Sunday 6 October 2024

The Relevance Today of Dostoyevsky’s ‘Notes From Underground’

 

1.    Introduction & Synopsis

I have a lot of books: so many, in fact, that I have run out places to put them. A year or two ago, I therefore decided that, except on occasions when I particularly wanted to read something, I would not buy any new books but would embark, instead, on a voyage of rediscovery through my existing library: a journey which has already proved remarkably instructive. For while none of the books I have been accumulating over the last five decades or so has changed during that period, I, of course, have, with the result that, on re-reading, some of the books of which I once thought highly have turned out to be slightly disappointing, while for others I have gained a new appreciation.

One such book is ‘Notes From Underground’ by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, which I first read as an undergraduate some fifty years ago and which I thought, at the time, was both strange and fascinating but not one of literature’s ‘great’ works, as I rather grandiloquently chose to categorise certain books at that time. In fact, the only reason I chose to reread it is because I heard Jordan Petersen talking very highly of it in one of his YouTube videos and began to suspect that, as a twenty-year-old, I hadn’t really understood it, which I am now fairly certain was the case.

For those who have not read it, it is a relatively short book of around 120 pages, written in the first person by someone who never gives us his name. All we know about him of a factual nature, therefore, is that, before he decided to withdraw from society altogether and go ‘underground’, as he puts it he was a lowly civil servant in St. Petersburg, whose career never reached any great heights largely as a result of some rather disagreeable aspects of his character. By far the most significant of these is the fact that, while he believes himself to be intellectually superior to just about everybody else and can therefore be quite rude to those of his colleagues he regards as his intellectual inferiors, in many other respects he actually feels himself to be inferior and is very quick to take offence if he feels that he is being disparaged in any way.

One of the character traits which causes him to feel this sense of inferiority most profoundly is his inability to act spontaneously, which he attributes to the fact that, unlike ‘men of action’, as he calls them men who never question themselves but simply act he always questions himself and, as a consequence, often finds himself unable to act at all. This then has the further consequence that he is regularly defeated by men he regards as his inferiors, not in argument, where he is more than capable of holding his own, but in the petty confrontations of daily life, which not only leave him inwardly seething but generate an internal conflict which he is unable to resolve. For on the one hand, he firmly believes that the main reason his colleagues are able to act so freely is because they are stupid and lack self-awareness, for which he despises them. On the other hand, however, there is a part of him that actually envies them and wants to be like them, for which he therefore despises himself.

He also believes that their lack of self-awareness makes them prone to self-deception and dishonesty, which mostly manifests itself in a boastfulness in which they all support each other, thereby compounding the offence. When one of them boasts of his success with a woman of renowned beauty, for instance, far from evincing scepticism, the others merely demand more details. When one of them hints that a person of great power and influence has condescended to speak to him, the others fall over themselves in their rush to congratulate him, despite their obvious envy.

It is the superficiality of their interests and values, however, that really gets under his skin: the fact that all they really care about are the latest fashions and being seen in all the right places with all the right people, all of which, of course, costs money, making their ascent of the civil service career ladder their primary goal, which most of them pursue entirely through the use of charm, flattery and social contacts, while he who believes that he has more ability than the rest of them put together, but lacks their social skills, is consistently overlooked.

So far, therefore, this just seems like a simple case of an extremely egocentric individual who either has no friends because he is so socially inept, or is socially inept because, being so egocentric, he has no friends… or, indeed, a little of both. From what little he tells us about his background, moreover, there is probably a great deal of truth in this. For having been orphaned as a child and taken in by relatives whom he says didn’t really want him and begrudged the expense he caused them, it seems fairly clear that he was not brought up in the kind of familial and social environment which tends to produce well-adjusted young men who are able to fit in and has always, therefore, been a bit of a loner.

However, there is more to it than this, not least because he also tells us that, at one point, he did actually try to fit in and did so quite successfully. He went out drinking with the other clerks in his office, joined in their banter and was generally accepted as one of them. The problem, he tells us, is that it was all an act. He merely watched and listened to the others and then copied them. After a while, however, not only did this become both wearying and boring but he also began to despise himself for it, not only because he was being dishonest, but because he realised that those he was copying were all copying each other, too, and that their own socialisation process their assimilation of common values and accepted forms of behaviour, including their acceptance of each other’s dishonesty and boastfulness consisted entirely of such imitation, which meant that there wasn’t one of them who was authentically themselves. If he truly wanted to be himself, therefore, he could not be part of such a group and had to withdraw once again into his own world of brutal honesty.

Indeed, it is this that explains his lengthy disquisition on free will and determinism in the first part of the book, which, I confess, I did not fully understand when I first read it. I knew, of course, that as a devout Christian, Dostoyevsky was vehemently opposed to the materialism and scientific determinism which dominated Russian philosophical debate at that time and which he saw as leading to the kind of nihilism which would eventually result in the Russian revolutions of the 20th century an eventuality which he accurately predicts in his novel ‘The Devils’ but I couldn’t work out what his protracted discussion of the subject was doing in this particular context. It seemed to me a bit like that lengthy passage in ‘War and Peace’ where Tolstoy breaks off from telling his story about Pierre Bezukhov, Natasha Rostov and all the rest of his huge cast of characters and embarks on what seems to be a wholly out of place dissertation on the nature of history. Having read Dostoyevsky’s work for a second time, however, I now realise that this was completely wrong and that, as we shall see later, his disquisition on free will is actually central to the meaning of the entire book. For the moment, however, suffice it to say that one of his principal contentions the subject is that, if there is to be free will, we cannot always act in our own best interests as the advocates of scientific determinism insisted we must always logically do because that would mean that all our actions could be calculated and predicted and would hence be determined. By acting in a way so detrimental to his career and therefore against his own best interests, Dostoyevsky’s narrator is thus not just exercising his free will but, in a sense, asserting it.

What this also therefore tells us is that, for all his faults and failings, he is not weak. Indeed, it requires a great deal of moral courage to deliberately bring down on oneself all the derision he subsequently takes from his colleagues simply in order to not have to pretend to be something he is not. This strength of character, however, also has its dark side. For whenever he comes upon someone who is as isolated as himself but lacks this moral strength – as in the case of his one friend at school, a boy called Simonov – he tells us that he feels compelled to manipulate and control them. In fact, he tell us that this is the only kind of relationship that gives him any satisfaction, making it a kind of poetic justice, therefore, that it is actually Simonov who sets in motion the sequence of events that ultimately result in his former tormentor deciding to withdraw from relationships with others altogether.

It begins one evening when, on a whim, our hero decides to call on Simonov at his apartment, only to find that he is already entertaining two other friends from school, neither of whom our hero much liked during their former acquaintance and who certainly didn’t like him. What’s more, it would appear from their clothes that they have done considerably better in their careers than he has, a fact which they take no small pleasure in impressing upon him when, under the guise of just catching up, they ask him about his current position. In fact, it is the familiar anger he feels at their barely concealed contempt that gets him into all the trouble which soon follows.

This comes about due to the fact that, before he arrived at the apartment, the three old school friends had been in the process of planning a last dinner in St. Petersburg for a fourth friend called Zverkov, who is now an officer in the army and is being posted to the Caucasus in two days’ time. In fact, they had just got to the point of agreeing how much they should each put into the kitty when our hero interrupts them. So, with the pleasantries out of the way, they naturally return to where they had left off in their discussion by reaffirming that if they each contribute seven rubles, twenty-one rubles should be enough to put on a pretty good spread.

Feeling even further aggrieved by being so conspicuously left out of both their conversation and their future plans, however, our hero immediately responds by asking ‘Why only twenty-one? If you count me in, it will be twenty-eight rubles,’ thereby seeming to contradict my earlier assertion that he is incapable of acting spontaneously. There are, however, a number of exceptions to this rule, the most common of which arises whenever anger or indignation get the better of his impulse control, precipitating ill-considered outbursts which can lead to some very unfortunate consequences, as in this case. For even as he hears himself saying the words, he knows that he doesn’t have seven rubles and will therefore have to ask his boss for an advance on his salary, which, in itself, will result in a significant degree of self-abasement and humiliation. As soon as he sees the look of horror and consternation on the faces of the other three men, however, he knows that he cannot take his challenge back.

When he wakes up to his recklessness the following morning, the stupidity of what he has done is even more forcefully  impressed upon him by the fact that he doesn’t have anything suitable to wear to such a dinner. The collar of his one and only coat is made of a rather mangy and inferior fur and his one decent pair of trousers have a stain on one of the knees. So humiliating is the prospect of appearing before the others so attired, in fact, that, for a moment, he even considers sending Simonov a note to say that he will not be able to make their engagement. At the same time, however, he knows that, if he does so, not only will he have to live with the shame of such moral cowardice for the rest of his life but he will also have to live with the knowledge of the others’ reinforced contempt for him.

With a growing sense of foreboding, he therefore makes the best of what poor wardrobe he has and goes to the restaurant at the appointed time, only to be met with his first indignity of the evening. For without telling him, the others have put back the time of the dinner by an hour, leaving him little choice but to simply sit there and wait for them under what he firmly believes are the derisive smiles of the table-laying waiters. By the time the others arrive, he is therefore already burning with both a shame and rage and persists in expressing his feelings even when Simonov explains that they were unable to advise him of the change of time because none of them had his address. To make matters worse, Zverkov, who was always one of the most popular boys at school and is someone whom our hero has always therefore hated, tries to mollify him by talking to him in an unusually friendly but rather condescending manner, thereby enraging him still further.

With such an inauspicious start, it is hardly surprising, therefore, that the evening goes steadily downhill from there, with insults, taunts and offensive remarks being thrown about on all sides until, eventually, with the dinner coming to an end, there is even talk of a duel. Not that anyone takes our hero’s drunken ravings very seriously; they merely mock him even more derisively and leave him to stew amidst the debris of the meal while they go off to visit their favourite brothel. And if that had been the end of it, nothing further would have gone amiss. Sitting alone at the table, however, our hero notices one of the waiters looking at him somewhat curiously, making him realise that everything that had been said during the dinner would have been heard by all the restaurant staff, thereby putting it into his head that, having been so publicly insulted, honour demanded that he go after his detractors and demand from Zverkov, in particular, an apology or satisfaction.

Fortunately, when he gets to the brothel to which he assumed they were headed, they are not there. Either they have gone somewhere else or they have already taken their chosen girls to individual rooms, leaving him once again to curse his indecisiveness and ineffectuality. He is just about to leave, however, when the reception area is entered by a young woman who, while not especially pretty, has a freshness and openness about her that makes him think that, were he a better man, and were she not a whore, she is just the kind of woman to whom he could imagine paying court: a pleasantly fanciful idea which takes his mind off revenge and leads him to spend what little money he has left on purchasing her services.

The next thing of which he is aware or the next thing of which he tells us is being woken up at two o’clock in the morning by the striking of a clock somewhere, followed by the gradual realisation that he is not alone. Turning his head to one side, he is then even more disconcerted to see her eyes steadily appraising him, fixing him with her gaze until he cannot stand it any longer and has to break the spell by asking her name.

‘Liza’, she says, which, after a few more awkward moments, prompts him to ask her where she is from, what her father does and, eventually, why she left home to come to this place: the one question, of course, which he should never have asked in that, whatever reasons she had for becoming a prostitute, she is hardly likely to want to talk about them. Because he only started asking her these questions to fill in the silence, however, and because he admits that he then became so genuinely interested in her answers that he got caught up in the conversation, he fails to notice that, throughout his inquisition, she has been getting increasingly more defensive and brusque in her answers, until he is suddenly taken aback by the fact that her answer to this last question, why she left home, is the single word ‘Because!’

Realising that he has made a mistake, he rightly senses at this point that he should probably leave. On the other hand, he has had such a dreadful evening, that he is loath to end it on yet another sour note. So he decides instead to try to win back her favour by giving her what he thinks is some well-intentioned and even fatherly advice. So he tells her, as gently as possible, that although she may be perfectly content with her situation today, this is because she is still fresh and pretty. In year or two’s time, however, she will no longer be either fresh or pretty enough for the clients of this brothel and the madam will almost certainly throw her out. Then she will have to go somewhere else somewhere far less  salubrious and the slide to the bottom will begin.

What he doesn’t realise, of course, is that she already knows all this and is thus already living with this dreadful reality. The last thing she needs, therefore, is some fool to lecture her on the subject. As much to shut him up as to express her scorn, she therefore tells him that he sounds like a book, not realising that this is one of the most hurtful things she could have said to him. For that, of course, is precisely what he is: ‘bookish’, which is to say incapable of talking in anything but fully formed sentences or of responding to her as a real flesh-and-blood human being.

Having been stung yet again, however, he now cannot respond in any other way than by going on the offensive. So he tells her in even more lurid detail what her slide to the bottom is going to look like: how she will probably end up in some stinking, rat-infested cellar where no decent man would ever touch her, riddled with disease and dressed in filthy rags; how, when she is eventually found dead, there will be no one to mourn her or even remember her name, because there will be no one who has ever loved her. She will just be carted off, like a piece of rubbish, to be buried in an unmarked grave.

So carried away by his own passionate eloquence does he become, in fact, that he doesn’t even notice the effect he is having her until he reaches his peroration and turns back to see that she has not only been silently crying into her pillow but gnawing so hard on one of her knuckles that she has actually drawn blood. He is so shocked by this, however, that although he knows that he ought to say something to comfort her, he is actually too scared to do so. So, like the moral coward he has suddenly become when faced with a woman’s tears, he hurriedly fumbles around for his clothes in an attempt to make a hasty retreat.

Before he can do so, however, she tells him to wait while she fetches something for him to see: a letter from a young man in her home town, who writes in very ardent terms about his affection for her, which our hero immediately recognises as sincere. What both shocks and moves him, however, is that he also realises why she wanted him to see it: to prove to him that someone does actually love her, not to prove him wrong, but rather because she cares enough about what he thinks about her to want him to see her as more than just a whore: to want him to see her, indeed, as a full human being, capable of both loving and being loved. In so doing, however, she is simultaneously recognising that he, too, is a full human being, one whose good opinion of her is important to her: a recognition which, given the confrontational nature of most of his relations with other people, so overwhelms him that he feels that he has to both acknowledge and reciprocate it in some way. And so, with nothing else to hand, he gives her his address, the unspoken implication being, of course, that if she ever needs him…

The following morning, of course, he is absolutely horrified by this further act of folly, not least because, when he looks around his dilapidated apartment, with its broken down sofa leaking stuffing from one of its seams, he cannot stand the thought of her actually seeing how he lives. For the next two days, as a result, he goes around in a state of absolute dread of her appearing unannounced at any moment. Only on the third day does he start to relax, reasoning to himself that the more time elapses, the less chance there is of her showing up. And then, that evening, as if on cue, she arrives at his door.

Having informed him of her decision to leave the brothel, his initial response is a total blank: he has no idea what to say and so rushes around arranging tea in a desperate effort to buy time. As they sit down opposite each other at the table, however, he still can’t work out why she is there or what she expects from him. Knowing that he has to say something, however, in the end he simply breaks down and tells her everything: about how he is a failure in his career; about how he is a horrible person who is unpleasant to everyone with whom he comes in contact; about how he came to be at the brothel that evening after the disastrous dinner to which he’d invited himself despite despising everyone else present; and about how he’d only told her all those things about her future because he wanted to feel better about himself by making her feel thoroughly wretched.

Expecting her to now feel as much contempt for him as he feels for himself, he is therefore astonished by the fact that when he finally looks up to meet her typically unrelenting gaze, he finds her looking at him not in shock and horror, or even pity, which, in some ways, would have been worse, but with what he clearly recognises as a combination of compassion and love.

At first, he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand how she could possibly love anyone as contemptible as he clearly is. But gradually it dawns on him that it’s because he didn’t try to brazen it out the way he suspects most of the men she has encountered would have done, which is what she really finds contemptible. It’s because he told her the truth and, in this respect, he feels a certain kinship with her, in that they both prefer truth over lies. He even begins to think that once they have been completely honest with each other, they might even have a life together. Indeed, he even starts to fantasise about what that life might be like. But even as he begins to imagine all the things they might do together, he is forced to confront yet another truth. For he knows that once they were in a life together, he would do what he always does: he would start to manipulate and control her. And then she would start to see him like every other man who has ever abused and mistreated her and, eventually, she would come to hate him, the thought of which he simply cannot stand. So he does the one thing he knows she will find unforgiveable: he gives her money… as if she were a common prostitute.

She, of course, all but throws it back in his face, before rushing to the door, leaving him to contemplate the terrible truth that he has not only just thrown away his one chance of love but, very probably, his one chance of a life. In an understandable and wholly typical  moment of weakness, he therefore rushes after her. When he gets out into the street, however, there is no sign of her in the swirling snow. And it is thus with both grief and relief that he knows she is gone.

2.    Deciphering the Symbolism

It is always difficult to distil the essence of an entire book in a brief synopsis, especially when the book in question is as perplexing as ‘Notes from Underground’ often is. If I have managed to convey anything of its strangely elusive character, however, I hope it lies in the sheer complexity of its central character, who is not only full of contradictions as, of course, all real human beings are but is someone for whom we cannot help but feel a certain sympathy, despite all his very obvious faults and failings.

Not, of course, that we should be surprised by this. After all, it is very hard to relate to any character who seems to us a little too perfect. Either we just don’t believe in them or we treat them as one-dimensional ciphers of the kind that appear in both ancient myths and comic books. In order to seem ‘real’ and enable us to identify with them, characters in any form of literature which aims at realism must therefore have their faults and failings. What is unusual about the narrator of ‘Notes from Underground’, is not just how many faults and failings he has but that we still see ourselves in him.

Even this, however, should not totally surprise us. For in a creating a character who embodies so many failings or ‘sins’, as Dostoyevsky, himself, would have undoubtedly referred to them, the author presents us with a reflection of ourselves with which nearly all of us can identify in some regard. Indeed, it’s for this reason that Dostoyevsky does not give him a name. For he intended him to be all of us: ‘Everyman’.

His purpose in creating such a character, however, was not show us how no one is beyond redemption including, therefore, ourselves but rather to show us what we have to do to be redeemed. For in line with his earlier disquisition on free will and determinism, according to Dostoyevsky, redemption is not something that is granted to us or even something that we earn, but something that is actually achieved through the exercise of free will itself. For it is only by deliberately of our own free will sacrificing our own interests to those of another that we transcend the selfishness from which all our sins flow, thereby saving us from ourselves by this very act.

Of course, it may be argued that when Liza offers herself to Dostoyevsky’s narrator, he is not completely acting against his own best interests in driving her away. For he knows that if he accepts her and inflicts himself upon her, eventually she will come to hate him and then he, in all probability, will come to hate himself. Not only do men who exert tyrannical control over their women rarely sacrifice immediate gratification to avoid such long-term consequences, however, but the argument rather assumes what it would have us conclude: that we only ever do good things if they are either in our best interest or if they make us feel good about ourselves. Experience suggests, however, that while doing good things may well make us feel good and may even, at times, be in our best interest, such considerations seldom figure prominently in our reasons for doing them.

It may also be argued that in driving Liza way, Dostoyevsky’s narrator may well be condemning her to the very fate he prophesied in their one night together and is not therefore acting in her best interest. Dostoyevsky, however, would argue that if his central character has free will, then so does Liza, who has already exercised that free will in choosing to leave the brothel. In fact, she has already shown immense moral courage by making this choice, and although her way forward may not be easy, Dostoyevsky would further argue that facing life’s difficulties with free will is what being fully human is all about.

My reason for dwelling on these three key concepts of free will, sacrifice and redemption, however, is not just to further elucidate Dostoyevsky’s moral philosophy and Christian perspective, but also to provide the necessary context for properly understanding ‘Notes from Underground’ itself. For while the book can be read simply as a work of psychological realism which, today, is how it is usually read when Dostoyevsky wrote it, most people would have read it as a Christian allegory. In fact, it is only when one reads it as such that its plot ceases to consist merely of a series of random events strung loosely together by the rancorous impulses of its central character and takes on a recognisable structure. Even then, however, working out the book’s overall meaning, or even just interpreting its main scenes is not easy.

Take, for instance, Zverkov’s last dinner in St. Petersburg, which Dostoyevsky clearly intended to be read as  the ‘Last Supper’. Even though there are only five people seated at the table, however, it is very difficult to work out who is who. Given that it is Zverkov’s last supper, one might suppose, for instance, that he is Christ and Dostoyevsky’s narrator is Judas Iscariot. Not only is Zverkov the vainest and most superficial braggart in the room, however, but it is Dostoyevsky’s narrator, of course, who ends up sacrificing himself.

Then there is the problem of the resurrection that doesn’t actually happen. For when Liza (Mary Magdalene) comes to see the narrator three days later, offering him not just love but life, instead of rising up from the grave, he chooses to remain underground, in his tomb. In sacrificing himself for her, indeed, he seems to choose death, which makes perfect sense in its own terms but is a little difficult to square with the standard Easter message.

Not, of course, that any of this need be a problem for the modern reader. After all, allegories do not have to map isomorphically onto what they are allegories of. In fact, Dostoyevsky actually makes use this formal flexibility by conflating two different biblical events in the book’s last scene, which can not only be read as Mary Magdalene visiting Christ’s tomb on Easter morning but as Christ himself wrestling with his forthcoming sacrifice three nights earlier in the Garden of Gethsemane. Indeed, it could be argued that this second way of interpreting the scene is the more important of the two. For like Christ, himself, Dostoyevsky’s narrator does not want to sacrifice himself it wouldn’t be a sacrifice if he did he simply knows that he has to.

With respect to the meaning of the book as a whole, moreover, it is part of the great richness of Dostoyevsky’s work that it not only has multiple layers of meaning but that there are ambiguities within each layer, with the result that one could probably read ‘Notes from Underground’ a dozen times and read something different into it each time. The real problem for the modern reader, therefore, is not the book’s ambiguity or formal complexity but the far more fundamental question as to why, in the 21st century, we should read it at all. After all, Christian allegories and discussions of free will belong, like Dostoyevsky himself, to the mid-19th century. What relevance have these things for us today? The answer, however, lies within yet another layer of meaning. For while the book can be read as both a work of psychological realism and a Christian allegory, it can also be read as a work of political philosophy, one specifically dealing with the problem of nihilism, which it could be said lies right at the heart of the west’s current cultural malaise.

3.    Nihilism & Mental Health

Anyone who has ever been to St. Petersburg will know that, architecturally, it is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. This is largely due to the fact that Peter the Great, who founded the city, decreed that, apart from St. Isaac’s Cathedral, no building should be taller than the royal palace. Two of the city’s most outstanding landmarks, as a consequence, are indeed St. Isaac’s Cathedral and the Winter Palace, representing Church and State respectively. One of the strangest things about ‘Notes from Underground’ therefore a novel set in St. Petersburg is that no mention is made of either of these landmarks or of the institutions they represent.

Despite being a Christian allegory, no one ever goes to church, for instance, there are no references to Christian holidays or the Christian calendar in general and there are no members of the clergy among its characters. What’s even more odd, however, is that although most of the characters are civil servants, the situation is much the same with respect to government. Not only are we not told in which ministries the characters work or where these ministries are physically located whether in the Winter Palace, itself, or in the surrounding buildings but we are not even told what each of the characters actually does.

Nor are we told very much about the characters’ personal lives. Indeed, it is almost as if they do not have personal lives. None of them are married or have children, for instance, and neither of the two main characters have any contact with any other family members. Like the church and state, the family is thus also completely missing. Because all the characters are either civil servants or soldiers, moreover, none of them are involved in running a business or, indeed, in any form of economic activity which might lead to greater prosperity in the future. In short, all of the institutions which would normally lend purpose and meaning to people’s lives the church, the state, the family and purposeful economic activity are absent.

If one knows anything about Russian history, what is even more remarkable is that none of the characters appear to have any political views, the absence of which is particularly odd in a Russian novel published in 1864, just eight years after Russia’s catastrophic defeat in the Crimean war, which not only reduced the country’s influence abroad but led to increasingly strident calls for reform at home, culminating in  the publication of ‘What is to be done?’ by Nikolay Chernyshevsky in 1863, to which ‘Notes from Underground’ is effectively Dostoyevsky’s reply. Instead of having his characters debate the many issues raised in Chernyshevsky’ book, however, Dostoyevsky chooses to deliver his repost by simply presenting us with a world in which the only values that exist are those which flow from the scientific materialism Chernyshevsky advocated. Look, he is saying, this is what you get if you abandon all traditional values in favour of this entirely materialist world view: a world in which the only things people care about are being seen in the right places with the right people in order to make the necessary social contacts to progress their totally empty careers and so make lots of money. The result is that most of the characters are completely empty shells who spend most of their time whoring, drinking and boasting about how well they are doing materially.

What this tells us, therefore, is that ‘Notes from Underground’ is not really about Russia in 1864; it’s about what Dostoyevsky thought Russia might become if it went down a particular road and what Britain and most of Europe has actually become in the last half century or so. Just look at the UK. Church attendance has been declining steadily since the 1960s and is now largely the preserve of a rapidly disappearing generation of baby-boomers. Love of country is generally derided and anyone who expresses any form of nationalism is increasingly liable to imprisonment for racist ‘hate speech’. With a fertility rate of less than 1.5, families are getting smaller and smaller, with many people choosing not to get married at all, most couples only having one child, and many children finding themselves with only one parent. Last but not least, most of our industry has fallen to foreign competition, many if not most of our young people choose to study for degrees which do not lead to any gainful employment and anyone who learns a trade or tries to start a small business is hobbled by taxes and bureaucratic regulations.

Even if our largely materialist approach to life has thus led to a decline in many aspects of life which we used to regard as important, this does not mean, of course, that the quality of our lives has necessarily been diminished. After all, most people today would say that, given the choice, they would much prefer to be living now, in the 21st century, with all it material benefits, than in the 1950s, when the standard of living was much lower. ‘Standard of living’, however, as measured in economic terms, is not the same as ‘quality of life’ as measured in terms of our wellbeing, including our mental wellbeing, which, according to most of the available the evidence, has deteriorated significantly in recent years, especially among the young. According to data collected by the American College Health Association, for instance, between 2010 and 2018, the percentage of US undergraduates diagnosed with anxiety increased from roughly 10% to nearly 25%, while the increase in those diagnosed with depression rose from 10% to 20%.

That’s not to say, of course, that this deterioration in our mental health can be directly attributed to a decline in traditional values. Indeed, that would be a very radical claim to make. Without the institutions of church, state and the family to foster and pass on traditional values, however, the main source from which we now acquire our values is, of course, the media, which, in the case of most young people, largely means social media, where how one looks, what one wears and how one thinks are collectively determined by the various social and cultural groups to which one subscribes and which act very much like echo or mirroring chambers. In ‘Freedom & Identity’, in fact, I actually compared them to murmurations of starlings ‘those vast flocks of birds which gather in the autumnal twilight, darting one way and then the other, continually morphing into different shapes before settling on a particular roost for the night’ the fundamental similarity between the two being that, within these formations or social groups, there is no single agency that determines the group’s movements, every single bird both influencing and being influenced by the others.

While this may sound invitingly democratic, however and much to be preferred to a society governed by fixed and immutable rules one of its most common effects is just the kind of mob rule described in ‘Notes from Underground’, where the narrator is ostracised by his colleagues because he does not conform to the group ethos. The only difference is that, on the internet, the pressure to conform is made even greater by the need felt by so many of us to make our lives meaningful by chronicling them in both words and pictures for public consumption, thereby laying ourselves open to the disapproval and even ridicule of others. This, in turn, then leads us to present only the most idealised version of ourselves to the world, which, in itself, is not just a cause of self-deception and dishonesty but of anxiety, in case we slip up and post something on social media we should not, which, given the ever-shifting sands of public opinion, is always a possibility.

Not, of course, that we can be sure that our addiction to social media is the sole or even primary cause of the documented increase in cases of anxiety or that there may not be other contributing factors. According to American psychologist Jonathan Haidt, however, in his latest book ‘The Anxious Generation’, the one change in our environment which correlates most closely with the increased diagnosis of anxiety is the increased use of smartphones to access the internet, which not only facilitates an increase in the use of social media but of other online applications as well, all of which take time away from real life social interactions and therefore inhibit normal social development among the young, especially during puberty.

Haidt emphasises this latter point because, at a time in their lives when young people are or should be going through a major phase of resocialisation, establishing new forms of relationship, not just with the opposite sex but with their parents and society as a whole, not only are many of them side-tracked into solitary activities such as playing computer games, but what little interaction they do have with each other is now very often mediated by the smartphone screen. Instead of dealing with each other face to face, they communicate through texts and selected images which actually erect a protective barrier between them, not only fostering a defensive dishonesty it being a lot easier to lie to someone if one is not actually facing them – but preventing them from taking the visual clues from each other that would normally lead to them bringing their behaviour into line with what is socially acceptable.

This then not only makes them prone to social blunders, but hesitant and unsure of themselves in social situations, with the result that they then try to avoid social interaction as much as possible, making them even more socially inept and anxious when forced into dealing with others at a personal level, all of which chronic conditions are, of course, exhibited by the narrator of ‘Notes from Underground’.

What this tells us, therefore, is that it is not smartphone technology, itself, that is the real problem. The technology merely gets in the way and prevents something from happening that needs to happen. The real problem, as Haidt himself admits, is a failure of socialisation, which, for the individual, often starts well before puberty during the first phase of socialisation in childhood, in fact while for us collectively, as a society, it actually started long before the introduction of smartphones, back in the 1980s, when, for reasons to which I shall return shortly, parents in the English speaking world, in particular, began to restrict the amount of time their children spent in unsupervised outdoor play.

The significance of this is that it was during unsupervised outdoor play that the children of most previous generations learnt, not just how to get along with each other, but how to hold their own in the rough and tumble of childhood competition, which is an equally important part of the socialisation process. The question, therefore, is why parents started placing these restriction on their children during the 1980s. And it is here that I think Haidt gets it wrong. For despite the lack of any statistical evidence to support his hypothesis, as Haidt himself admits, he primarily attributes the imposition of these restrictions to media-fuelled fears for children’s safety. Having been the father of small children myself during this period, however, I believe that there are two far more plausible explanations as to why children experienced far less free association from the 1980s onwards than they had previously enjoyed.

The first of these is the reduction in the size of the average family, which, in itself, of course, would have had a negative effect on children’s socialisation. In fact, when I was growing up, it was simply accepted as matter of fact that an only child was more likely to be a problem than a child with multiple siblings. For not having learnt to play with other children at home, such children nearly always expected and demanded far more attention from adults. They also tended to have a problem with such social niceties as sharing, about which the parents of large families were usually extremely strict, not least because children who didn’t share and ‘play nice’ caused friction and hence disruption throughout the entire household.

The mothers of large families also had more incentive to encourage unsupervised outdoor play. When I was a child, for instance, mothers would tell their children to go out and play simply to get them out from under their feet.

The second reason why children had far less unsupervised play from the 1980s onwards, however,  is that, by then, most mothers went out to work, leaving their children with a child minder or at some form of kindergarten, both of which were paid to supervise the children in their care, which usually entailed organising activities to keep them busy and entertained while stopping them from fighting. Instead of allowing them to devise their own games and sort things out between themselves, a supervising adult was thus always there to do it for them, thereby preventing them from learning the necessary social skills that would put them at ease socially when entering the next phase of socialisation during puberty.

The result is that many teenagers today much prefer texting or responding to posts on social media than talking to each other face to face and, even then, tend to congregate in online groups of like-minded individuals who support rather than challenge each other. This, however, creates a vicious circle in which anyone who makes them feel uncomfortable is excluded from the group, thereby making them even less able to deal with challenging situations. Indeed, it is this that Jonathan Haidt believes has led to students demanding safe spaces on college campuses, where the problem simply continues in a downward spiral in which these same students then demand protection from just such people as Jonathan Haidt, whom they see as a threat precisely because he and other psychologists such as Jordan Petersen understand what has gone wrong in these students’ lives, to which the victims themselves, of course, do not want to admit, in that that would present them with just the kind of challenging situation they want to avoid.

The problem with this kind of avoidance strategy, however, is that it makes those who adopt it unfit for almost anything in life. For not only are they plagued by anxiety that someone will eventually burst their protective bubble but, trapped inside it, they inevitably become self-absorbed, overly self-conscious and totally selfish, just like the narrator of ‘Notes from Underground’. Of course, they will deny this, especially the idea that they are selfish, citing their adherence to such selfless ‘causes’ as saving the planet and fighting racism. Not only will none of these causes every really demand anything from them, however, but they are all just sticking plasters designed to disguise the fact that those who pursue them have no real purpose of their own, being especially unfit for that which, throughout history, has given more people purpose and meaning in life than anything else: the raising of a family.

Indeed, it is for this reason that the decline of the family is almost certainly the most destructive of all the consequences which nihilism produces. For while a loss of belief in either one’s religion or one’s country are essentially intellectual and may therefore be reversed by a change in the direction of public opinion and sentiment, the reduction in the size of the family, which many people voluntarily chose in the 1980s because of the freedom and material benefits it brought them, has now produced a generation of young people who are having even less children, not primarily out of choice, but simply because they are ill-equipped to be parents, a state of affairs which is not so easily reversed.

Indeed, it raises the question as to whether we have already gone too far down this road for there to be any way back for us: a question which one can only really approach historically by asking whether any country has ever recovered from such a morally degenerate state. Rather surprisingly, however, the answer is yes! What’s more, the country in question, of course, is Russia.

4.    The Way Back

Dostoyevsky had three main fears with respect to Russia’s embrace of scientific materialism and the kind of social reforms demanded by Nikolay Chernyshevsky in ‘What is to be done?’ The first was that these reforms would be undertaken for the wrong reasons.

Take, for instance, the abolition of serfdom, which no one today would question if it simply meant freeing people to live lives of their own choosing. And, indeed, this was at least part of the intention when the first major round of land reforms was introduced by Pyotr Stolypin after the failed revolution of 1905. In order to reduce disaffection amongst the peasantry and also increase food production, his government instituted a scheme in which small farms of up to 8 acres or 3.2 hectares were awarded to those serfs deemed capable of running them effectively. This, however, was not the intention of Nikolay Chernyshevsky, who advocated the abolition serfdom simply because it kept people tied to the land when they could be more productively employed in industry. His intention was rather to boost industrial production so as to compete more effectively with Britain and France and thus avoid another humiliating defeat of the kind experienced in Crimea.

In fact, it was for this very same reason that, twenty-five years later, Stalin actually abolished the small independent farmers, known as Kulaks, whom Stolypin had created: because he wanted to concentrate Russia’s resources on further rapid industrialisation and thought that food production would actually be increased by herding the Kulaks onto collective farms where, of course, all the incentives they had previously had to produce more food instantly evaporated. With industrial centres still remaining the priority when it came to supplies of food, the result was a catastrophic famine in the country’s main agricultural regions in which between 5.7 million and 8.7 million people died.

For neither Chernyshevsky nor Stalin, therefore, did the abolition of serfdom have anything to do with giving people freedom; it was all about engineering a more efficient economic machine in which people were mere cogs to be deployed as those in charge saw fit.

Dostoyevsky’s second fear was that although many people would go along with these attempts to engineer a functionally perfect society especially those at the top who benefit materially from this arrangement, like most of the characters in ‘Notes from Underground’ there would be others who, valuing age-old customs and traditions, would have to be coerced or even forced into compliance, and even then there would be some, like the narrator of ‘Notes from Underground’, who would refuse out of pure contrariness. Unlike his narrator, however, who is merely ostracised for his refusal to go along with everyone else, Dostoyevsky knew that, in the real world, run by social engineers who would have little regard for cogs that didn’t fit, such obduracy could well be treated far more harshly.

His biggest fear, however, was that those behind the reforms would use them to appropriate power for themselves, not just in order to obtain the material benefits which generally flow from holding power, but because, in a world stripped of everything else of value, power would be all that was left to give life meaning. I say this because while, today, it is mostly celebrity that makes one a ‘somebody’ rather than a ‘nobody’ driving even those in power to act more like celebrities before the age of mass media, it was power alone that had this power. For whether out of love or fear, it was to those in power that others looked up, thereby actually conferring power upon them, the circularity of this relationship being most perfectly demonstrated by Nikolay Stavrogin, the leader of the band of anarchists in ‘The Devils’, who does not actually believe in the anarchist cause or, indeed, in anything at all except power, which he is able to wield both because of the force of his personality and because this in itself makes the others look up to him.

Mercifully, none of Dostoyevsky’s fears were actually realised in his lifetime. It was thirty-six years after his death before the Soviet Union set about building its perfect utopian society from which all human faults and failings would be eliminated. The problem was, of course, that, like the narrator of ‘Notes from Underground’, all human beings have their faults and failings it’s what makes us human and when we cannot be redeemed by either reason or force, reason itself dictates, therefore, that we, ourselves, must be eliminated. The inevitable result was that ten million Russians ended up being worked and/or starved to death in forced labour camps in some of the most inhospitable places on earth, most of them on the orders of a man who had risen to power on the sheer ruthlessness of his preparedness to use it, the murder of ten million of his fellow countrymen being a small price to pay for his consequent immortality.

Having descended to such nihilistic depths, indeed, one wonders how the Russians could have ever got themselves out of it. The answer, however, does not make for easy reading. For while the collapse of Soviet Union was largely precipitated by the increasing failures of it centrally planned and hierarchically managed economy, the most catastrophic consequence of the country’s subsequent political disintegration was that its already fragile economy then totally fell to pieces. For with too few people on the ground used to acting on their own initiative, when instructions stopped coming down from above, everything just ground to a halt: parts weren’t delivered to factories, food wasn’t delivered to shops and despite a rapidly growing black market – run largely by criminal gangs who drove up prices beyond what most people could afford – people began to starve.

During the 1990s, average life expectancy actually fell by five years, which may not seem very much but is really quite extraordinary. For while higher mortality rates during this period were certainly skewed towards certain age groups – the very elderly, for instance – given that a fall in average life expectancy of five years in a population of around 120 million amounts a total expected loss of 600 million years of life across the population as a whole, this burden cannot have fallen solely on the very old. Indeed, there were premature deaths across every age group, from the very old to the very young, with a lot of young people actually committing suicide.

Nor was the situation ameliorated to any great extent by western aid, which was mostly directed towards the privatisation of previously state-owned industries through the provision of loans to those managers and officials who were in a position to buy and run them. The problem was that, even including a $2.5 billion aid package from the USA, the collective west could not provide enough such loans to privatise the entire Russian economy at its true worth. The result was that most state-owned industries were sold off at massive discounts. In 1995, for instance, Boris Berezovsky and Roman Abramovich, two of the most well-known beneficiaries of this bonanza, bought the state-owned oil company Sibneft for $200 million. Ten years later, Abramovich sold his share of the company alone for $13 billion.

With such huge fortunes to be made from what was effectively the looting of Russian state assets, this then set off a huge wave of corruption among the officials administering the sales. For if a purchaser wanted his bid for a business to succeed, there were often dozens of palms to be greased, with sums running into millions. Nor was it just Russians who were involved. Western corporations also now descended on Russia in order to buy up Russian businesses on the cheap. And while it was the Russian state which garnered the proceeds from these sales, there was hardly a single person in government who wasn’t getting rich.

From the perspective of those in the US administration who subscribed to the Wolfowitz Doctrine that Russia should never again be allowed to rise to the status of a super power the chaos into which Russia consequently descended, both as a result of this widespread corruption and the consequent lawlessness to which it gave rise, must have seemed like the perfect solution, explaining in no small measure why they so fervently supported the alcoholic and totally incompetent Boris Yeltsin who, as president, presided over this dystopian nightmare. For the ordinary Russian citizen, however, it was as close to hell on earth as it could possibly have got.

In a twist of fate which Dostoyevsky would have almost certainly attributed to divine intervention, however, in his last year in office, Yeltsin did something so uncharacteristically thoughtful and judicious that it almost redeemed his entire presidency. For in August 1999, he appointed the relatively unknown but highly intelligent, fiercely patriotic and utterly incorruptible Vladimir Putin as his Prime Minister, thereby paving the way for him to become President the following year when Yeltsin, himself, retired.

Nor did Putin waste any time in beginning the task of cleaning up the mess Russia was in and going after those he deemed responsible. His first target was Mikhail Khodorkovsky, who had purchased Yukos Oil under the US ‘loans for shares’ deal and was thought to be worth around $50 billion, making him the richest man in Russia and the perfect candidate for the example Putin intended to make of him. For in what was clearly intended as a message to all the other so-called oligarchs who had plundered Russia’s wealth, he not only had Khodorkovsky arrested, tried and imprisoned for fraud and tax evasion but then had Yukos Oil sold off at a price so low that the proceeds only just covered its former owner’s unpaid tax bill, thereby leaving him with absolutely nothing.

Fearing that they would be next, many of the other oligarchs, including Boris Berezovsky and Roman Abramovich, consequently fled to London, where their billions were welcomed with open arms by the City’s banks, but where they were constantly followed and harassed by the FSB in what was clearly part of a well worked-out plan. For instead of going after those oligarchs who remained in Russia in the way he had dealt with Khodorkovsky, Putin offered them a deal in which they would be allowed to keep their ill-gotten gains as long as they made annual, ‘voluntary’ contributions to the Russian treasury, an arrangement which even those in London were eventually forced to accept if they wanted to avoid spending the rest of their lives looking over their shoulders.

His next target was Viktor Chernomyrdin, a former Prime Minister under Yeltsin, whom Yeltsin had appointed chairman of Gazprom, the massive state-owned energy company which had been set up by the Soviet Union in 1965 in order to exploit Russia’s huge reserves of natural gas. So large were these reserves, in fact, that there was no chance of any one single person or even a consortium buying the company as a whole. When it came to privatization, therefore, it was decided that 15% of the shares should be given to the corporation’s employees, 45% sold to the general public with 747,000 people taking up the offer while the remaining minority stake of 40% would be kept by the state. Given the atmosphere of rampant corruption at that time, however, it didn’t take long for the board of directors, including the chairman, Viktor Chernomyrdin, and the Chief Executive Officer, Rem Viakhirev, to start channelling funds and assets to other gas trading companies owned by themselves or their families, with the result that the shareholders, including the state, never actually received any dividends.

Putin’s first step, therefore, was to replace Chernomyrdin and Viakhirev with Dmitry Medvedev and Alexei Miller, both of whom had worked for him in St. Petersburg and were part of a small but growing team of trusted and able individuals whom Putin has collected around him over the years and which has been a vital factor in Russia’s recovery. He also made Gazprom a ‘National Champion’: one of a small group of companies which, while still public corporations, were selected to work alongside government in rebuilding the Russian economy. In fact, Gazprom has probably played as big a role in this as the government itself, becoming the world’s largest producer of natural gas and building a network of pipelines spanning thousands of miles in order to supply customers in both Europe and Asia. As such, it has more or less come to symbolise Russia’s industrial transformation from corrupt basket case to economic superpower over the last twenty-five years.

Nor is natural gas the only commodity in which Russia is now a world leader. Under Putin’s stewardship, it has also become the world’s largest exporter of ammonium nitrate fertilisers, its second largest exporter of wheat and its fourth largest producer of nickel, as well as being among the world’s top ten exporters of iron and steel, aluminium, uranium, oil, corn, soybeans and copper. By the time of its invasion of Ukraine, in fact, Russia had become the biggest exporter of commodities in the world and, despite western sanctions over the war, its economy is still expected to grow by around 3.2% this year.

The real significance of this economic transformation, however, is not just that Russia now has the economic strength to withstand almost anything the west can throw at it, but that after the terrible years of the 1990s, when many Russians actually lost faith in their country, Russians now have a new self-confidence which is probably greater than at any time in their history.

However, it is not just economic resurgence that has had this effect on how Russians feel about themselves and their country. Another important factor has been the revival of the Russian Orthodox Church, which, despite having been suppressed under communism, managed to survive, not only because it always had friends in various parts of the establishment, but because, for many Russians, attending covert church services constituted one of the few ways in  which they could defy Soviet rule. The result is that most Russians today have immense respect for the Church, not only because it was always there for them, even in their darkest hour, but because it is also now seen as both a repository and expression of Russian culture and tradition, the Church and State having once again come together to form a new Russian nationalism.

In fact, the only institution in Russia which still hasn’t fully recovered from its lost decade is the family. This, however, is largely due to the fact that it wasn’t just average life expectancy that fell during the 1990s but the national birth rate, with so few children being born that there are now fewer women of child-bearing age than would normally be the case in a population of this size, with the further result that the current birth rate is also abnormally low.

There are, however, a number of positive factors that would indicate a possible recovery in the birth rate in the near future. One of the most important of these is the continuing popularity of marriage, with nearly twice as many people per thousand getting married each year in Russia as in the UK, for instance. Even more significantly, most Russians still believe that the primary purpose of marriage is to provide a socially and economically stable environment for the raising of children. Given the economic recovery of recent years, this has led to a far more confident attitude towards having larger families, which is supported by both the Church and the State: the state providing substantial tax breaks and benefits for couples with more than one child, while the Church constantly champions family values in its teaching.

In fact, it is the way in which these three pillars of Russian society the Church, State and Family all support each other that has almost certainly been key to Russia’s successful recovery. The country’s economic resurgence has of course played a major part particularly in making families economically secure enough to have more children but without the faith of ordinary people in their country’s future, along with their consequent willingness to work for that future, it is questionable whether Russia’s economic transformation would have been as rapid and as all-pervasive as it has been.

The key to all of this, however, as Dostoyevsky understood, is that people first have to believe that there is more to life than mere material benefits. Our problem in the west is that most of us, today, do not. In the UK in particular, for instance, we don’t believe in our country. Not only do we not believe that we will ever again be as economically successful as we once were, but we are actually ashamed of our previous economic success, denouncing our former selves as industrial polluters and colonial racists. What’s more, our country does not believe in us. It doesn’t care that we have stopped having children, for instance, because it believes that we are fungible and can be replaced by cheap immigrants. Worse still, we believe it, too, and no longer care that, by the end of this century, those who have been the native inhabitants of these islands for the last thousand years or so will have become a minority in their own country. Indeed, it’s another reason why we’ve stopped having children. It’s not just because we can’t afford the and are no longer equipped to be parents; it is also because we see no future for them.

That’s not to say, of course, that for us there is no way back. When economic adversity strikes, however, it will be much harder for us to withstand it than it was for the Russians in the 1990s, not least because, when the material benefits dry up, we will have far less to fall back on. Worse still, stuck in our materialist mind set, we will almost certainly continue to seek materialist solutions to our problems, unable to understand that, for a society to be materially sound, it first has to be morally sound. And it is our inability to comprehend this that is probably our biggest problem. For even if some billionaire philanthropist were to distribute copies of ‘Notes from Underground’ all across Britain, it is highly unlikely that many people would actually understand it, raising the question, therefore, as to whether the book really is relevant to us today: a question which, in itself, is more than a little disheartening.

Tuesday 13 August 2024

The Death of Democracy

 

1.    A Change in the Political Culture

In this year’s UK general election, the victorious Labour Party received 33.9% of the popular vote 9,660,081 votes in total compared to 32.1% of the vote in 2019. In contrast, the Conservative Party’s share of the popular vote fell from 43.6% in 2019 to just 23.6%: 6,755,953 votes in total.

What this tells us, therefore, is that its wasn’t so much that Labour won the election as that the Conservatives lost it, with nearly half of their former voters deserting them. Some of these former voters around two million simply didn’t vote at all: a level of abstention reflected in the overall turnout, which, at just 60%, was down 7.3% from 2019, making it the second lowest turnout in history. A much larger proportion, however, voted instead for the newly formed Reform Party, which received 4,072,947 votes in total, or 14.3% of the popular vote.

What this also tells us, therefore, is that this mass defection of former Conservative voters was not due to them becoming disillusioned with the underlying principles of conservatism. After all they did not defect to the Labour Party, which, despite winning nearly two thirds of the seats in the House of Commons and increasing its share of the popular vote, did so on a reduced turnout and also actually lost votes. Those former Conservative voters who did not simply abstain defected rather to the Reform Party, which is generally regarded as being more conservative or ‘right wing’ than the Conservative Party, strongly suggesting, therefore, that the disillusionment of former Conservative voters was not with conservatism, itself, but with a party which, over the last fourteen years in office, has not been conservative enough, if indeed at all.

If it has thus been the Conservative Party which has changed in recent years rather than its supporters this therefore raises the question as to how and when this change occurred. For the one thing that is fairly certain is that it didn’t happen overnight. Nor did anyone ever announce that the party was changing in the way that Tony Blair announced the creation of New Labour at his party’s conference in 1994. It was that event, however, which almost certainly set in motion the process by which the Conservative Party was also forced to change. For when Tony Blair transformed the old Labour Party into New Labour, he didn’t just change the Labour Party, he changed the entire culture of British politics.

I say this because while, before then, the British political landscape had been dominated by the same two parties as today – the Conservative and Labour Parties – each of them was based on a far more clearly defined and distinctive political philosophy. The Conservative Party believed in free market economics, fiscal rectitude, love of country and the centrality of the family in providing both social cohesion and social support. The Labour Party believed in the state ownership of industry, central economic planning and the state provision of a whole range of public services as well as a basic level of social security.

The most important thing to understand about those holding to these opposing philosophies, however, is that while each party naturally appealed to different sections of society – the Conservatives to the middle class, the Labour Party to the working class – they both nevertheless believed that their political philosophy was best for the country as a whole. The Conservatives quite genuinely believed that free market economics was the best way to promote the wealth, wellbeing and freedom of everyone, while the Labour Party not only believed that a centrally planned economy could be more efficient and productive than a market based economy but that the redistribution of wealth through the state provision of free social services would produce a fairer and therefore happier society. Both parties were therefore able to present their vision for the country with absolute sincerity and simply allow the voters to choose between them.

That all changed in the 1990s, however, when, after two decades of industrial decline and inflation under Labour in the 1960s and 70s, followed by two decades of recovery and growing prosperity under the Tories during the 80s and 90s, Tony Blair realised that the old Labour Party, with its traditional socialist ideology, could never win an election gain. He therefore decided to remake the old Labour Party as New Labour, the defining characteristic of which was a blend of free market economics and state run public services, the exact proportions of this combination to be determined by the voters, themselves, through the extensive use of focus groups. In short, it was the application of modern marketing techniques to politics. First, one did the market research to find out what people wanted and then one packaged it up and sold it to them through the skilful use of the media.

And it worked! In 1997, New Labour won the general election with a majority even bigger than the current Labour government’s, leading to thirteen years in power during which it was the Conservatives who started to believe that they would never win an election again. In fact, it wasn’t until after their third consecutive electoral defeat in 2005 that they finally gave up on ‘conviction’ politics, as the old style politics was known, and elected David Cameron as their leader: a modernizer who set about the task of defeating New Labour by adopting exactly the same strategy, thereby not only making the new style of politics the norm but the only style of politics which most British politicians today know or understand.

The problem with basing one’s programme for government purely on what one thinks the electorate is most likely to vote for, however, is not just that it’s rather cynical but that it does not necessarily produce the best results in government. Without a unifying set of principles to ensure that one’s programme is coherent, in fact, one can easily end up with a ragbag of policies some of which may even be contradictory. It is fairly easy to imagine, for instance, how a pledge to tighten up environmental regulations might turn out to be at odds with a promise to increase house building, both of which polices would almost certainly be popular with the voters. Given the extent to which each of these policies would have to be watered down to accommodate the other, however, it is very unlikely that any of these voters would be happy with the results. By trying to please everyone, in fact, one can easily end up pleasing no one, leaving everyone feeling betrayed.

Basing one’s priorities for government purely on what the people say they want can also lead to a high degree of short-termism, wherein politicians opt for quick fixes rather than trying to solve the underlying problem. Capping energy prices, for instance, may solve the short term problem of people being unable to heat their homes and may therefore be highly popular, but not only can it actually make the problem worse when the cap is eventually removed and prices are suddenly hiked, but the reduction in the energy companies’ revenues during the period of the cap may well lead to a reduction in the capital investment required to increase supply and hence bring prices down.

Worst of all, however, a political culture based purely on promising the electorate whatever polling data says would be most popular almost inevitably leads to a level of convergence between the parties. Yes, they may differentiate themselves on fringe issues and in the way their policies are presented but, based on the same polling data, their core policies will nearly always turn out to be the same, as indeed has been the case ever since the last clear division between the parties over Brexit. If one takes, for instance, what are arguably the three most important issues in last five years – at least in terms of their effects on people’s lives – climate change, the Covid epidemic and the war in Ukraine – there has not been an iota of difference between any of the parties with seats in parliament: a level of unity which, in itself, would seem to constitute a distinct lack of democratic choice for the voter. Even more alarmingly, there has hardly been a single word of dissent on any of these issues in the House of Commons: a fact which, given the scale of the economic intervention each of these commonly adopted positions has entailed and the level of economic damage each has done, must seem utterly incomprehensible to those Conservative voters who thought that had voted for the party of free market economics.

Take climate change, for instance, and the net zero targets which Theresa May’s government enshrined in British law in 2019. Admittedly, most of the economic damage had already been done by the Labour government’s 2008 Climate Change Act, which didn’t just abolish the free market for electricity in the UK but actually undermined the entire economic basis of the country’s electricity generation. I say this because, before then, the National Grid, itself, had operated as a kind of market, giving priority to low cost electricity generators and only bringing higher priced generators on to the grid as demand increased during peak periods. This meant that generators not only had to decide whether they wanted to be low cost ‘base load’ suppliers or higher priced peak time suppliers and select their energy sources and generating technology accordingly, they also had to be competitive in whichever sector of the market they chose.

The 2008 Act changed all this, however, by making it mandatory that, whenever electricity from intermittent renewable technology was available, the National Grid should always give it priority, even though it was more expensive. This meant that the National Grid could no longer award base load contracts to low cost generators in that it could no longer guarantee that it would be able to take power from them 24 hours a day. These low cost generators were then further penalised by being made to pay ‘green’ taxes on whatever electricity they were allowed to produce in order to subsidise the high cost of electricity produced by renewables. The result was that the price of electricity was pushed up all across the board and, despite the introduction of caps and other measures, in one way or another this higher price was inevitably passed on to both consumers and industry alike, increasing inflation and making British industry less competitive.

When the Conservatives were returned to power in 2010, therefore, it might have been expected that they would have restored market principles and economic sanity to an electricity market sorely in need of them. After steering the economy to a somewhat belated recovery after the 2008 financial crash, however, Theresa May decided to impose even more challenges on an already greatly weakened British industry by setting a timetable and targets for the revolutionary transformation of its energy base.

Not, of course, that many industries have so far felt the impact of this transformation – we are still in its very early stages – but one which clearly has is the automotive industry, which is being forced to scrap billions of pounds worth of investment in petrol and diesel engine technology and invest billions more in the technology, plant and equipment required to manufacture electric vehicles (EVs), even though there is still very little demand for them. This is not only because EVs are more expensive than petrol and diesel engined vehicles and have a lower second-hand value – most of their cost going into their batteries, which have a shorter life than the vehicles themselves – but because the publically available infrastructure for recharging them is still rather thin on the ground and is likely to remain so.

This is because, in order to fully recharge a car’s batteries in somewhere between thirty and sixty minutes – as opposed to the eight to ten hours it takes at home – ‘rapid’ recharging stations have to deliver their charge at a rate of between 50 and 75 kilowatts, which makes them fairly expensive. Even thirty to sixty minutes is fairly slow, however, when compared to the five minutes it takes to fill the average petrol tank. This has therefore led to the development of ‘ultra-rapid’ rechargers, which deliver their charge at rates between 100 and 350 kilowatts, reducing the recharging time to as little as ten minutes. These ultra-rapid recharging stations, however, are very expensive, not least because of the amount of copper in their heavy duty cables, which also makes them a target for thieves. What’s more, an ultra-rapid charging station with eight 250 kilowatt charging points, for example, would require a power supply of 2 megawatts, which is roughly equivalent to the power supply required to power a typical village or suburban housing estate, which, in turn, requires a substantial upgrade to the local power grid.

This therefore brings us to the real problem. For according to the RAC, there are currently 41.2 million motor vehicles on British roads: 32.2 million private cars and 9 million commercial vehicles. Assuming that all of them were converted to EVs, as the UK’s net zero legislation requires, and assuming that, on average, each of them had to be recharged once a week, this would mean that Britain would need around 118,000 of these 250 kilowatt charging points or 14,500 eight point charging stations distributed around the country. What’s more, these would draw an extra 30 gigawatts of power from the grid, requiring an extra 37.5% of generating capacity, all of it to be supplied by renewables.

Of course, not everyone will actually use public recharging stations. Some people will continue to charge their EVs at home overnight. Even if this cut demand for public recharging by half, however, the cost of building even seven or eight thousand eight point recharging stations, along with upgrading the power grid to supply them, would still run into hundreds of billions of pounds. And this doesn’t even include the cost of building the extra generating capacity, most of which would be required whether people recharged their cars at home or at public recharging stations. Even more significantly, this only covers one aspect of the UK’s net zero commitment: EVs. We haven’t even started on the cost of replacing all the gas boilers and gas stoves in people’s homes or, indeed, the costs occasioned by the impact of net zero on dozens of other areas of our lives, some of which we may not even be aware of yet.

The good news, however, is that none of this is ever actually going to happen. It is just not technically feasible. And we couldn’t afford it anyway! The UK government is currently in debt to the tune of £2.55 trillion, or 101.69% of GDP, which means that, with UK Treasury bonds yielding around 4%, it is paying more than £100 billion a year in interest, which it has to borrow, thereby adding further to the debt. In short, we are broke and on the verge of bankruptcy. This whole net zero project is therefore pure fantasy: a delusional chimera dreamed up by people who have become detached from reality, which, in the case of the Conservatives, is almost entirely the result of them having first become detached from the principles of a political philosophy which would have prevented them from succumbing to such nonsense.

I say this because one of those principles, of course, is the belief that free markets, in which hundreds of independent businesses compete to make a living, invariably come up with better solutions to problems than government committees. This is because, in order to be successful, commercial enterprises have to ensure that any solutions they offer to the market are affordable, actually work and are what people want, none of which is the case with regard to the wholesale replacement of petrol and diesel engined vehicles with EVs. It is only because a Conservative government abandoned free market economics and turned, instead, to top down central planning that it thought that all it had to do was decree that this wholesale replacement should take place and, somehow, all the technological and economic problems would be solved and this dream world would magically come into being.

It is hardly surprising, therefore, that nearly half of all former Conservative supporters should have abandoned a party which has so manifestly abandoned itself. What is surprising is that the party doesn’t appear to have anticipated this and done anything to prevent it, which rather suggests that it still doesn’t really understand what it has done. What this also tells us, however, is that there has been yet another transformation in our political culture. For while all political parties are now very good at selling their policies to the public via the media, they no longer appear to listening to what the public actually wants. That part of Tony Blair’s formula for success seems to have completely disappeared. For if one actually asked people today what they thought were Britain’s most pressing problems, most would probably say inflation, some would say immigration and some might even say the potholes in our roads. Hardly anyone, however, would say ‘climate change’. After all, no one in Britain has yet been killed, injured or even mildly inconvenienced by the world getting slightly warmer. For many people, on the other hand, net zero and its associated schemes, such as London’s ‘Ultra Low Emission Zone’, are the bane of their lives.

If the policies of neither of the two main parties on such issues as climate change, the handling of the Covid epidemic and the war in Ukraine originated with their voters, however, the question one has to ask is from whence they did originate. And the answer is almost certainly from three distinct but interconnected groups.

2.    Who Decides Party Policy

The first of these, of course, is the media which is always far more positive about communicating a party’s policies if it not only agrees with them but has actually had an input in framing them, something which happens at two different levels.

The first is the corporate level where the owners of large media corporations with interests in other industries – whether these owners be individuals or financial institutions – may discretely but directly lobby governments on behalf of these other interests in return for the support of their media arms. It is highly likely, for instance, that a wealth fund manager with a large portfolio that includes sizeable investments in various media companies would also have interests in the burgeoning renewables industry, which he would naturally like the government to continue subsidizing in return for his media companies playing down or completely ignoring the need for such subsidies. In this very neat form of symbiosis, both the government and big business – through its ownership of the media – thus gain the support of the public for something that would otherwise be entirely insupportable.

The second level then comprises those who work within the media – writers, producers, presenters and the like – most of whom have degrees in the liberal arts or humanities and live in the nation’s capital, where they continually rub shoulders with politicians, civil servants and other inhabitants of the Westminster bubble, many of whom will have attended the same universities and will certainly share much the same outlook, the most salient feature of which is a belief that their views are better informed and more enlightened than the views of those outside this exclusive group and that they are the ones, therefore, who should be deciding the country’s future. The result is that, instead of listening to what people in general are saying, they simply listen to each other, reinforcing not just their almost impregnable groupthink, but their just as inviolable sense of entitlement.

The second group which influences the adoption and development of policy then comprises those who actually formulate it, which not only includes career civil servants but a whole range of political, legal and technical advisors, many of them fairly short term and dependent on political patronage, others at the pinnacles of their careers and in prominent positions, having already distinguished themselves in their respective fields.

Not, of course, that this is particularly new. Those in power have always surrounded themselves with able people, both to advise them and to get things done. Since political parties ceased developing policy primarily on the basis on their political philosophy, however, these unelected advisors have not only played a larger role in determining policy but a more visible role in presenting it.

This was particularly evident during the Covid pandemic, for instance, when we regularly saw Sir Chris Whitty, Chief Medical Adviser to the UK Government, and Dr. Anthony Fauci, Director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases in the US, stand up in front of the television cameras, not only to announce the latest figures chronicling the spread of the virus, but to advise and even tell people how they should be behave.

That politicians were happy to go along with this new role for what had previously been purely backroom advisors was almost certainly prompted by two considerations. The first is that it effectively absolved them of responsibility for any negative consequences resulting from the way their governments dealt with the emergency. As they continually reminded us, they were just following the science. The second is that it greatly simplified the issue. I say this because any previous Prime Minister dealing with such an epidemic would have almost certainly felt obliged to weigh multiple factors. In addition to listening to medical advice, he would have asked various economists what effect closing businesses and paying people stay at home would have, not just to the economy, but the national debt. He would then have had to consider the effect on morale of closing down such regular meeting places as pubs and churches and the effect that not allowing families to get together could have on the elderly. He would have also had to take into account the effect of closing schools on the education and socialisation of children, especially in a society largely dominated by one child families, along with the overall effect on mental health of isolating people in their homes and forcing them to wear masks and stand two metres apart whenever they went out.

By concentrating purely on the medical issues, Boris Johnson thus made life a lot easier for himself. Not only did abdicate his responsibility as Prime Minister to take a broader view, however, but by focusing attention on infection and fatality rates, he actually fostered a climate of fear and dread when he should have been urging people to stay calm and go about their lives as normally as possible. Indeed, it could be argued that his delegation of responsibility for handling the epidemic to specialists in a particular field and his consequent failure to view what was happening in a wider context, effectively turned what was actually a fairly mild epidemic into a social and economic disaster from which the country has still not fully recovered.

Nor is this problem of too narrow a focus confined to one-off emergency situations such as epidemics. For if the delegation of responsibility to specialist advisers has, as I suspect, a natural tendency to reduce the range of issues taken into account when making decisions, then in today’s culture of bureaucratic compartmentalisation this tendency will be more or less the norm all across government. The organisation charged with determining the UK’s climate change policies, for instance, is the Climate Change Committee (CCC), an independent non-departmental public body formed under the 2008 Climate Change Act and staffed almost entirely by unelected climate change experts chosen primarily for their belief in climate change and their determination to prevent it. In fact, it was the CCC, rather than Theresa May’s Conservative government, which first put forward the UK’s net zero target for greenhouse gas emissions, making it highly unlikely, therefore, that the economic effects of this target would have been given very much consideration when the Climate Change Act was amended in 2019 to include it.

This then brings us to the third group which influences the adoption and development of government policy, although in this case the term ‘influences’ is a bit of an understatement. For in many cases, international institutions such as the UN, the EU and NATO do not just influence their member states; once an international treaty has been signed, they can usually find ways to put a lot of pressure on  the signatories to fulfil their treaty obligations. The ultimate basis for the UK’s net zero target, for instance, is the 1997 Kyoto Protocol, an international treaty which extended the 1992 United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC) by committing signatories to reducing greenhouse gas emissions, though by when and how much it did not specify. In this regard, the UK was thus free to set its own targets and timetable, giving it a fair amount of leeway. There are, however, treaties that impose far more stringent constraints upon their signatories.

One such is the World Health Organisation’s proposed Treaty on Pandemic Prevention, Preparedness and Response, the fundamental objectives of which were agreed by the 194 WHO member states in December 2021, along with a timetable which should have seen the treaty finalised by May 2024. That this finalisation has not yet occurred is largely due to the fears of some members states, including the UK, that if we were to sign it, then in the event of another pandemic, it would not just be bureaucrats in Britain, like Sir Chris Whitty, who would determine UK government policy as to what measures it should take, it would actually be bureaucrats at the WHO.

What this highlights, therefore, are some of the very serious dangers implicit in national governments signing any international treaty under the auspices of any of these international institutions. For not only can such international commitments severely limit a government’s freedom of action, including its freedom to act on the wishes of its electorate, thereby further diminishing what little democracy may be left after public opinion has been manipulated by the media and actual policy making placed in the hands of unelected technocrats, but, unlike government legislation, which can usually be repealed by future governments, multinational international treaties may remain in perpetuity unless abrogated, which can have severe penalties.

Indeed, it raises the question as to why any government would bind itself in this way. There are, however, two not good but understandable reasons why they may choose to do so. As in the case of giving unelected technical experts more responsibility in specialised areas of policy, the first is that it, again, effectively absolves national governments of responsibility for any negative consequences resulting from their implementation of the terms of the treaty in question. Thus when, after decades of fear-mongering, it is discovered that there is no climate emergency, that marginally increasing greenhouse gases does not lead to runaway global warning and that we didn’t therefore need to destroy our economy in order to prevent it, the government of the day can simply say that, like all their predecessors, they were not only following the science but fulfilling their international treaty obligations.

At both a national and individual level, however, there is a more profound reason why today’s politicians are drawn to this kind of internationalism. At the national level, of course, it stems from the history of the 20th century in which millions of people were killed in two world wars, leading those who survived them to vow that such carnage should never happen again. It was to this end, therefore, that these international institutions were created, not only to prevent war, but to help create a wealthier and healthier world through collaboration rather than competition. Any nation which does not toe this internationalist line and chooses to go its own way is therefore regarded as an international pariah, especially by the West, which regards itself as the moral guardian of this internationalist world order and shuns the representatives of any country it regards as outside the fold.

This then leads to a very similar attitude at the individual level. For national leaders naturally like being welcomed into the international leaders club. They do not want to be ostracized or left out, which means that they are more or less obliged to conform to the internationalist views and attitudes of their colleagues, which they can only do by working with them to solve such international problems as climate change and pandemics. The problem is that national leaders then have to go home and enshrine the agreed solution in their country’s laws, no matter how detrimental to their country’s interests these new laws may be. Indeed, it is a kind of test of a national leader’s internationalist credentials that he or she is prepared to do this. For those who pass this test, however, there are significant rewards.

Take Mark Rutte, for instance, who was Prime Minister of the Netherlands from 2010 to 2024, when he was finally thrown out of office by the Dutch electorate for consistently putting the interests of the international community before the interests of his own people, one of the most egregious examples of which was his 2023 enactment of legislation that will eventually force around 11,700 farms to be closed and will restrict the output of many more, all to reduce the methane emissions of Dutch cows. For this selfless act of economic suicide on behalf of Dutch farmers, however, he is not to be banished from politics for the rest of his life, as many might have justly expected, but rewarded by being appointed as the next Secretary-General of NATO, a post he will take up in October 2024.

Another celebrated champion of the international order is of course Donald Tusk, former President of the European Council, who was rewarded for giving the British such a hard time over Brexit by being made Prime Minister of Poland with EU support. The cost to Poland, however, is that his remit from the EU is almost certainly to stamp out the very strong tendency among Poles towards Polish nationalism and to take Poland to war with Russia.

What is truly remarkable about each of these career moves, however, is not just how porous they reveal the interface between international institutions and national governments to be, but how abjectly submissive we all are not to be more outraged at the idea that someone could regard being Prime Minister of his country, not as the pinnacle of his career, but as a mere stepping stone to a better job, or that those in real power should be able to parachute someone into the job of Prime Minister merely to keep the people of a particular country in check.

Part of the reason for our indifference, of course, is that having handed responsibility for deciding government policy to technical specialists, the media and international institutions, the role of Prime Minister is no longer what it was. Far from being the country’s leader, all a Prime Minister has to do nowadays, in fact, is stay on message and avoid looking a complete fool in front of the cameras. The result, however, is that Britain has had five Prime Ministers over the last eight years, each as shallow and vacuous as their predecessor.

Even more fundamentally, however, the change in our political culture has actually brought forth a new political philosophy, one significantly different from either the traditional socialism of the old Labour Party or the traditional conservatism of the old Conservative Party in that it naturally reflects the values of the three groups that largely decide policy: technical specialists, the media and international institutions. For many people in Britain, of course, this is still not yet clear, not least because both Labour and the Conservatives still pretend to be their former selves, refusing to admit that their policies are more or less identical. As the new Labour government starts to reveal itself, however, this will become increasingly apparent, with the result that more and more people will become disillusioned with politics on the grounds that it makes no difference who they vote for. What they will also gradually realise, however, is that this is not an accident, that it is actually a feature of this new political philosophy and that one of its consequences is the inevitable death of democracy.

3.    The New Political Philosophy

Not, of course, that advocates of the new political philosophy will ever admit to this. On the contrary, they invariably claim that are the true defenders of democracy. For while international institutions may be entirely staffed by unelected bureaucrats, most of them have governing councils on which member states are usually represented by government ministers, most of them democratically elected in one way or another. The real enemies of democracy, or so the internationalists claim, are ‘right wing’ nationalists who threaten the peace and stability of the international order by putting the interests of their own countries first in order to garner enough popular support at home to eliminate democratic opposition. Worse still, they often both achieve and justify this by claiming that their country, with its unique culture and traditions, belongs to its people, who are therefore accorded a privileged status within its borders in contrast to foreigners, especially foreigners from different cultures and traditions, who may be prevented from entering the country on what are therefore largely ethnic or racial grounds.

According to this line of reasoning, a politician who puts his own country first thus goes from nationalist to antidemocratic to racist in just two neat little steps. What’s more these two characteristics of being antidemocratic and racist have become so closely associated with nationalism in the popular imagination that any politician who loves their country and wants to see its distinctive characteristics preserved is immediately labelled a fascist.

A prime example of this is Victor Orban, who is a passionate defender of Hungary’s rather unique culture – based as it is on an equally unique combination of ancient Magyar traditions and the Roman Catholic church – and who is therefore extremely popular with his electorate, having been re-elected in each of Hungary’s last two general elections with around 60% of the vote. One of the reasons for this is that, as a Hungarian patriot, he is greatly opposed to mass immigration, especially from the Islamic world with which Hungary has fought numerous wars, and has therefore found himself at odds with the EU on several occasions, most notably during the 2015 migrant crisis, when he ordered the erection of a fence between Hungary and Serbia to block the entry of illegal immigrants and opposed the EU’s plans for a compulsory redistribution of migrants within the bloc.

In fact, this opposition between Hungary and the EU over immigration almost certainly represents the single most defining issue that separates the new internationalist political philosophy from the old fashioned politics of both left and right and is clearly one of the most important battle grounds between the two. For both sides know that if the EU can force enough immigration on countries like Hungary then their cultures and national identities will eventually become so diluted that nationalist politicians like Victor Orban will not be able to get themselves re-elected, thereby ensuring that the new internationalist political philosophy has a permanent majority wherever it is able to establish a sufficient foothold.

This is also why other methods of diluting national identity, such as the rewriting of national histories, are also being employed. For if one can rewrite the history of a country in such a way that its people come to despise the way their ancestors behaved, then they will cease to identify with their own past. And one of the best ways to do this, of course, especially in Europe and North America, is to cite the slave trade. In recent years in Britain, for instance, we have gone through a period in which the statues of anyone even remotely connected to slavery were being torn down. In fact, one didn’t even need to be involved in the slave trade, itself, to be subject to this kind of iconoclastic vandalism; one only had to be a shareholder in a company like Tate & Lyle, which, until slavery was abolished by the British government in 1833, employed slaves on its sugar plantations in the Caribbean. 

The irony is, of course, that Britain was not only the first country to abolish slavery but one of the few that actually took steps to eradicate it, deploying the Royal Navy to patrol the Atlantic in order to stop the flow of slaves to the Americas. And yet there are still many people in Britain today who not only use the country’s past association with slavery to disown their own history but seem to want to wear that history as a badge of shame, as if the taint of slavery were still upon us. All this does, however, his weaken social cohesion. For if one does not identify with the country of one’s birth as an historical entity, it makes it very difficult to identify with those who share the same cultural heritage, especially if, instead, one embraces a multi-ethnic, multicultural society which identifies with that country even less. Indeed, it can actually create a deep and highly corrosive social division between those who want to identify with their country and those who see this as being, in itself, racist. What’s more, this division can then be further exacerbated if the indigenous population starts to realise – as well it might – that a multi-ethnic, multicultural society created by mass immigration is greatly to their own economic disadvantage.

I say this because, continually importing low cost labour into a country over an extended period of time, not only suppresses wages – particularly at the lower end of the spectrum, thereby disadvantaging the poorest most – but it does nothing to incentivise businesses to increase productivity through technological innovation and therefore weakens the economy as a whole.

Indeed, we can see this quite clearly in the case of the UK. For although our government and the media continually tell us that we are one of the richest countries in the world, with the 6th largest GDP, our per capita GDP is only the 21st largest and is well below countries like Iceland, Denmark, Australia and Finland. What’s more, even this figure is deceiving. For it assumes that our population is somewhere close to the officially stated figure of 68 million. Based on food sales, however, Britain’s largest supermarket chain, Tesco, estimates that the real figure is more like 83 million, the additional 15 million being made up of illegal immigrants and those who have outstayed their visas and have never completed a ten-yearly census form. If Tesco is right, this would then drop our position in the per capita wealth table to 25th.

Even this, however, is probably an overstatement of our real wealth. I say this because a disproportionate amount UK GDP is generated by government spending on things like health, education and various other social services.  Every new immigrant who accesses any of these services, therefore, not only increases government expenditure but actually increases UK GDP. Indeed, it is possible that the only thing driving growth in the UK is immigration and that, without it, we would be in a permanent state of recession. In fact, it is also possible that the main reason successive governments have done nothing to curb immigration is that they know this and have realised that, even though it is actually impoverishing us, they need immigration to make the economic data look better.

The problem with simply feeding us misleading information, however, as the last Conservative government discovered to its cost, is that people also have real world experiences. And one of the ways in which everyone can see that immigration is making us all poorer is, of course, by causing a housing shortage, which pushes up the price of both buying and renting a home. It is for this reason, indeed, that the new Labour government has promised to build an extra 1.5 million homes over the next five years. Just like its promise to decarbonise our electricity grid by 2030, however, this target has absolutely no chance of being met.

I say this because, while successive governments have been wasting billions of pounds each year in a futile attempt to combat the entirely imaginary problem of climate change, a very real environmental problem has crept up on us almost unnoticed. This is the problem of water companies allowing raw sewage to flow into our rivers, which successive governments have simply blamed on the failure of some of these companies, particularly Thames Water, to adequately invest in the necessary infrastructure. The real problem, however, stems from the fact that the downstream parts of any sewage system – the main sewers which deliver the sewage to treatment works – cannot be upgraded or expanded anywhere near as quickly as politicians would like to see new houses built and connected to the system upstream.

A good example of this asymmetry is the Thames Tideway: a new twenty mile long super sewer that is currently being built under London at a cost of £4 billion, if, that is, it actually comes in on budget, which is by no means certain, not least because it is estimated that it is going to take another nine years to complete. What’s more, this nine years does not represent the full duration of the project. For it was already many years in the planning before construction even got started, which means that if one really wanted to build an extra 1.5 million homes over the next five years, and wanted these homes to have an adequate water supply and be connected to a downstream sewage system with sufficient spare capacity, one probably should have started the planning process around five years ago, when most of the houses already scheduled to be built over the next five years entered the planning system, one of the main purposes of which is to give utility companies enough time to put the required infrastructure in place.

The real reason there is so much raw sewage flowing into our rivers, therefore, is not because the water companies are unwilling to make the necessary investment – as, indeed, the Thames Tideway so clearly demonstrates – but because the need to constantly build more homes to house our ever increasing population puts government ministers under pressure to foreshorten the planning process – to cut ‘red tape’, as they usually put it – usually by strong-arming the utility companies into agreeing to new housing projects in places where the infrastructure is already overstretched. And while they may sometimes get away with this, sometimes they do not. What’s more, the more pressure the government applies to the planning system, the more these failures occur, until at some point it becomes politically counterproductive, as when utility companies start leaking this kind of information to the media.

The one thing of which we can be absolutely certain, therefore, is that the government is not going to get planning permission to build an extra 1.5 million new homes over the next five years, not least because, if the utility companies actually gave in to this demand, everyone concerned would probably end up up to their necks in excrement. What’s more, the ministers involved already know this. Indeed, they are probably already planning to blame their failure to meet their housing target on the stifling bureaucracy of the planning system, which therefore raises the question as to why they should have set such a ridiculous target in the first place. The answer, however, is simple. For the alternative would be to obviate the need to build all these new houses by restricting immigration, which is the one thing, of course, they cannot do. For apart from the effect that this would have on our growth figures, not only would it outrage the new Labour government’s supporters in the media, it would also undermine their credibility as adherents of the internationalist order, thereby greatly diminishing their prospects of obtaining well-paid sinecures in international institutions when, after five years of failing to either curb immigration or build enough homes to house all the immigrants, they are unceremoniously dumped out of office.

4.    Signs of a Fightback?

Not, of course, that that is likely to happen. For while some people see the defection of so many Conservative voters to Reform in the last election as a sign of a fightback, the fact is that our first-past-the-post electoral system makes it more or less impossible to break the two party strangle hold on parliament. After all, Reform obtained 14.3% of the popular vote, or 4,072,947 votes in total, but only won five seats, just 0.77% of the seats available. Unless something of seismic significance occurs in the interim, therefore, dramatically changing the political consciousness of the nation, when it comes to the next election, most people will probably see a vote for Reform as a wasted vote and the party will quietly disappear.

Of far greater significance, therefore, is the state of the Conservative Party. For given the fact that most Conservatives still don’t seem to understand why their voters deserted them, it is highly unlikely that the party will be able to sufficiently reform itself by 2029 to win many of these voters back. Indeed, I’m betting that most of them won’t vote at all. The probability is, therefore, that no matter how badly the current Labour government performs over the next five years, it will be returned to office at the next election.

Nor is this electoral predicament confined merely to conservatives in Britain. The situation is more or less the same in France, where Marine Le Pen’s party, Rassemplement National, won the largest percentage of the popular vote in this year’s parliamentary election but only gained the third largest number of seats in parliament. This is because the French system allows for two rounds of voting such that, if no candidate wins more than 50% of the vote in the first round, the third and fourth place candidates and below drop out, leaving just two candidates to go head to head in a second round the following week. This means, however, that, between rounds, parties have a chance to do deals in which even the second place candidate may withdraw if, for instance, the third place candidate has a better chance of collecting up the votes of the other withdrawn candidates, thereby beating the candidate who obtained the most votes in the first round.

And this is precisely what happened to Rassemplement National in July this year. Between the first and second rounds, Emmanuel Macron’s party, Renaissance, and a number of small socialist parties under the coalition banner of the New Popular Front got together and stood down candidates in favour of whichever grouping was the stronger in any given constituency, thereby ensuring that, despite winning the largest share of the vote in the first round, Marine Le Pen’s party did not win the largest number of seats in parliament.

What’s more, the same thing is likely to happen again in the presidential election in in two years’ time, when Le Pen will probably stand against Macron and whoever is chosen as the presidential candidate for the socialist coalition. Again, Rassemplement National will almost certainly win the first round, forcing either Macron or the socialist candidate to stand down. The supporters of Renaissance and the New Popular Front will then, however, combine their vote to defeat Le Pen in the second round. In fact, the only way that Le Pen can win is if she gets more than 50% of the vote in the first round, which is very difficult in a three-way race.

Not, of course, that this is in any sense illegal or improper; it is just the way the system works. Not only does it effectively disenfranchise a large proportion of French voters, however, but it does so on the basis of their conservative, traditionalist or nationalist leanings, which are considered unacceptable in today’s liberal, tolerant and internationalist France. What’s more, the scales are weighted against them simply through the use of this language, which, due to a clear bias in the media, is already loaded with negative connotations on the one hand and positive connotations on the other.

Worse still is the use of the terms ‘left’ and ‘right’, both of which have the negative connotation of being at the polarised end of a one-dimensional spectrum in permanent opposition, which contrasts markedly, for instance, with Macron’s party – the party of the new politics – which describes itself as centrist or centre-left, both of which terms connote moderation and a willingness to compromise.

My point, however, is not just that the language of politics comes with these very significant but largely implicit value judgements already built into it, or that most of us just accept these judgements without questioning whether the party or politician to which they are attributed actually warrants this attribution, or even whether the attribution, itself, really ought to have the negative or positive connotations we attach to it. What is far more harmful to our democracy is the fact that both politicians and the media use this valued laden language deliberately, to manipulate us.

Nowhere has this been more apparent in recent weeks than during the race riots which have afflicted towns and cities all across Britain following the stabbing and murder of three little girls in Southport in July. One such town, Middlesbrough, is a town I know very well, in fact, in that it is only about twenty miles north of where I live. With respect to what value laden terms might or might not be justly attributed to its inhabitants, therefore, the most salient piece of information I can probably give non-UK readers is that, based around the chemical industry, it is one of the most working class towns in the country. In fact, it has voted Labour in every general election during my lifetime, making it more than a little ironic, therefore, that, in response to the riots there, our Prime Minister, Sir Kier Starmer, chose to label the rioters ‘far right thugs’, when most of them – those old enough to vote – will have almost certainly voted for him just a few weeks earlier.

This therefore raises a whole raft of rather intriguing questions, the first and most obvious being whether there really were any far right thugs involved in Middlesbrough’s riots. This, however, raises the slightly more nuanced question as to what actually constitutes a far right thug? Is it essential, for instance, that they have swastikas tattooed on their necks, or is it sufficient that they merely object to mass immigration? I ask this question because so far in this essay, I, myself, have criticised mass immigration on two counts: firstly that it makes us all poorer and secondly that it is the ultimate cause of raw sewage being pumped into our rivers. If criticising or objecting to mass immigration is a sufficient condition of being a far right thug, then that would make me equally guilty. Of course, I didn’t actually join in the riots, which may mean that I do not qualify for the ‘thug’ part of the epithet. But if there is any substance to Sir Kier Starmer’s accusation, that would still make me ‘far right’, a term which, in our value laden language, has extremely pejorative connotations, thereby raising the further question as to why our Prime Minister should have used such a term about his own voters, especially as it was more or less bound to exacerbate the situation.

I say this because, while the rioters may have been protesting against mass immigration, their anger was far more visibly directed against those in authority, firstly the police, the local and most proximate representatives of state power but, behind them, the shadowy presence of successive governments who, on the subject of mass immigration, have consistently ignored the concerns of ordinary working people. Dismissing them as far right thugs, therefore, was not only to dismiss their concerns once again but was more or less guaranteed to confirm them in their belief that their government doesn’t actually care about them, thereby inflaming their anger still further.

What made this political insensitivity all the more egregious, however, is the lamentable but nevertheless undeniable fact that not all rioters are primarily driven by a sense of grievance. Human beings being what they are, many rioters, in fact, simply join a riot because the breakdown of law and order gives them licence to do things they have never been allowed to do before. The most prevalent emotion in most riots, as a consequence, is not anger or hatred but exhilaration. When faced with a riot, the most important thing those in authority should do, therefore, is take the heat out of the situation and calm things down. And the best way to do this is to tell the rioters that their message has been heard, that their concerns are taken seriously and that they will be addressed as soon as law and order has been restored.

In fact, this is what any Prime Minister with any political nous would and should have said, even if he had no intention of actually keeping his word about addressing the rioters’ concerns once they were off the streets. The problem for Sir Kier Starmer, however, is that this was precisely what he couldn’t say. For had he told the rioters that he understood their concerns, this would have been to tacitly admit that mass immigration does indeed cause economic and social problems, which would have been to contradict his entire political philosophy or, at least, the political persona he presents to the cameras. He had no choice, therefore, but to come up with all this nonsense about far right thugs, both to explain the riots and justify not listening to the rioters’ complaints.

What this also did, however, is confirm – at least to some – that Labour is no longer the party of the white working class and hasn’t been so for some time, which, oddly enough, may actually represent a glimmer of hope. For one of the main preconditions of our democracy being restored is that a lot more people come to realise that the political divide in Britain is no longer between the traditional socialism of the old Labour Party and the traditional conservatism of the old Conservative Party but between those who would govern us in the interests of multinational corporations and their own political class and those who would see us governed in the interests of ordinary British people. That is to say that the battle is now between a totalitarian oligarchy and democracy itself.

Not, of course, that this hope that democracy may yet be revived is any more than a glimmer, not least because as soon as Sir Kier made his proclamation, the mainstream media got on board with his ‘far right thugs’ narrative and stifled any discussion of the real issues. With people being arrested and summarily imprisoned even for such trivial offences as retweeting so-called ‘misinformation’ about the riots, it is to be doubted, therefore, whether the great awakening is going to happen any time soon. It may therefore take many more waves of killings and riots before the damn finally bursts. Our one consolation, however, is that nothing lasts for ever and, eventually, even this will be history.