AN OPEN LETTER TO GORDON BROWN From Owen Dudley Edwards My dear Gordon I doubt if you will ever see this; your minders have too much at stake. Nevertheless, as the Wee Free minister said when in response to his announcement that Marie Macleod would now sing the Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond a voice from the back affirmed that Marie Macleod was a whoor: ‘Nevertheless, Marie Macleod will now sing the Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond’. Thirty years ago we were friends – you were, in fact, one of the gentlest, kindest and most appreciative friends I have ever had – and the personal business of writing a letter, however open, has no justification for presuming a change. We have not seen each other for 10 years, but we never broke; I was concerned with students, you were concerned with Exchequers, and they overlap less than the days when the state gave you the education in which as a student you triumphed so well; and to which – as a student – you contributed so much (intellectually and polemically as opposed to the way students are forced to contribute now). Of course we wrote when you lost your daughter, and you sent me her picture in reply; Bonnie and I were among thousands who wrote, and probably among millions who grieved for you.Your political ambition to represent the people is great: but I hope you will never again face circumstances such as these, which made you dearer to countless people than public life is ever likely to do again. At that point the horrible plague of spin-doctors, publicity-hounds, gutter journalists, political acrobats, and electoral manipulators froze whether they knew it or not and there were only two bereaved parents and a sea of sorrow for your tragedy. In such a moment the people’s love was real and turned towards the human heart it so rightly saw in you. May you never know a sorrow equal to that; and yet you never can be so widely and deeply loved as in such a moment. I doubt if any politician in the UK was so much loved since Churchill died. If my perception is right, the people had diagnosed beneath your habitual austerity of manner the generous heart that I knew so well from your student days. This would be to question a great deal of the conclusions drawn by so-called opinion-makers and reporters, and in my view you would be right to question it. The Government of which you form part has placed ludicrous confidence in such dubious augurs, and for your own reasons, perhaps including humility, you seem to have subscribed to much of it. It is ironic that you have been caricatured as the Iron Chancellor (a cliché whose absurdity is demonstrated by recalling its initial identification with Bismarck, to whom you bear as much resemblance as St John the evangelist does to John Reginald Halliday Christie).You were distinguished for me by your receptivity of mind, your readiness to admit you were wrong when so convinced, your courageous insistence on putting to rights what could be righted when you were persuaded mistakes had been made. That was a truly great quality in you: but insofar as it led you to accept and practice political conduct and credulity foreign to your nature, it became tragically misused. Today what divides you from your Prime Minister? And why should anyone support you as an alternative if you are no alternative? And yet all I know of you proclaims an integrity now apparently invisible. Between the new masters of make-up, and their frequent products the media anatomists, politics has become virtually meaningless, pursued by individuals above all determined to conceal themselves. Machiavelli has become unacceptably honest by comparison. The Blair Government was initially disembowelled by a Tory confidence trick and has since been flapping its remaining innards into enslavement by thug upon thug, Rupert Murdoch, Gerry Adams, George W. Bush. These be your gods – can you imagine the contempt in which the giants of the labour movement in history would have held them, you who have a historical mind rather than the joke mirrors that enthral your colleagues? There was a time when it was no wrench of the imagination to think of the ghosts of Hardie, or Maxton, or Attlee, or Bevan, or Shaw or Wilde or any of that admirable galaxy of Socialists represented in your inspired anthology Values,Visions and Voices taking your hand and acknowledging
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the drouth