit his activity beyond the wearing of the big crown, launching ships and so on. They were wrong. King Charles III is an engaged sovereign, a head of state unafraid to get his oar in.
One of the king’s places
All this activity is, of course, expensive. And the official sources of income are under pressure – from public scrutiny, from obligations to comply with legal and financial norms and from tightening budgets. So we shouldn’t be surprised to learn that the king and his eldest son, Prince William, have been developing an additional source of income – previously undeclared – from property owned directly by the two estates they control – the Duchy of Cornwall and the Duchy of Lancaster. There’s no need to provide the detail here (read the story). It’s what you’d expect. Monarchs gonna monarch. But The Times, historically the newspaper of record and the paper thought by the British establishment to be essentially their own, has done some first-class digging and found hundreds of secret leases, adding up to millions of pounds per year of income for father and son (and all with no capital gains tax or corporation tax to pay).
Every monarchy on earth derives its income principally from land (or what’s under it). The king and the prince own land on which a prison, various Royal Navy boatyards, windfarms, the Mersey ferry, NHS hospitals, a scout hut, a mine, pubs, fire stations and a motorway service station are located. We learn from the report that they also own ancient title to various riverbeds, beaches and foreshores and that they claim fees from those who want to cross them or build on them or even moor boats in the water above them – literally the definition of unproductive, rentier behaviour, right? Anyway, it’s powerful new evidence of the parasitic hold that even a modern, constitutional monarchy must have over the nation to which it has attached itself if it is to prosper. And this one is certainly prospering.
Tom Nairn’s Enchanted Glass is the best book about the British crown-constitutional settlement as ‘symbol of a national backwardness’.
In case you’d got the wrong idea about how the ’regulatory state‘ is supposed to work
UPDATED 30 December 2024.
I keep having to update this because regulation and regulators continue to make the news, despite being no more than jumped-up accountants whose main role is to shield the regulated industries from actual political scrutiny. This time, in a genuinely headspinning inversion of proper politics, UK Prime Minister Keir Starmer has written to regulators to ask them for ideas.
Seriously, instead of announcing that he will make use of his huge majority and almost universal public support for reform of the regulatory regime to shut them down or increase their powers or… something – anything, really – he’s meekly inviting the regulators into the policy process. It’s such a profound abdication of political responsibility, such a refusal of political opportunity as to be almost incomprehensible. An admission of defeat made before the battle has even begun.
Anyway, by way of a primer, here’s how regulation actually works:
The present-day regulatory state is not an intrusive government intervention, it’s the invention of the post-war neoliberal economists. It was designed not to protect consumers but to shield capital from democratic control.
Since the 1970s, politicians have eagerly embraced this new regulatory model. It looks competent and technocratic but mainly it protects them from democratic outcomes. Politicians can’t be criticised because they literally can’t alter the behaviour of regulated industries.
In Britain now, for instance, the actual government of the sixth largest economy on earth – a nuclear power, a permanent member of the UN security council – has no mechanism to stop executives from pumping shit into rivers while routing profits off-shore.
When new governments come to power they promise action but this rigid regulatory system doesn’t permit them to do much. Larger fines, tougher sanctions for managers, ‘dashboards’ and so on. Soon, everything returns to normal.
Businesses claim to hate regulation and campaign more-or-less constantly to have it neutered or removed all together, but they can live with it: it’s predictable, imposes manageable costs and doesn’t threaten their operational models (it has the secondary benefit of imposing costs on new entrants, which limits competition).
The actual regulators – hapless machine-minders, junior to the executives they regulate – must reconcile the irreconcilable. They must somehow discipline businesses without materially altering the terms of the agreement that protects them.
When things go wrong it’s the regulators who get it in the neck – asked awkward questions on the TV, called to testify and so on. But this is their job. To absorb and dissipate public anger and frustration. Occasionally they’re monstered in the press or actually fired. Their contracts of employment reflect this risk, though, and there’s always the revolving door.
When it becomes evident that regulators cannot do more than cosmetically alter even the most egregious behaviour of the regulated companies, citizens and legislators get angry and bluster about giving regulators ‘teeth’.
But to give regulators teeth would be to reabsorb them into the state, put them under direct democratic control and give them literal, life-or-death control of the regulated function. Impossible.
Regulation in this system is an aspect of the corosion of civil society that reduces citizens to consumers. In this regime we’re permitted to choose between almost identical management regimes but not to decide for ourselves.
The whole idea of regulation in the contemporary setting is fake, a derisive pantomime of control that inevitably contributes to the accelerating collapse of trust in institutions and to democratic fragmentation.
The position of the actual neoliberals on regulation was, of course, more complicted than this. They believed in the ‘unfettered market’ but at the same time advocated – and helped to bring into being – a complex web of global institutions – GATT (later the WTO), third-party arbitration courts, the EU and a long list of treaties and untouchable, ‘independent’ regulators whose function was essentially to keep elected governments out of their business. Quinn Slobodian’s Globalists is a really gripping account of how this worldwide system came into being and Adam Tooze’s review of the book a good introduction.
…lefties used to say things like “the forces of reaction – the capitalists and their proxies – divide us in order to control us, in order to disempower us and better exploit us. We should work to unite working people, to bring black and white – immigrants and the communities they live in – together, to overcome oppression…” and so on.
And the thing is, of course, this still makes perfect sense. There’s no new argument. Nothing has come along to supercede this worldview (capitalism didn’t become a benign force when it adopted chill-out rooms). Working class communities across the history of capitalism have been divided and set against each other for a reason.
It’s pretty simple: for capital there could be nothing more threatening than a working class that recognises itself in others – across borders and races. Imagine: a single working class – absolutely terrifying for the owner class. Racism is a deeply-ingrained aspect of the system. It’s not an incidental effect of migration, there’s nothing innate or natural about it (and it’s definitely not a pathology of white, working class communities).
And everyone who used to say this kind of thing understood that this would be hard, that persuading everyone that their interests are best served by uniting against the powerful elites that tolerate and encourage hatred and division is a very tough sell. Bringing communities together is hard – and it requires material interventions, not appeals to compassion or fairness or love for others.
More to the point, we can’t ‘fact-check’ our way out this. Explainers, ‘open-source journalism’ and all those forensic investigations of mis- and dis-information on social media can’t help. Only concrete action: investment in housing and public services; community-building (actual human beings meeting each other) – and in democratic institutions – can help.
This will be doubly hard in the teeth of poverty, soaring inequality and a collapsing public realm (plus Robert Jenrick). It would, in any circumstances, take years and huge, focused effort – especially when organisation and solidarity are at a low ebb and the racists are so deeply embedded and so confident.
But, guess what, a new government has just come to power in Britain. And this government has a huge majority and an uninterrupted five years (some people reckon it’ll easily be ten) to act. This new government comes from what is still the only mass political party in Britain and has activists and organisers in every council ward and every Parliamentary constituency on the mainland. It’s, at least in principle, the best possible platform for bringing together an anti-racist coalition, for animating communities and people against despair and hatred.
So far, of course, what we’ve got from the new government is hardly encouraging. I don’t know how to put it. When I’m looking at a contemporary politician – any of them, really, with a few obvious exceptions – it quite often comes back to aesthetics. There’s something so dour, defeated, hedged, circumscribed… about the ministerial mien (and the recently-defenestrated ministerial mien, for that matter), about the serious-face podium manner. I’m sure you know what I mean. I don’t expect the political class to use this scary eructation as an opportunity to roll out a new vision of unity for Britain. I do, though, expect an explicit plan, some enthusiasm for the project, some hope about its outcome (and, honestly, what else have we got to do? Might as well try, right?).
These are desperate times. But they’re also cynical times. Realists dominate. I’m a realist most of the time myself. So I feel like an idiot saying these things: but we’re right at the beginning of a new regime. The new regime is meeting its first big challenge. It has everything it needs to respond. It must at least look like it means it.
In the late eighties I lived in the East End of London and I used to rent movies from a little video shop on the A11 near Bow Road underground station. The routine – you might remember this – involved picking up a video on the way home from the tube and returning it in the morning. But life changed, I left college and got a job. Things got busy and I just stopped going up to Bow Road. Then one day, of course, I found a tape in the VCR, rented at some point in the distant past, waiting to be returned (pretty sure it wasn’t Repo Man).
Anyway, I was aware of the terrible, ineluctable logic of the videotape late fee. Everyone was in those days, it was a fact of life. No tape rental guy had ever forgiven a late fee, there was no such thing as a discount or time to pay or any kind of compromise. These guys looked like soft-eyed dweebs but we all knew they were backed up by brutes who’d come round and kneecap you for the fee if it went unpaid.
I left the tape there in the kitchen for a few days but it was haunting me. I mean the economics of the matter. I couldn’t sleep. Videotape late fees could only go up and they would never stop. I was watching my life disappear into a videotape-shaped void. You have to know, this wasn’t like dealing with the credit card company or the car loan people. There was no reasoning with a video shop, no restructuring, no resort to arbitration.
So one morning, accepting the inevitable, I nervously took it up to Bow Road and handed it to the man behind the counter, quivering, trying to smile. He looked it up in his entirely non-computerised records, noted the rental date, raised an eyebrow and calculated my late fee – a daily sum multiplied by months and months. “Four hundred and ninety pounds” he said. At this point I could easily have cried or fainted or something. That would be at least a month’s wages, several months of rent – a ridiculous, comically-large sum of money for a schlub like me at that point, in my cheap suit.
We looked at each other. I instinctively knew what to do and he apparently did too. I said “okay thanks” or something, turned around and walked out. Be aware: this is not what usually happened. What usually happened was you blanched at the number, hesitated and then got your wallet out and paid up while videotape guy just watched. There could be no pleasantries in that moment, no chit-chat. Nothing at all till after the register drawer was closed.
On this occasion, though, he said nothing; didn’t demand payment, nor shout as I left, nor follow me out into the street, despite the iron law, the terrifying rigidity of the video shop fines regime. He just watched me go. So I treasure that moment. A parable of some kind – the silent agreement, the mutual acceptance of the absurdity of the situation, its irresolvability. I never went back and I never heard from that video shop again. And then, at some point, that whole chapter in the history of media technology closed, VHS tapes became awful, unrecyclable landfill, charity shop poison, undisposable at any cost. History drew a line around that moment in time and froze it forever.
This is a guest post from my friends at Radlett Wire.
Why does Rishi Sunak want us to prepare for war? Why does Oliver Dowden want us to fill the cupboard under the stairs with tins of beans and bottled water?And what’s any of this got to do with a concrete shed in the middle of Radlett?
If you walk up Gills Hill towards the park you’ll pass a lovely bit of green called Scrubbitts Wood and if you look over the gate at the North East corner you’ll see a concrete structure that looks like an old garage or possibly an air-raid shelter. Everybody used to call it ‘the air-raid shelter’, in fact, but recently a handy sign has gone up by the gate explaining that it’s actually a World War Two ‘Report and Control Centre’.
It’s a communications node in the wartime civil defence system. There was probably a telephone line, quite possibly female volunteer despatch riders. It’s not easy to understand why you’d put such an important bit of infrastructure in Radlett but there it is, defying the passage of time, right in the middle of the village.
Structures like this were put up all over Britain during the war, and were part of a huge – and hugely-effective – collective effort to protect Britain during what was unarguably the country’s greatest crisis for over a hundred years. Civil defence during the war was a bureacratic-voluntary hybrid, of the kind Britain is famed for. It’s how we roll, how the whole Empire was run.
The cold war
After the war, of course, began another war. And a modernised, atomic-age version of the wartime civil defence structure came into being. One of its functions was to put the fear of God into us about nuclear armageddon. If you grew up in this period you’ll remember the public information films at the cinema and terrifying fictional visions like Threads and When the Wind Blows. Some of us are still haunted by the chilling Protect and Survive booklets you could pick up in doctor’s surgeries and libraries right up until the dissolution of the Soviet Union.
The end of history
Amiable B-movie schlub saves world
But then amiable B-movie schlub Ronald Reagan implausibly won the cold war. Things changed, of course, and there was that odd decade during which everybody felt they could breathe again. The booklets were pulped, they scrapped the sirens and Tony Blair’s New Labour won the biggest electoral landslide in modern British history. American political scientist Francis Fukuyama famously wrote a book called ‘The End of History and the Last Man‘, published in 1992, in which he proposed that the end of the cold war and the benign economic climate signalled a definitive end to the chaos and conflict of the twentieth century. Liberal democracy had won the battle of the ideologies and would become the unquestioned norm everywhere and forever. Oops. This dreamy mood lasted about ten minutes and was finally finished off by 9/11.
War without end
Americans
And we entered the era of the War on Terror (capital ‘W’, capital ‘T’). The Americans recruited a ‘coalition of the willing’ (you might not remember this but you were definitely in it) and moved onto a war footing, invading Afghanistan and then Iraq. One of those wars became the longest in American history (and both cost the lives of hundreds of British servicemen and women).
The USA is, in fact, legally and politically, still at war. A law passed in 2001, giving the President essentially unconstrained power to make war against enemies, real and perceived, is still in force, discussed periodically in the US Congress ever since but never repealed. Of course, here in Britain we just do as we’re told, so we’re effectively still at war too. The absence of a written constitution makes it much easier for UK governments to tag along with the Americans (as Tony Blair said to George Bush “I will be with you, whatever”).
A century of emergencies
The happy optimists of the last decade of the last century could hardly have anticipated the chaos and drama of the first quarter of this one. A sequence of regional and world financial crises (including the biggest one since the great depression), a hundred-year pandemic, a major European war, a widespread turn towards populism, all overlaid on the building turmoil of the climate crisis. None of this was in the plan.
And the response of the major powers – including here in Britain – has been, in almost every case, to dial up the anxiety, to legislate, to militarise and to take a variety of increasingly authoritarian actions. In an emergency, all bets are off. A government may require us to stay indoors, allow us to protest but without being a nuisance or impose long prison sentences for non-violent action. Ancient rights are suspended and recently-acquired rights are reclassified and unwound. And we can expect more of this as the multi-dimensional crisis intensifies.
But hold on, what’s this got to do with the tins of beans?
Well, Oliver Dowden, in his role as Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, is in charge of resilience (in addition to a long list of other tasks, including oversight of civil contingencies, the COBRA committee and that portrait of the King…). Resilience in this case doesn’t mean bouncing back when your boss gives you a bollocking. It’s more about preparing for climate change, terrorism and war. Dowden’s brief includes flooding, heatwaves, cybercrime, sabotage by state actors and, for some reason, he’s chosen this moment to amp it all up, to dial up the anxiety and ask us to start hoarding pasta and toilet paper again.
Hardly anyone noticed this but in the morning on the day of Rishi Sunak’s surprise election announcement (do you remember it? It was raining) Oliver Dowden announced something else – he announced an inexplicable new web site and a campaign to persuade us all to prepare for disaster. The web site is called ‘Get Prepared for Emergencies’ and it’s a slightly uncanny throw-back to those cold war public information booklets. There are many exclamation marks and a guide to preparing for the worst. You’ll learn how many bottles of water you should buy (three litres per person, per day, FYI), how to prepare your house for a flood and what to keep in the boot in case you need to leave home in a hurry. There’s a checklist to download.
Geopolitical dread
And this all came about a fortnight after the Prime Minister’s oddly dystopian speech warning us about, well, everything. He spoke, at his lectern, of the threat from “…gender activists hijacking children’s sex education…”, “Iranian proxies firing on British ships in the Red Sea…”, “countries like Russia weaponising immigration for their own ends…”, “criminal gangs finding new routes across European borders.” Read the speech, it’s all there: artificial intelligence, trans ideology, small boats, cancel culture, Putin’s ambitions and… nuclear anihilation.” Sunak’s painting a picture here and it’s not a happy one. It doesn’t actually mention alien invasion but we suspect it’s on a checklist somewhere.
It’s hard to avoid the conclusion that the Conservatives have decided their last chance against the inevitability of defeat in July is to weaponise dread, to trigger the entire voting-age population, to reduce us to a kind of quivering electoral jelly, waiting for the catastrophe and hoping against hope that Rishi can rescue us. The logic is that this dread will cause us to cling to the Tories when it comes to placing an X in the box, that we cannot imagine a better way out of this miserable, grinding, 14-year nightmare than to vote for the people who made it.
There’s a kind of contemporary horror movie-vibe to all this. These hollow men in suits, standing at lecterns, informing us in bloodless terms that our freedoms are to be suspended and that our larders and cellars must be filled in case of catastrophe. It’s grim.
Signing the pledge
Meanwhile, Labour, of course, in closely shadowing the Conservative policy offer, must carefully match the beligerance and dread Rishi’s bringing. Yesterday Keir Starmer made it clear that he’s not just going to retain Britain’s nuclear deterrent but double down (in fact the party’s calling it a ‘nuclear triple-lock’, which is catchy). Starmer’s promise is not new. In fact it’s consistent with the stance of all UK governments since 1962. In that year Harold Macmillan and JFK signed the Nassau Agreement, permanently cementing Britain’s dependence on the US military-industrial machine. To vary this relationship would be costly and almost certainly diplomatically impossible. Every Prime Minister since then has acknowledged the geopolitical realities of the North Atlantic compact and signed on.
Under this and most of the subsequent agreements the British nuclear deterrent is essentially a North European branch operation of the vast American one. You don’t need to be a peacenik to feel uncomfortable with this relationship, with the fact that important parts of the UK nuclear weapons system literally belong to the United States government, that Britain’s 58 warheads are considered part of a larger US-controlled pool of weapons, that targeting, maintenance and other aspects of deployment are decided by American generals and that although it might be technically possible for a British submarine captain to launch a Trident missile independently, it would be unthinkable in practical terms and could actually be stopped by a US government with a mind to do so. According to one academic, the UK’s nuclear arsenal doesn’t meet ‘the 1940 requirement‘, meaning it could not be used in a situation when the country stood alone as it did at the beginning of the second world war.
No UK government has ever had the courage to challenge this and the economics of operating an advanced nuclear weapons system – with cold-war levels of preparedness – independently of the USA is so scary that this is very unlikely to change. It’s almost certain that even if a unilateralist government were to come to power (as it nearly did in 2017, remember) it would quickly acknowledge the realities and renew the deal. This unequal relationship is a deeply entrenched aspect of the Atlantic hierarchy. It’s essentially impossible to imagine altering it, let alone abandoning it.
Fear wins again
Captain Dowden is ready for action
Oliver Dowden’s stock of tinned food, Sunak’s dead-eyed scare tactics and the UK’s unvarying committment to the nuclear status quo are all aspects of the same, rigid security orthodoxy and the same increasingly hysterical emergency politics that governs our lives in the developed economies. Fear is a political currency – and when politicians deliberately and cynically mobilise our anxieties it’s a sign of their fragility. It’s undemocratic and regressive and we’re probably stuck with it.
I wrote this to avoid writing about Disney’s big hit of 1946
Here’s another post lifted from my cinema history newsletter GROSS. I’m reviewing the top-grossing Hollywood movie from each year since 1913 and, when I got to 1946, I groaned. It’s Walt Disney’s Song of the South, the biggest movie of the year and a nasty piece of work. I was tempted to skip it or write about something else. I didn’t skip it – I wouldn’t do that to you, reader. But this awkward, maddening film and the fact that, here in the mid-forties, we really do seem to have come to the end of some kind of blessed period in Hollywood, got me thinking about Hollywood periodisation. About how we divide up the chronology of the movies. Read my review of Song of the South.
When I started all this I’ll admit I had a shaky sense of the periods, the eras you read about in the film books and reviews. In fact I’d go so far as to say I was suspicious of the whole idea – I mean all these invented periods – generations, long and short centuries, geological eras, obsessively delineated eras of pop – they all seem pretty arbitrary, right?
And of course I knew all of these tens of thousands of movies were arranged on the timeline somehow but the order was hazy to me. Obviously black-and-white was furthest away and then there were those crazy, headache-inducing Cinemascope blow-outs and then the gritty, urban colours of the auteurs and so on. Along the way there were the other traditions – Kurosawa, Varda, Rosselini, Ray – the Russians, the South Koreans, the Iranians, the British, the South Americans, all the rest.
But now, after feeding thirty-odd annual blockbusters into the GROSS time-machine I’ve got, if nothing else, a much improved idea of the sequence. So, let’s break it down:
“The history of cinema is written by the winners…”
Prehistory (before 1913). Before there was an economic model or even a practical method of distribution. Many beautiful, strange and funny films. The moon, the train, the Victorian variety shows, the street-scenes, the gags.
Poetic (1913-1929). This is where I came in, the first year covered in my GROSS newsletter: it’s 1913 and the industry has just begun recording the rental income of the movies released. The first really big, national hits. The first stars known by their names. Studios are going up fast along the un-paved roads and on the empty lots of Hollywood. Capital is engaged, accumulating talent, converting theatres, funding increasingly ambitious projects. Directors in this period are artists, chancers, entrepreneurs – and often self-conscious modernists. They’re a heterodox lot: painters, writers, engineers, accountants, aristocrats – weirdos of every kind. And the writers, designers, editors and crew around them are cut from the same cloth. It’s a period of constant experiment – creatively and commercially. As a result this period is the source of some of the most beautiful and complete works of art of the modern era. By the end of the silent era cinema is a highly-evolved medium and a huge business.
Golden (1930-1941). Sound changes everything. There’s no going back – to the painterly, the lyric, the surreal. It all happens in a rush. Within a couple of years everything tightens up. Capital is now fully in control, studios and their oligarchs dominate. The poets are (mostly) left behind in their reverie. There’s also the Hays Code (enforced universally from 1934). So now we’ve got ‘pre-code’ as a category to get retrospectively excited about and the forensic work of locating the effects of the code in everything that came after it can begin. But what we also have is a golden age. A sequence of perfect movies in this new, crisp, naturalistic style – romances, razor-sharp comedies, musicals on a huge scale, hard-edged crime and stories about businessmen and tough working women. Melodrama has hardened into realistic depictions of families in crisis, grief and sacrifice – the great depression is an unavoidable backdrop, acknowledged or unacknowledged.
Oh dear (1941-). What’s happened? The war’s happened, I guess. And soon after that it’s television. Boom. Hollywood’s disciplined, hyper-effective golden decade has come to a grinding halt. It’s hard to avoid the conclusion that the absolutely optimal creative conditions of the long 1930s no longer apply. The licence given to the early creators, the urgency and sheer rotational speed of the production routine, the rush of talent into the business. The giant magnet hidden in the cloakroom at the Brown Derby that pulled in literally thousands of geniuses and near-geniuses and genius-enablers – Gable, Stanwyck, Curtiz, Wells, Hepburn, Hawks, Perelman, Davis, Vidor, Von Stroheim, Crawford, Capra, Korngold (ridiculous to try to list them) – seems to have stopped working, even gone into reverse. Hollywood talent is still present, of course, and we’ll see so many wonderful movies in the coming decades, but we’ll also see ‘Mom and Dad’ and ‘Song of the South’.
I should pick up the periodisation when I get a bit further into the sequence – I mean there are many more phases of the project to come – including the long 1970s, which began with Bonnie and Clyde in 1967 and ended, roughly, with Scarface in 1983. To be honest, I’m a bit worried that I might have to vary the approach a bit here, especially as we enter the 1950s, a period Quentin Tarantino wants us to believe is the absolute low-point of Hollywood cinema.
Obviously I asked ChatGPT what brought an end to the Hollywood golden age and I got this predictably bland statement. It does mention anti-trust, though, which is something that hadn’t occured to me: “The end of the Hollywood Golden Age was influenced by various factors, including economic changes, the rise of television, shifts in audience tastes, and the decline of the studio system due to antitrust rulings.”
The GROSS archive now runs to forty-odd newsletters, including a few diversions from the chronology you might like – Dune and Ripley, for instance. All the reviews are also on my Letterboxd.
