Democracy Does Not Help Our Cause: Why the Tory Party should not choose its own leader
Wednesday, January 15th, 2003Stephen Parkinson
Chairman, Lent 2003
Woolton Hill, Hants. and Emmanuel College, Cambridge, 2002-3
During the summer of 2001, the Conservative Party conducted its first leadership election under a system of One Member One Vote. Party spokesmen hailed this leap forward and praised the democratic nature of the contest. But to equate democratization so blithely and carelessly with progress was simplistic and, with hindsight, wrong. The new measures put in place under the leadership of William Hague may be consistent with current political faddishness and win transitory plaudits in the fickle world of the media, but their long-term consequences for the party are a strong argument for their revocation.
The inevitable media attention focused on a political party during the election of a new leader is unlikely ever to be favourable, especially as the vacancy tends to arise during periods of low electoral success or in the wake of an election defeat. These should be times of internal reflection for a party - a chance to consider radical reassessments of policy and doctrine. Such discussions have to occur behind closed doors if they are to be taken seriously, away from the inhibiting factors of public opinion and rolling news headlines: when one candidate in the 2001 leadership election mentioned the possibility of reviewing the party’s attitude towards recreational drug use, he was silenced by a media backlash which did not wait for the case to be made. A change of leader can be an opportunity for a change of direction, and any serious political party should take that chance to step back and reflect on its long-term strategy, rather than lay itself bare in its moment of weakness to its vulturine opponents who hover overhead, waiting to swoop down and inflict their damage on its political carcass.
Lamentably, politicians see the sudden proliferation of journalists and cameramen that a leadership election provides as a chance to vent their pent-up anger or to settle old scores. One of the most disheartening things about the 2001 leadership campaign was the sudden and complete disintegration of the façade of unity which had been assumed for the benefit of the preceding general election. Party figures, both known and unknown, came out of the woodwork to denounce the campaign which they themselves had just finished running. Mouths which had been closed for the sake of general election unity were coaxed open by the lure of the microphones foisted in front of them. Colleagues launched attacks on one another with the sort of vitriol which should be reserved for their opponents on the other side of the House of Commons. The general impression was of a party airing its dirty laundry in public.
Of course, the venting of frustration, expression of discontent, and delivery of criticism are essential parts of the cathartic process, but when they are done in the full glare of the media spotlight, the effects on a party’s standing can only be detrimental. There is no reason why grass-roots members should be excluded from this process, but the internal mechanisms of communication are a far less embarrassing method than having newspapers scowl Conservative Clubs across the country hoping for quotes to spice up their unsympathetic columns.
The new system of electing a leader is far too prolonged an affair. Of course, the decision is not one to be rushed or taken lightly, but the demands of multiple-round contest and postal ballot stretched the 2001 leadership election out from William Hague’s resignation on 8 June to Iain Duncan Smith’s eventual election on 13 September, giving the media - during the height of the so-called ’silly season’ - no fewer than ninety-seven days to do its worst to a party shaken by a second crushing defeat at the polls.
A head-to-head contest for the party leadership is also wholly inappropriate to the period following an electoral defeat, promoting a shallow race to win votes over the building of a new party consensus, and giving undue primacy to single issues and abstracting the debate. During the summer of 2001, the European single currency and an obscure section of the 1988 Local Government Act were both given excessive attention due to the candidatures of a European federalist, a Maastricht rebel, and a man who had revealed his homosexual experiences as an undergraduate. None of these issues were necessarily ones on which the foundations of a new platform for government should be built. Alan Clark, in his history of the Conservative Party, describes the changes wrought by the last changes to the system of electing a party leader - the 1964 ‘Douglas-Home rules’, when the leader was elected by the votes of every member of the parliamentary party - and the impact they had throughout the whole parliamentary cycle:
…Members of Parliament would find themselves drawn into assessing contenders on the basis of their approval ratings in the newspapers…The form, the arithmetic, the prospects, the timing - all would endlessly recur, whenever the party hit choppy water, and would take too much of its time and attention in the future. [1]
Now, this endlessly recurring distraction embraces huge swathes of the party’s grass roots, as a cursory glance at the letters page of the Daily Telegraph or Daily Mail will attest. The claims made by party figures that a mass-membership election would give the new leader a “clear mandate” are simply not true: as a result of it, talented grandees say they will not serve in a new shadow cabinet at a time when the party most needs its experienced statesman to rally together; the membership is polarized into a set of binary opposites; and, whereas the old practice of presenting the members with a fait accompli may have caused a small faction of die-hards to leave the party, the current system sees constituency associations up and down the country being presented with series of ultimata from members promising to resign “if X or Y gets in”.
A corollary of the revised leadership election procedure has been a fundamental redefinition of the party’s raison d’être. Allowing every member to exert some influence on the choice of leader gives the impression that the party is something run for the benefit of its existing members. It is not. Rather, the party should be looking beyond its current membership to those people who are not members, and whose votes and support it needs if it is ever to return to government. The party has no obligation to its members. This in no way diminishes their importance, of course - no party can survive in a democratic system without a large body of supporters and activists - but nor does it mean that the party should feel beholden to its grass roots at the expense of broadening its appeal among floating voters, who, after all, are more crucial to the repairing of party fortunes. Existing party members are the worst electorate when it comes to choosing a leader who will be of the greatest benefit to the party. By their nature, the grass roots of any party reflect a distorted image of its outlook and ideology. Party activists are likely to be more strident in their beliefs than figures from its upper echelons, who must daily navigate the rocky waters of national politics. When the Douglas-Home rules were introduced the 1922 Committee minuted its worry that it was “unwise to give an exactly equal vote…to a senior Cabinet minister and to the newest recruit to the Parliamentary Party” [2] - how much more unwise is it to extend this power to each of the party’s three hundred thousand members, many of whom lack any political nous or experience? This introspection can only be to the party’s disadvantage, and lends itself to the selection of leaders who represent a grotesque distillation of the grass roots’ basest instincts and prejudices: “…for as long as the Party’s direction is dictated by its current membership its appeal will shrink into a narrower and narrower rump of the electorate.” [3]
The personalization of the contest - the identification of the fate of the entire party with a single man - undermines the careful balances of the prime ministerial system, leading to the creation of a quasi-presidential figure. When William Hague, announcing his resignation as party leader on the steps of Conservative Central Office in the aftermath of the 2001 general election, declared that “no one man is greater than the party”, he also provided a reminder of one of the core principles of the British parliamentary system: that the premier is no more than primus inter pares. We should heed the words of Baroness Thatcher in November 2002 that “the Tory party will last… I don’t know about Mr Duncan Smith because in the end we all die, but the party doesn’t.” [4]
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This polemic is a plea to a return to the practices of old, perhaps even to those used prior to 1964. The old system of the ‘Magic Circle’ left the far from insignificant decision of who should assume the party leadership to those MPs with the greatest political experience and shrewdness; men who would take a pragmatic decision, based on what was best for the electoral prospects of the party, rather than the obstinacy of the amateur ideologue, or some base preference for a “normal family man” [5]. Leaders would emerge through a mixture of forging deals with their colleagues, building personal support in Cabinet, and (dare one say it?) political hackery - all of which are essential weapons in the arsenal of a potential prime minister.
William Hague meant well when he introduced his ‘Fresh Future’ reforms which ushered in the new system of leadership election, but as a Conservative he ought to have known better than to rush headlong into reform for reform’s sake. His aims were laudable, but the consequences of his actions unforgivable. The parallels with the last wave of internal party reform - as described by another passage from Clark’s The Tories - are striking:
The purpose of the formula [of the Douglas-Home rules] had been to make the party appear more ‘democratic’… What happened was that a process - the ‘Magic Circle’ - which had been the very embodiment of continuity, of a calm and united authority endowed with these traditional gifts of good judgement and discrimination that made it best suited to govern the country, had been discarded. In its place there were now offered in terms of media coverage a series of gladiatorial battles, with net and sword, before an arena of jeering spectators…
It became all too easy for commentators to depict the party as being divided. That fine line between debate and altercation would soon, at the urging of excitable colleagues and the encouragement of the media, be transgressed; with lasting damage to the party’s reputation.” [6]
It is now even easier to depict the Tory Party as being divided, and its reputation is further damaged with every fratricidal comment by an obscure backbencher or provincial councillor who has scented blood and believes his party leader is under some obligation to him. It could once be said that “loyalty is the Tory’s secret weapon” [7]; for that statement once more to ring true, we must take the power to choose the party leader out of the wider membership’s hands.
Notes:
- Alan Clark, The Tories: Conservatives and the Nation State 1922-1997 (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1998), p. 337
- Philip Goodhart, The 1922: The Story of the Conservative Backbenchers’ Parliamentary Committee (1973), p. 203
- Nigel Fletcher, ‘Living in the Shadows: How to make the most of Opposition’, in E Vaizey, M Gove, N Boles & I Dale (eds.) A Blue Tomorrow: New Visions from Modern Conservatives (London: Politico’s, 2001)
- Baroness Thatcher, speaking to veterans of the Falklands war, 6 November 2002 (BBC News online)
as Lord Tebbit dubbed Iain Duncan Smith at the start of his leadership campaign. - Clark, op. cit., p. 431
- Lord Kilmuir (formerly Sir David Maxwell Fyfe) in Anthony Sampson, Anatomy of Britain (1962), Ch. 6