They forgot that, just as the sexist, social democratic order of thirty years ago seemed natural to Jonathan Gathorne-Hardy, so our assumptions will one day seem bizarre. In the meantime, wealthy couples would seem a little less selfish if they complemented their constant demands for tax breaks on the money they spend on caring for their children, with equally enthusiastic demands for better protection for the Leoncia Casalmes who actually care for their children.
Observer, March 2006
* While Home Secretary, David Blunkett had a three-year affair with Fortier, the American-born publisher of the Conservative Spectator. It ended in a spectacular public row in 2004 when Fortier decided to stick with her husband, Stephen Quinn, another publisher. The rival camps gave daily updates to a grateful press. The war between the rancorous ex-lovers culminated when Blunkett went to court to demand the right to know whether the pregnant Fortier was carrying his child rather than Quinn’s. The besotted Blunkett did not realise that his ex-mistress’s friends had information that might destroy him and, sure enough, the story of how Home Office rules had been broken to speed up the nanny’s visa application duly appeared.
IN VERY GOOD, JEEVES, Bertie Wooster’s behaviour is so distracted his Aunt Dahlia has no choice but to suspect him of being in love, a fact he confirms.
‘I do indeed love.’
‘Who is she?’
‘A Miss Pendlebury. Christian name, Gladys. She spells it with a “w”.’
‘With a “g”, you mean.’
‘With a “w” and a “g”.’
‘Not Gwladys?’
‘That’s it.’
The relative uttered a yowl.
‘You sit there and tell me you haven’t got enough sense to steer clear of a girl who calls herself Gwladys? Listen, Bertie,’ said Aunt Dahlia earnestly, ‘I’m an older woman than you are—well you know what I mean—and I can tell you a thing or two. And one of them is that no good can come of association with anything labelled Gwladys.’
She was right, as aunts invariably are. Life is short and there is not time to ignore collective wisdom. Bertie should have remembered what had happened to other men who had fallen in love with girls called Gwladys. He should have seen the ‘Stop!’ sign and jammed on the brakes. His aunt could not prove in advance that associating with this particular Gwladys would bring certain ruin, just as you or I cannot prove in advance that our prejudices are always justified. But put it like this: if you resolve never to be judgemental, and to treat everyone as innocent until they prove themselves guilty beyond reasonable doubt, the odds are that your savings will vanish into a Nigerian bank account.
Class hatred once provided the ‘Stop!’ signs of the left. If you were invited to entrust your money or your heart to someone who was rich, you would instinctively know to make an excuse and leave because leftish custom held that no good could come of the relationship. The gut reaction against the wealthy was based on three reflexes.
1 Economic. Excessive wealth leads its holders to expect to get their own way whatever the rules say and whatever damage is done to others.
2 Political. No just country can be created while extremes of wealth persist.
3 Aesthetic. The wealthy are vulgar. They waste their money on the art of the Chapman brothers or the fashions of John Galliano and use their domination of taste to silence the little boy who says the emperor has no clothes, or, rather, has gauche and ill-fitting clothes.
Today, class hatred has fallen into disrepute, along with race hatred, homophobia and all other forms of prejudice. It is easy to see why. If my employers were to send me on a class-hatred awareness course, I would have to admit that there was no logic to my bigotry.
Recently we spent the night at a country house hotel. It was a mistake—we were way out of our league. Leaving behind menus announcing that a pot of tea with cake was the price of the weekly shop, I took my son to the swimming pool, where I met a challenge faced by generations of parents. Changing rooms are potential death traps. The wet, tiled floors all but invite red-blooded toddlers to crack their skulls. But at some point you must put them down and get changed. Fortunately, mine ignored the enticing opportunities for self-harm and contented himself by playing with the locker keys.
A kindly American looked on. ‘What is it with boys and keys?’ the old man asked. ‘My grandson’s just got to have the keys. Mind you, they’ve got to be the right keys or he throws a tantrum. The keys to the Merc, the keys to the yacht, the keys to the plane…’
I should have said, ‘You know, mine’s just the same!’ I glared at him instead. Why? Whom did I expect to meet in a hotel for the super-rich? Postmen? The American was friendly and may have made his money with a product that had done nothing but good for the human race. What sense was there behind my scowl?
Some of my friends from university have dedicated themselves to a life of poorly rewarded public service. They’re no better or worse than they ever were. Others went into the City and made a fortune. They’re still the same people and still friends. By the standards of most people in this country and the overwhelming majority of people on the planet, I am rich. But I would be shocked to be hated as a result.
Class prejudice appears thoroughly discredited. It is now commonly deployed de haut en bas by the powerful against the powerless. I’ve lost count of the number of times that big business or the BBC or New Labour have condemned their critics as ‘elitists’ who arrogantly want to overrule the democratic decisions of the marketplace. This line of reasoning reached its nadir when Tessa Jowell denounced opponents of her plans to let casino operators fleece gullible punters as ‘snobs’. When the wife of Silvio Berlusconi’s lawyer can use the language of class struggle to defend the favourite business venture of the Mob, I think it is fair to say that socialism is dead.*
Even before it came to power, I realised New Labour had a reckless streak when newspaper diarists reported that Lady Carla Powell had befriended Peter Mandelson. Not only was she a society hostess and the wife of Charles Powell, Margaret Thatcher’s foreign policy adviser, but her husband asserted that ‘Powell, should be pronounced ‘Pole”. This was as glaring a warning as a girl called Gwladys. Anthony Powell might have been a greater novelist if he had not wasted so much time correcting people who called him ‘Powell’ instead of ‘Pole’. Sir Charles’s brother, Jonathan Powell, was Tony Blair’s chief of staff. He pronounces Powell ‘Powell’, thank God. On the day he switches to ‘Pole’, the merger of old Tory and New Labour will be complete.†
Ever since the party stepped out with the wealthy, it has been beset with scandals. After every one of them, I wondered what Labour politicians thought they were doing when they accepted donations from and invitations to dinner with Bernie Ecclestone, the Hinduja brothers, partners in Arthur Andersen, Enron executives and Lakshmi Mittal. Did they truly believe that predatory capitalists wanted to talk about the politics of the progressive coalition? Did no alarms ring?
To