Category Archives: Man In Labour

There are three types of labour, one is natural, the other is to be avoided and other is painful. I’ll let you work it out.

Storm

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Understanding Labour’s Crisis in the North East: A Personal Reckoning.

In 2020, amid the seismic political shifts gripping the UK, I began writing a series of essays reflecting on the state of politics in the North East—particularly the faltering fortunes of the Labour Party in its historic heartlands. This project grew naturally from an earlier blog I penned in 2017, which explored Labour’s uneasy relationship with the region. Then came Hartlepool in 2021, a stark symbol of political realignment that made it impossible to ignore the urgency of the moment.

What follows is an introduction to a series of personal assessments—five or six pieces in total—offering not just a diagnosis of Labour’s woes in the North East, but also some ideas for how they might be tackled.

Before diving in, I want to thank Dave Lee, a writer and producer from Hull (the birthplace of my late father), whose sharp wit and candid insight helped spark this project last year. Despite our differences on specifics, we share a conviction: working-class communities will never be truly served by the Conservative Party. For that, Dave, I’m grateful.

From Stockton North to the ‘Red Wall’

I was born in Stockton North, once a bastion of Labour’s industrial might, now a patchwork of Conservative-held constituencies — Hartlepool, Darlington, Stockton South, Sedgefield. These shifts were unimaginable a few years ago. Even today, Stockton North’s Labour MP, Alex Cunningham, clings on by a thread, having scraped through in 2019 thanks to a fractured pro-Brexit vote splitting Conservatives and the Brexit Party—a lifeline unlikely to be repeated.

Alex and I share a history: both of us once sought Labour’s nomination for Stockton North during a mandatory reselection triggered against the sitting MP Frank Cook. Neither of us succeeded then. Frank held on for one more term; I moved away. Alex stayed, eventually taking the mantle.

My connection to the North East runs deep—not just by birth but through upbringing, education, and a seven-year stint working in a foundry, where I joined a union and fought for better wages and conditions. I served as a Labour councillor for a decade, rooted in the communities that are now politically adrift. Even as I’ve lived and worked in places like Lambeth, Greenwich, Salisbury, and Bristol, my North East DNA has remained a source of pride.

A Region Forgotten

Visits home before the pandemic were quiet observations of a region simmering with frustration—political foundations quietly eroding beneath the surface. The 2019 election was a hammer blow, echoing the pain I’d witnessed in the 1980s but magnified by its scale and swift collapse.

So in early 2020, I began to write—trying to make sense of how Labour lost its grip on predominantly white, working-class communities in the North East. My views hold no monopoly on truth, but like many, I’m frustrated that warnings went unheeded until it was too late. These words come from the heart, because that’s where the battle for Labour’s future will be fought.

The Perfect Storm

Labour’s 2019 defeat in the North East was the product of a perfect storm: a lacklustre campaign, complacency among core voters, and a widespread feeling of neglect. Since the industrial collapse of the 1980s, the region has suffered economic pain and social dislocation. What it desperately needed was a vision—a compelling, passionate plan that would restore identity, pride, and confidence.

But the political class, while reflecting the region’s hurt, often failed to articulate such a vision or inspire belief. Meanwhile, the Conservatives tailored a campaign directly to the simmering concerns of North East voters. Their messaging tapped into Brexit anxieties and disillusionment with Labour leadership, but beneath that lay deeper shifts within the Conservative Party itself.

The New Conservative Order

The traditional Conservative Party, once led by Theresa May and grounded in Christian values and establishment capital, has been eclipsed. Today’s party is dominated by new money and radical libertarian ideas, deeply entwined with right-wing agitators in the US. Boris Johnson, once sceptical of Brexit, has become little more than a public puppet—caught between his own ambitions and the demands of powerful political interests.

During my nearly two decades working in London local government, including the years when Johnson was Mayor, his administration was marred by nepotism and chaos. He projected an image of the “man of the people,” charming but untrustworthy, quick with a promise and quicker to spin a story—an opportunistic wheeler-dealer whose antics masked deeper political fractures.

Johnson’s appeal to working-class voters was often wrapped in a cheeky caricature: the lovable rogue, the underdog struggling against the odds. This persona allowed him to exploit divisions within communities once loyal to Labour, especially those feeling forgotten or left behind.

Labour’s Decline Beyond Brexit

Labour’s losses in its traditional heartlands are not just about Brexit or nationalist forces. The decline has been steady for two decades across Scotland, the North East, and the Midlands. Even during the Corbyn surge in 2017, Labour failed to win enough votes to form government. The party’s vast membership and institutional strength masked fundamental weaknesses exposed in 2019’s electoral rout.

Between 2017 and 2019, Labour lost nearly 10% of its vote share. Historic strongholds like Bolsover and Sedgefield saw long-standing majorities erode—victims of creeping social and economic resentments, not just Brexit. The so-called ‘red wall’ collapse was engineered with a blend of luck, ruthless strategy, and the exploitation of genuine grievances—many of which had roots in policies long supported by the Conservatives themselves.

Looking Ahead

The Conservatives’ breach of Labour’s northern heartlands was high-risk but meticulously calculated, targeting working-class voters who had never before swung Tory. Boris Johnson’s opportunism makes him a formidable opponent in the North—a political shape-shifter adept at exploiting division and disenchantment.

Labour’s path to recovery in the North East won’t be easy. It requires more than nostalgia or empty promises. It demands a hard-eyed reckoning with the past, an acceptance of how things unraveled, and a bold new vision that reconnects with the identity, pride, and hopes of working-class communities.

This is just the beginning of that conversation. The story of Labour’s North East crisis is far from over—and its future will depend on who has the courage to listen, learn, and lead.

Wheels Turning

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Reflections on Conservative Britain Then and Now. There is no greater truth in politics than the inevitability of cycles: what goes around, ultimately comes around. For those disillusioned and dispirited by the current state of British politics, this should serve as a cautious reminder rather than a consolation. Many look back through rose-tinted lenses at the Conservative-Thatcher era of the 1980s—the decade when the unleashed dog of unfettered greed barked loudest and reshaped the nation. But forty years on, striking parallels emerge between that turbulent era and the present day.

I grew up in the North East of England—the so-called heartland of Labour’s “red wall,” a phrase that lazy political commentators brandish with little understanding, whether from London studios or the steps of Downing Street. Yet right-wing, working-class patriotism has long been a complex, often overlooked reality behind those walls, just as it exists behind the so-called “blue wall” of places like Christchurch.

Then as now, the Conservative Party has regularly installed leaders from its elite ranks—born into privilege and crowned by birthright—whose personas are carefully crafted by spin doctors and advisors. In the 1980s, that leader was Margaret Thatcher; today, it is Boris Johnson, a man who revels in the performative trappings of populism—driving garbage trucks, swapping banter with his flat-capped mates in local pubs, and railing against foreigners across the Channel.

But the 1970s and ’80s in the UK were far more than fashion trends, pop music, or flashy consumerism. Beneath the neon lights and padded shoulders, they were a period marked by social fracture and violent unrest. Poverty soared, the gap between rich and poor widened to unprecedented levels, and cities like Brixton, Liverpool, Leeds, Manchester, and Birmingham erupted in protest and revolt.

The death of Blair Peach, killed by the Metropolitan Police’s Special Patrol Group—an infamous unit operating with near impunity—exemplified the brutal state repression of the time. Laws such as the Vagrancy Act 1824 and Clause 28 exploited ignorance and fear, targeting marginalized communities, particularly LGBTQ+ people.

Meanwhile, Thatcher’s government forged cynical alliances with apartheid South Africa, welcoming its leaders as friends while extremist voices within the Conservative Party—some linked by business interests—denounced the African National Congress as terrorists. Calls for the execution of Nelson Mandela echoed at party conferences as violence and unrest shook the country again in 1990 with the poll tax riots. A pattern repeated decades later in 2011 under David Cameron, when riots once again gripped cities across the UK.

Today, the script may be updated, spun, and tailored for the digital age—disseminated through targeted social media ads and disinformation campaigns—but the underlying narrative remains unaltered. The Johnson administration is testing boundaries, deliberately stoking tensions to gauge resistance. The deportations of Jamaicans under his watch echo the playbook of reactionary populists like Trump—dividing communities to consolidate power.

Johnson is a puppet, complicit in a reactionary political project funded by billionaires and oligarchs intent on destabilizing oversight and accountability—most visibly through their war on the EU. Unfettered greed, history tells us, will ultimately self-destruct, but not before poisoning the social fabric in ways that will take years to undo.

Looking back to the 1980s and placing them in today’s context, it is clear that the extent of the coming damage depends largely on the resistance of the younger generations. Until that resistance crystallizes, Johnson will continue to push forward, indifferent to the social consequences. Violence and unrest may not be the inevitable outcome, but given the Conservative Party’s track record, any fallout is too often treated as mere collateral damage.

The wheels keep turning—and so must we, with vigilance and resolve.

Walls

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I’ve voted Labour member since I was eligible to vote, and it’s never been about who leads the party — it’s about the values we stand for.

To win government, Labour must see itself as a family of 12 million, building alliances beyond our membership, whether that’s 100,000 or 500,000 strong. In the North, it’s not just political deals but real social networks that matter. It’s not enough to rebuild the Red Wall; we need to understand the foundations beneath it.

Winning means taking Scotland, the North, the Midlands—and beyond. So, when choosing our next leader, Labour friends, think carefully: this decision could keep us out of power for decades or bring us back stronger.

After such a tough defeat, humility is key. We must listen, reflect, learn—and come back more determined. Blame and anger got us here; let’s channel that energy wisely.

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Beak>

A Raw Slice of British Grassroots Politics

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Tucked away on Sandy Park Road in Brislington, Bristol, The Sandringham Pub stands firm—a no-nonsense local, tired but proud amid the growing café culture around it. Downstairs, regulars exchange stories and catch up on the day’s events, while upstairs, political hopefuls ready themselves for a hustings meeting—an intimate, sometimes chaotic forum where candidates lay out their cases for election or re-election.

Arriving early into a near-empty room, the scene is instantly vivid: an abandoned Father Christmas costume slumps in a corner, a well-worn skittle alley runs along one side, and a Banksy print hangs silently behind. The occasional flushing of toilets, inconveniently placed near the skittle lane, forces the audience to awkwardly navigate behind the speakers—adding a quirky charm to the proceedings.

The organisers’ attempts to arrange the top table provide their own drama. Tables shuffle, six glasses of water repeatedly move back and forth, as they try different seating angles—only to concede that either the chair or a speaker will inevitably end up on the skittle alley itself.

The evening unfolds like a scene from an Armando Iannucci script, mixing pantomime and personalities with genuine grassroots politics. There are serious debates, passionate hecklers, entrenched political tribes, and the occasional bemused visitor who’s clearly taken a wrong turn on the way to bingo.

In an age dominated by spin, social media echo chambers, and soundbites, there’s something refreshingly raw and honest about these meetings. They bring people with clashing views face-to-face, encouraging listening, dialogue, and the stark realisation that shared concerns bind us more than anger divides us. Here, it’s clear: the journey matters as much as the destination.

Brexit, inevitably, looms large. Like a faltering stroke victim struggling to articulate, no other topic escapes its shadow. It’s simultaneously depressing and fascinating to watch, as each speaker’s eyes reveal a shared weariness. We’re all stuck in the same ditch, grasping for symbolic deadlines to “get Brexit done,” yet no one truly knows how to heal the fractures within families, neighborhoods, and communities.

Some politicians push for a knockout victory, but victory over whom? In life, total victory is neither practical nor desirable. The art of compromise may seem absent now—but it’s only a matter of time before she comes knocking. Let’s hope we have the wisdom to answer the door.

Summer Holidaze

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Stanley stood rigid at the curb, Doris by his side, her hand brushing his. Down the hill, the driverless bus thundered toward them, metal beast on wheels, scraping inches past where they waited. Inside, a tempest roiled.

Passengers brawled, voices cracking like broken glass. Village faces peered anxiously, jaws tight, eyes wide.

Theresa sat just behind the empty driver’s seat, fingers stuffed in her ears, lost to the storm. Opposite her, Jeremy covered his eyes, peeking through his fingers at the vacant wheel, whispering a prayer—hope and defiance tangled on his breath.

Behind them, Nigel’s long finger jabbed accusingly at the last few who’d boarded. “Sabotage!” he barked, voice sharp enough to cut glass.

A small mob spat curses—at one another and at the chaos itself. The bus jolted over bumps, and Ariaf’s grip slipped. A vanilla shake splattered over Tommy’s new school uniform. He wailed, clutching Bernard, his pet snail, now hidden away in a cardboard box. “How’m I gonna tell Mum?” he sobbed, finger already pointing.

Vince bounced up and down, desperate for notice after being banished for helping David—the driver—to escape through the emergency hatch.

Nearby, self-styled ideologues debated, trading grudging praise for the 1939 Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact, their eyes glittering with twisted admiration.

Caroline sat alone, calm and patient, knitting a jumper stitch by stitch, waiting.

As the looming brick wall hurtled closer, Chuka, Anna, and Heidi linked hands with others, raising their voices in ancient hymns.

Nicola shouted for a show of hands—any brave souls willing to climb to the roof. Ariene screamed, “No surrender!” as the wall grew impossibly close.

Meanwhile, the nation sat glued to radios, Cliff Richard’s Summer Holiday on eternal repeat, young faces exchanging helpless, desperate looks.

Stanley caught Doris’s eye, his voice soft but certain. “Ah Doris, Brexit means Brexit.”

She licked her melting ice cream, then turned to the pelican crossing button. The sharp beeping sliced the chaos, halting cars. Hand in hand, they stepped off the curb, away from the madness, crossing to the bus station as if nothing had changed.

https://youtu.be/-DxqdIA75sc

End Games

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Realisation has a way of sneaking up on you—slow, almost imperceptible, yet wrapped tightly in the simplest form of common sense. For me, it came quietly toward the end of 2018, the moment I deliberately stepped back from social media groups, especially those sprawling Facebook communities. What began as hopeful spaces for open dialogue and genuine free speech among people with differing opinions had morphed into something far darker.

This past weekend, curiosity got the better of me, and I tentatively dipped my toes back into that digital ocean.

The calm I’d grown accustomed to over months evaporated instantly—like morning mist chased away by the harsh glare of the sun. Within hours, I was pulled into a whirlpool of toxic arguments, rife with intolerant attitudes and bitter resentments. One particular Facebook group felt less like a forum and more like a grim echo chamber—populated mostly by frustrated, angry voices, overwhelmingly white men, lobbing lazy, manufactured memes and personal attacks with the fury of children flinging custard pies. That’s where we’ve landed. Is this really the state of discourse in the UK?

We don’t talk anymore. Worse, we don’t listen. Instead, we shout louder, mock more viciously, and often seem determined to wound each other. Our nation feels splintered, like a fragile union trembling on the brink of collapse. Battles over identity rage at the extremes, while the silent majority looks away, burdened by shame and embarrassment. Meanwhile, the rest of the world watches in disbelief, trying to make sense of a once-proud country unraveling before their eyes.

And so, on that Saturday, I did something quietly radical. I switched off from the noise and digital chaos, stepped outside, and said hello to a complete stranger while walking my dog. Sometimes, that’s where true connection begins.

When the Person You Knew Becomes a Stranger

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I want to share a recent experience that shines a small but revealing light on a troubling trend sweeping communities—not just here in the UK, but in the US and beyond. It’s about perception, personal accountability, and the double lives some people choose to live. It’s about how we engage and communicate as we shift between our real, everyday lives and the virtual world of social media, where the person you think you know can suddenly feel like a complete stranger.

Most importantly, it’s about how ignorance is preyed upon to deliberately fuel hate and toxicity—poison that has seeped deep into our culture and been weaponized by politicians. George Orwell’s classic 1984 introduced us to “doublespeak,” where words mean their opposite: when Big Brother says “Love,” he means hate; when he says “Peace,” he means war.

When my family and I left Salisbury after seven happy years and returned to Bristol, we left behind a circle of friends who enriched our lives and whom we still cherish. Our Salisbury neighbours, the vast majority, treated us with kindness and warmth. Among them was Peter—a handyman, a regular visitor, someone we trusted. Even our dog, Poppy, lit up at his voice. Peter was there when we needed him, or so we thought.

But once we settled in Bristol and reconnected with friends on Facebook, a harsh and unsettling truth emerged. Suddenly, hateful posts and images from extreme right-wing groups started appearing in my feed—posts far beyond shock-jock tastelessness and often linked to groups known for violence.

The source? Peter.

He posted ugly, offensive content. His obsession with reinstating the Golliwog doll as a symbol of “Britishness” was particularly disturbing. After my wife sent him a heartfelt message calling out his behaviour, he responded with nothing but a thumbs-up emoji—and carried on.

I decided to confront his hate head-on, not expecting to change his mind, but hoping to plant a seed of doubt in his followers and family who witnessed the online clash. It didn’t surprise me that hateful voices quickly retreat when challenged calmly, only to sneak back once they think no one is watching. That’s exactly what Peter did.

Recently, noticing his posts getting fewer likes, Peter launched attacks on my Facebook page. He’s a staunch supporter of Brexit, UKIP, and Trump-style politics—his bigotry clearly intertwined with his politics. Watching him stumble and flail as my friends challenged him online became one of my moments of the year.

Things escalated further after he tried to use Remembrance Sunday to score cheap political points. I simply asked him to show some respect for those who made the ultimate sacrifice. Not long after, he returned to his Golliwog fixation. When I challenged him again, he defended himself with the tired excuse of having non-white friends, then blocked me after I asked if he’d buy his friends’ children such a doll for Christmas.

Peter is a textbook case of Orwellian doublespeak. What he says and what he does are worlds apart. The toxic content he shares is fed to him by extremist groups he chooses to associate with—and in doing so, he becomes a reflection of them.

Why share this? First, I’m relieved Peter is no longer part of our lives. But more importantly, we live in dangerous times when decency and moderation seem out of fashion, and reactionary, nationalist, racist politics try to claim space. These voices are not the mainstream, and they never will be.

Those of us who know better must stand united, calmly resist, and push back the hate under the rocks it crawled out from. Have the courage to challenge those who mean harm, no matter who they are. And remember the wise words of Bill Hicks: “Love all the people all the time.”

Gina Miller: Bristol Festival Ideas: 04.10.18

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A Portrait of Division and Defiance –Tuesday evening found me in the company of Gina Miller, a figure best known for her landmark legal challenge that forced the UK Government to seek Parliamentary approval before triggering Article 50 and beginning the Brexit process. In today’s fractured political landscape, Miller has, willingly or not, become a beacon for those desperate for leadership and clarity amid the chaos.

But the price of such visibility has been horrific. Miller has endured an unrelenting torrent of abuse—threats of violence, racial harassment, and vile misogyny. Her personal office has received dangerous packages, her legal team harassed outside their workplaces. Even members of the aristocracy have targeted her with vile, hate-filled public remarks, including the 4th Viscount St Davids, who called her a “boat jumper” and offered a bounty for someone to “accidentally” run her over. The vitriol is a stark and disturbing reminder of the dark undercurrents roiling beneath our society.

How did we get here? It’s a question that haunts me, no matter what side of the political divide you stand on. What has stirred such profound hostility, such a corrosive bitterness? This isn’t mere political disagreement—it is a deep, painful darkness that strikes at the heart of community and civility. It is the ugly resentment of the “grumpy uncle” or the neighbour who blames everyone but refuses to reflect.

Just last Sunday, I spent over two hours at a public meeting discussing a proposed winter shelter for the homeless in my neighbourhood. Such topics are always delicate, often inflaming frustrations about local governance and the fear of change. Yet none of that could excuse the venom directed not only at the council but, heartbreakingly, at those most vulnerable in our community—the homeless men and women who face the real threat of freezing to death this winter.

Concerns over property values and personal safety are understandable, and the council must address them calmly and clearly. But the atmosphere of the meeting was poisoned by hostility—a relentless, almost physical rage. Hands clenched, faces reddened, and interruptions were constant. This was not debate, but a display of emboldened intolerance and disregard for others. It mirrored the wider social fracturing Gina Miller speaks of—our inability to listen, empathize, and engage with each other as fellow citizens.

Miller’s analysis tonight resonated deeply. She spoke candidly about Brexit, the erosion of political accountability, and the urgent need to open dialogues across our fractured nation. Yet, some of her hopes—like the promise of a kinder, more socially aware capitalism—felt, at times, overly optimistic. Waiting for the financial elite to embrace genuine reform is a hope long deferred, especially for those who have borne the brunt of failed market-based solutions since the 1980s.

The mood in the room was one of grief and bewilderment, particularly during the Q&A when Miller called for outreach to those who voted for Brexit. An elderly man’s question, “How do we get into their heads to change their minds?” spoke volumes—not just about political division, but about a profound misunderstanding. It’s not about “getting into heads,” but about listening, showing empathy, and supporting policies that address real economic injustice.

Gina Miller is an extraordinary woman—a symbol of courage and common decency in an age where both are in short supply. The hatred she endures is despicable and must be condemned unequivocally. While her recent switch from Labour to the Liberal Democrats may disappoint some, it reflects her commitment to an ethos of “kinder capitalism,” even as we acknowledge the irony of austerity policies that sowed seeds of Brexit under the previous coalition government.

Perhaps, in the aftermath of Brexit’s tumult, we will better appreciate the value of Miller’s work. For now, as I finish this reflection, a new report from the Institute for Public Policy Research lands in my inbox. It calls for a “radical overhaul” of Britain’s economy comparable to post-war reforms or Thatcher’s revolution, to confront decades of stagnation since the 2008 crash.

Insightful, well-meaning—but for many, it feels like a call made while Rome burns.

The B Movie is being Re Ron

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“The first thing I want to say is mandate my ass” the opening words from Gil Scott Heron in his 1981 (15-minute) track B Movie.

https://youtu.be/sLtRHN7fsgY

B Movie served as the B side to the single Re-Ron both quintessentially criticising the election of populist right-wing actor Ronald Reagan to the White House. It was also the closing track on his 1981 album Reflections. While some of the detail within the lyrics will seem dated I defy anybody not to listen and draw parallels with the ongoing American car crash we are all now witnessing. 30 years later and in many ways all that seems to have changed is the actor.