The Hard Road to Renewal

Thatcherism and the Crisis of the Left

Stuart Hall

• Publisher: Verso
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781839761379
• Topic: Politics & International Relations
• Subtopic: Political History & Theory
• Index: Politics & International Relations

Stuart Hall was one of the most insightful and incisive critics of the Thatcher era. In this essential selection of his essays during the period, he elaborates both how Thatcher's rise to power exploited weakness in the left, but also how the left itself can refresh itself in the shadow of defeat. This collection is as vital today as it was in 1988. Through the essays Hall shows how Thatcher has exploited discontent with Labour's record in office and with aspects of the welfare state to devise a potent authoritarian, populist ideology. This ranges through the formation of the SDP, inner city riots, the Falklands War and the signficance of Antonio Gramsci. He suggests that Thatcherism is skillfully employing the restless and individualistic dynamic of consumer capitalism to promote a swingeing programme of 'regressive modernization'.In response he elaboraties a new politics for the Left as it is with the project of the Right. Hall insists that the Left can no longer trade on inherited politics and tradition. Socialists today must be as radical as modernity itself. Valuable pointers to a new politics are identified in the experience of feminism, the campaigns of the GLC and the world-wide response to Band Aid.

PART ONE

The New Challenge
of the Right

1

Living with the Crisis

with Charles Critcher, Tony Jefferson,
John Clarke and Brian Roberts

We can identify four principal aspects of the 1972–6 conjuncture, which set the stage for the denouement of Thatcherism: the political crisis; the economic crisis; the ‘theatre’ of ideological struggle; and the direct interpellation of the race issue into the crisis of British civil and political life. All four themes must be understood as unrolling within an organic conjuncture whose parameters are overdetermined by two factors: the rapid deterioration of Britain’s economic position; and the maintenance of a political form of ‘that exceptional state’ which gradually emerged between 1968 and 1972 and which now appears, for ‘the duration’ at least, to be permanently installed.

The Heath return to corporate bargaining after 1972 was undertaken in the face of a massive political defeat. It was accepted with ill grace; and there is every sign that in Mr Heath’s mind the final showdown had simply been postponed. Moreover, as the recession, following the worldwide ‘crisis boom’ of 1972–3, began to bite in earnest, the unemployment figures rose, inflation graduated to riproaring Weimar Republic proportions, and the whole balance of world capitalism was thrown sideways by the lurch in Arab oil prices. There was little left in the kitty with which to ‘bargain’. Phase 1 of Mr Heath’s strategy, therefore, imposed a six-month total freeze on wages; Phase 2 a limit of £1 plus 4 per cent. Phase 3, initiated in the autumn of 1973, with its ‘relativities clauses’ designed to allow the more militant sectors to ‘catch up’, was met by the revived strength and unity of the miners’ claim. The showdown had arrived.

In response, Mr Heath unleashed an ideological onslaught. He pinpointed the unpatriotic action of the miners in timing their claim to coincide with the Arab oil embargo. They were ‘holding the nation up to ransom’. The media at once seized on this lead – attacks on those who act against the ‘national interest’ no longer appeared to contravene the protocol on balanced and impartial news coverage. Between 1972 and the present, as the ‘national interest’ has become unequivocally identified with whatever policies the state is currently pursuing, the reality of the state has come to provide the raison d’etre for the media. Once any group threatening this delicately poised strategy has been symbolically cast out of the body politic – through the mechanism of the moderates/ extremist paradigm – the media have felt it quite legitimate to intervene, openly and vigorously, on the side of the ‘centre’.

The phenomenon of the ‘Red Scare’ is, of course, well documented in British history, and its success has depended before now on a skilful orchestration of politicians and the press. But the virulence of its reappearance in this period is worth noting. In this period the press begins again its deep exploration to unearth the ‘politically motivated men’ in the miners’ union; later (1974) it was to conspire in an organized hounding of the ‘red menace’ in the person of Mr McGahey, the Scottish miners’ leader; later (1976) it was to project Mr Benn as the ‘Lenin’ of the Labour Party. Throughout the early period of the ‘social contract’, it was, again and again, openly to intervene to swing elections within the key unions from the ‘extremist’ to the ‘moderate’ pole; later it was mesmerized by the spectre of ‘Marxism’. All good, objective, impartial stuff. On occasion, the press opened its feature columns to the sniffers-out of Communist subversion: the Institute for the Study of Conflict, the National Association for Freedom, the Aims of Industry Group, the Free Enterprise League, the ‘Let’s Work Together Campaign’. Later, it required no extreme prod to give front page treatment to every and any spokesman who could discern the presence of another ‘totalitarian Marxist’ inside the Labour Party.

Mr Heath then turned to his ‘final solution’ – one dictated entirely by the political motive of breaking the working class at its most united point. Its damaging economic consequences precipitated Britain’s economic decline into ‘slumpflation’. The miners had to be defeated, fuel saved; more important, the ‘nation’ had to be mobilized against the miners by projecting the crisis right into the heart of every British family. The economy was put on a three-day working ‘emergency’, and the country plunged into semi-darkness. In a wild swipe, the ‘costs’ of the miners’ actions were thus generalized for the working class and the country as a whole, in the hope that this would open up internal splits in the ranks: bringing Labour and TUC pressure to bear on the NUM, and the pressure of women, having to make do on short-time wages, to bear against their striking men. The splits failed to materialize. When the NUM was finally pressured to a ballot, the vote in favour of a strike was 81 per cent. The ‘crisis scare’ failed to break that class solidarity which had been tempered in the two-year season of open class warfare with Heath Toryism. To the accompaniment of this fully mobilized ‘Red Scare’, ‘Reds Under the Bed’ campaign, Mr Heath called and lost the February election. The February 1974 election ‘was more clearly a class confrontation than any previous election since the Second World War’.¹ It was also the most resounding victory, not for Labour (returned in a weak minority position, once Mr Heath could be persuaded to call in the removal men), but for the organized working class. It had brought the government to the ground.

The state of the political class struggle in the two years following can be briefly summarized by looking at three strands: first, the level of militancy sustained through the rest of 1974 in the wake of the miners’ victory; second, the return to the social democratic management of the deepening capitalist crisis, principally through another variant of the mechanism of the ‘social contract’ (long mistitled, in a form which inconveniently called to mind its cosmetic aspects – a ‘social compact’); third, the articulation of a fully fledged capitalist recession, with extremely high rates of inflation, a toppling currency, cuts in the social wage and in public spending, a savaging of living standards, and a sacrifice of the working class to capital: all managed by a Labour government with its centrist stoical face (Mr Callaghan) turned to the wall of its international creditors, and its belligerent face (Mr Healey) turned against his own ranks.

The ‘social contract’ was the latest form in which British social democracy attempted to preside over and ride out the contradictory effects of a declining capitalism. Like its predecessors, the ‘social contract’ was the Labourist version of that corporate bargain, organized within the capitalist state, and struck between the formal leadership of the labour movement (a Labour government in office), the formal representatives of the working class (the TUC) and – a silent and sceptical partner, in this phase – the representatives of capital itself. Once more, in this form, the crisis of capitalism was drawn directly on to the territory of the state. In the concessions, made in the ‘contract’s’ early days, to ‘bringing about a fundamental shift in the distribution of wealth’, and in its recognition that the whole of the ‘social wage’ was now the area to be bargained over, the ‘social contract’ marked the relative strength and cohesiveness of working-class demands, and gave the unions some formal veto over government policies. That strength has since been systematically whittled away in the subsequent conditions of severe cuts in welfare and public expenditure, cuts which the working class has supported with ill grace, to some degree resisted, but – once again bemused and confused by the spectacle of being led into poverty and unemployment by its own side – failed to push to its limits.

This unstable social base to the present social contract has had contradictory consequences: formal commitments ‘to the left’ – just far enough to secure the ‘consent’ of left trade unionists like Scanlon of the AEUW and Jones of the TGWU, and to ensure some credibility to the press portrayal of the Labour Party as a party of ‘irresponsible leftists’; just centrist enough to persuade the working class to be pushed and bullied by the Labour pragmatists into tolerating a dramatic rise in the rate of unemployment and a dynamic, staged lowering of working-class living standards. In this way, Labour has ‘captured’ for its management of the crisis, for capitalism, that measure of working-class and union support required to represent itself as the only ‘credible party of government’; while the very presence of the unions so close to the centre of its unsteady equilibrium was quite enough to enable the government to be represented as ‘in the pocket of the trade union barons’, thereby legitimating the strike of capital investment at home and frightening the currency dealers abroad. A more unstable political ‘resolution’ can hardly be imagined.

The ‘governor’ of this stalemate position was the deep economic trough into which Britain has finally fallen. By 1975, the first synchronized worldwide recession of capitalism was in full swing – one manifesting the unusual form of productive slump coupled with soaring inflation. How far into recession world capitalism will fall is, still, an open guess. But its consequences for Britain are no longer in doubt. The ‘weak reeds’ in the capitalist partnership – Britain and Italy especially – have been severely damaged. The whole Keynesian apparatus for the control of recession is in tatters, with not even a minimum consensus amongst economists as to whether the money supply has anything or nothing to contribute to lowering the rate of inflation. At the same time, the attempt is in progress to transfer the costs on to the backs of the working class. This is no longer the description of an economy suffering endemic weaknesses. It is an economy being steadily battered down into poverty, managed by a government which is silently praying that it can effect the transfer of the crisis to the working class without arousing mass political resistance, and thus create that mirage of British social democratic governments – ‘favourable investment conditions’. If it cuts too fast, the unions will be forced to bolt the ‘social contract’, and destroy social democracy’s fragile social and political base; if it does not cut fast and hard, the international bankers will simply cut their credit short. If it raises taxes, the middle classes – now in a state of irritable, Thatcher-like arousal – will either emigrate en masse or begin, Chilean-style, to rattle their pressure-cooker lids; if it does not tax, the last remnants of the welfare state – and with them any hope of buying working-class compliance – will disappear. Britain in the 1970s is a country for whose crisis there are no viable capitalist solutions left, and where, as yet, there is no political base for an alternative socialist strategy. It is a nation locked in a deadly stalemate: a state of unstoppable capitalist decline.

This has had the deadliest and most profound ideological consequences. Although, under the guardianship of social democracy, Britain backed off a little from the ‘law-and-order’ state whose construction was well underway between 1972 and 1974, the exceptional form which the capitalist state assumed in that period has not been dismantled. The mobilization of the state apparatuses around the corrective and coercive poles has been coupled with a dramatic deterioration in the ideological climate generally, favouring a much tougher regime of social discipline: the latter being the form in which consent is won to this ‘exceptional’ state of affairs. Such an ideological thrust is difficult to delineate precisely, but it is not difficult to identify its principal thematics and mechanisms.

Between 1972 and 1974, the ‘crisis’ came finally to be appropriated – by governments in office, the repressive apparatuses of the state, the media and some articulate sectors of public opinion – as an interlocking set of planned or organized conspiracies. British society became little short of fixated by the idea of a conspiracy against ‘the British way of life’. The collective psychological displacements which this fixation requires are almost too transparent to require analysis. To put it simply, ‘the conspiracy’ is the necessary and required form in which dissent, opposition or conflict has to be represented in a society which is, in fact, mesmerized by consensus. If society is defined as an entity in which all fundamental or structural class conflicts have been reconciled, and government is defined as the instrument of class reconciliation, and the state assumes the role of the organizer of conciliation and consent, and the class nature of the capitalist mode of production is presented as one which can, with goodwill, be ‘harmonized’ into a unity, then, clearly, conflict must arise because an evil minority of subversive and politically motivated men [sic] enter into a conspiracy to destroy by force what they cannot dismantle in any other way. How else can ‘the crisis’ be explained? Of course, this slow maturing of the spectre of conspiracy – like most dominant ideological paradigms – has material consequences. Its propagation makes legitimate the official repression of everything which threatens or is contrary to the logic of the state. Its premise, then, is the identification of the whole society with the state. The state has become the bureaucratic embodiment, the powerful organizing centre and expression of the disorganized consensus of the popular will. So, whatever the state does is legitimate (even if it is not ‘right’); and whoever threatens the consensus threatens the state. This is a fateful collapse. On the back of this equation, the exceptional state prospers.

In the period between 1974 and the present, this conspiratorial world view – once the sole prerogative of the East-West Digest, Aims of Industry, the Economic League and other denizens of the far right – has become received doctrine. It surges into the correspondence columns of The Times, is weightily considered in The Economist, mulled over in Senior Common rooms, and debated in the House of Lords. Industrial news is systematically reported in such terms. Any industrial conflict is subject to being blackened – as the Chrysler dispute was by Mr Wilson – as the result of ‘politico-industrial action’. Peers like Lord Chalfont are given the freedom of the air to fulminate against Communist ‘maggots and termites’ dedicated to smash democracy: a thesis supported by his proposition that in Britain all of Lenin’s preconditions for revolution have already been fulfilled! Dr Miller, Director of North London Polytechnic, facing protests from students he dubs ‘malignants’, confesses, ‘I sit in my office and itch for the ability to say, “Hang the Ringleaders”.’ The Daily Telegraph, now openly an organ of the far right, runs colour-supplement features tracing Communism’s ‘creeping, insidious, cancer-like growth’, the ‘treachery, deceit and violence of a small minority and … foreign-directed subterfuge’. Public opinion is constantly and unremittingly tutored in social authoritarian postures by the method of sponsored ‘moral panics’: the skilfully elevated panic surrounding comprehensive education, falling standards and ‘Reds’ in the classrooms is one of the most effective and dramatic examples – an instance of how, through an apparently ‘non-political’ issue, the terrain of social consciousness is prepared for exactly that political denouement required by the ‘iron times’ into which we are drifting.

Not surprisingly, it was – literally – under the banner of the conspiracy charge, an ancient and disreputable statute, retrieved and dusted off for the occasion, that the law was brought into the service of the restoration of ‘law and order’. In 1971, some Sierra Leone students who occupied their Embassy were charged and convicted of conspiracy, appealed, and were denied by the Lord Chancellor, Lord Hailsham, in the infamous Karama decision (July 1973). This decision, which laid down a formidable precedent in a contested area, represented a piece of law-making by the court rather than by parliament and was unmistakably in keeping with a political rather than a legal chain of reasoning. As John Griffith observed: ‘The power of the state, of the police, or organized society can now be harnessed to the suppression of minority groups whose protests had formerly been chargeable only in the civil courts.’² It perfectly embodied the Lord Chancellor, Lord Hailsham’s, view that ‘the war in Bangladesh, Cyprus, the Middle East, Black September, Black Power, the Angry Brigade, the Kennedy murders, Northern Ireland, bombs in Whitehall and the Old Bailey, the Welsh Language Society, the massacre in the Sudan, the mugging in the tube, gas strikes, hospital strikes, go-slows, sit-ins, the Icelandic cod war’ were all ‘standing or seeking to stand on different parts of the same slippery slope’.³ The conspiratorial world view can hardly be more comprehensively stated.

Many others were thrust through the breach thus opened. The editors of IT were charged with ‘conspiracy to outrage public decency’ and the editors of Oz with ‘conspiracy to corrupt public morals’. Mr Bennion and his Freedom Under the Law Ltd entered a private citizen’s prosecution against Peter Hain for ‘conspiracy to hinder and disrupt’ the South African rugby team tour. The judge agreed that Hain had iílegally interfered with the public’s right in ‘a matter of substantial, public concern – something of importance to citizens who are interested in the maintenance of law and order’. The Aldershot bombers and the Angry Brigade both had ‘conspiracy’ added to their charges. So did the Welsh Language Society protestors who did not, in fact, trespass on BBC property; so did the building workers who had so successfully adopted the ‘flying-picket’ tactic in the disputes of 1972–3.

The conspiracy charge was perfectly adapted to generalizing the mode of repressive control: enormously wide, its terms are highly ambiguous, designed to net whole groups of people whether directly involved in complicity or not. Convenient for the police in imputing guilt where hard evidence is scarce, it aimed to break the chains of solidarity and support, and deter others. It was directable against whole ways of life – or struggle.

One might have expected liberal pragmatists, like the police chief Sir Robert Mark, to have backed off from this overt recruitment of the law. But he continued to advance his charge – against considerable evidence – that acquittals were too high and that criminals were escaping through ‘corrupt lawyers’ practices’. He criticized trial by jury. He accused magistrates of ‘effectively encouraging burglary and crime’; of failing to discourage hooliganism and violence through the punishments handed out; of ‘being too lenient with violent demonstrators’. A period of rising political dissent is clearly a difficult one for the police to handle – and thus one in which the police can only defend themselves against the charge of colluding with repression by the most scrupulous drawing of lines. Instead, in this period, the police and Home Office clearly came to approve, if not to revel in, the steady blurring of distinctions. Emergency legislation like the anti-terrorist legislation drew the police into that ambiguous territory between suspicion and proof. A number of occasions revealed the steady drift towards the arming of the British Police Force. When the National Council for Civil Liberties remarked upon the striking erosion of civil liberties involved, they won the rebuke that the NCCL should be renamed the ‘National Council for Criminal License’.

This collective conspiratorial paranoia is only the most overt side of the ideological polarization into which the country has fallen. Other themes ride high within its matrix of propositions. One is the charge that, despite all appearances, the country has fallen victim to the stealthy advance of socialist collectivism. This theme – with its attractive counterposing of the ‘little man’, the private citizen, against the anonymous, corporate tentacles of the swollen state – has won many converts. While it captures something of the authentic reality of an interventionist state under the conditions of monopoly capitalism, what is obscurely thematized within this populist sleight of hand is the slowly maturing assault on the welfare state and any tendency towards social equality. Long the target of covert ideological attack from the right, this is now also the space where social democracy, in conditions of economic recession, is itself obliged to make deep surgical incisions. Under the guise of monetarist orthodoxy, the attempt to dismantle the welfare state has now received the cloak of respectability. (Just exactly what capital will do without an enormous state edifice to ensure the social and political conditions of its survival remains to be seen.) A related theme is the charge that the government and indeed the whole society is now ‘run by the trade unions’ – a development of the theme, launched in Mr Heath’s era, of the unions ‘holding the natio...