Surgin' Sturgeon (06/05/15)
Dan Hodges spent a couple of days 'embedded' with the good people of Fife as the SNP and Labour battle to win the formerly safe seat of Kirkcaldy and Cowdenbeath.
But Dan is right you know, as only a true outside can be, Kirkcaldy has been neglected for decades and does indeed have the feel of a Soviet-era holiday destination, in much the same way that old pit villages like Kelty and Lochgelly also seem frozen in time.
What does the SNP surge look like up close?
Dan Hodges went to Gordon Brown's old constituency and saw how the SNP was assaulting Scottish Labour's last fortress
SNP leader Nicola Sturgeon meets members of the public during campaigning in Edinburgh Photo: Jeff J Mitchell/Getty Images
By Dan Hodges - The Telegraph
Gordon Brown’s house lies at the top of a winding road in the picturesque village of North Queensferry. It’s easy to spot, with its bright, shiny red door, and little cluster of security cameras around the gate.
For the last two decades Brown has been able to look out watchfully, from its upper windows, across to his constituency. The securest constituency in the strongest Labour region in all of the United Kingdom. But if the opinion polls are right, some time after 10:00 pm this Thursday, that final Scottish redoubt will fall. Kirkcaldy and Cowdenbeath, current Labour majority 23,009, will be seized by the Scottish National Party.
Sitting in his campaign office – surrounded by leaflets, stuffed envelopes and the rest of his campaign paraphernalia – the SNP’s candidate Roger Mullin isn’t exactly hurling himself at the parapets. “Difficult to say. We’ve been helped by the Ashcroft poll”, is his low-key response to my question about whether or not he’s about to shatter the mould of British politics.
A Conservative campaign poster outside Gordon Brown's house in 2010 (Reuters/Russell Cheyne)
The poll he refers to was published on 4 March. It showed Mullin 6 points ahead of his Labour opponent Kenny Selbie. Had a flying saucer descended and obliterated Edinburgh Castle with its death-ray, it could not have sent such a shockwave through the Scottish political establishment.
Mullin’s office is located in the centre of Kirkcaldy high-street. I’ve come here in an attempt to understand the “SNP Surge”, that quasi-religious phenomenon that is sweeping Scotland, reshaping the election and set to recast our nation.
But driving into this small coastal town, the only surge in evidence is from the slate grey waves barrelling in from the Firth of Forth. If North Queensferry is picturesque, Kirkcaldy – with its imposing sea wall and towering council blocks – has the feel of a Soviet-era holiday resort.
The poll he refers to was published on 4 March. It showed Mullin 6 points ahead of his Labour opponent Kenny Selbie. Had a flying saucer descended and obliterated Edinburgh Castle with its death-ray, it could not have sent such a shockwave through the Scottish political establishment.
Mullin’s office is located in the centre of Kirkcaldy high-street. I’ve come here in an attempt to understand the “SNP Surge”, that quasi-religious phenomenon that is sweeping Scotland, reshaping the election and set to recast our nation.
But driving into this small coastal town, the only surge in evidence is from the slate grey waves barrelling in from the Firth of Forth. If North Queensferry is picturesque, Kirkcaldy – with its imposing sea wall and towering council blocks – has the feel of a Soviet-era holiday resort.
Roger Mullin campaigns on the Templehall estate in Kirkcaldy (Jeff J Mitchell/Getty)
Kirkcaldy and Cowdenbeath, the constituency Gordon Brown served for 32 years until he stepped down at the dissolution, was described to me as “diverse”. And it is. A place where steel seems to rise from the soil. One minute you’re staring out at the raw, red architecture of the Forth railway bridge, or gazing down on the leviathan that is the Royal Navy’s new aircraft carrier, slowly emerging from its cocoon in Rosyth shipyard. The next you’re surrounded by rolling hillsides, cows and sweeping yellow and black carpets of oilseed rape. Yellow and black – SNP colours.
But standing in the centre of Kirkcaldy you feel none of this power or beauty. Ramsdens pawnbrokers seems to be doing a brisk trade. The two shops next door are boarded up. Last month Tesco closed its doors, with the loss of 180 jobs. “Brown said he’d save it,” Roger Mullin explains to me, “but he didn’t."
One of the things you quickly realise is that Mullin – in his own mind a least – isn’t running against Kenny Selbie. He’s running against the Godfather of Scottish Labour. Which is ironic, given the education consultant and University of Stirling honorary professor (he lectures in Applied Decision Theory, The Political Environment, and Organisation Change) actually reminds me of Gordon Brown quite a lot. He speaks with a control and precision that seem to mask an inner intensity. He’s keen to construct a moral framework around his politics. And he likes to draw plentifully from the intellectual and philosophical well when delivering his political messages.
Kirkcaldy and Cowdenbeath, the constituency Gordon Brown served for 32 years until he stepped down at the dissolution, was described to me as “diverse”. And it is. A place where steel seems to rise from the soil. One minute you’re staring out at the raw, red architecture of the Forth railway bridge, or gazing down on the leviathan that is the Royal Navy’s new aircraft carrier, slowly emerging from its cocoon in Rosyth shipyard. The next you’re surrounded by rolling hillsides, cows and sweeping yellow and black carpets of oilseed rape. Yellow and black – SNP colours.
But standing in the centre of Kirkcaldy you feel none of this power or beauty. Ramsdens pawnbrokers seems to be doing a brisk trade. The two shops next door are boarded up. Last month Tesco closed its doors, with the loss of 180 jobs. “Brown said he’d save it,” Roger Mullin explains to me, “but he didn’t."
One of the things you quickly realise is that Mullin – in his own mind a least – isn’t running against Kenny Selbie. He’s running against the Godfather of Scottish Labour. Which is ironic, given the education consultant and University of Stirling honorary professor (he lectures in Applied Decision Theory, The Political Environment, and Organisation Change) actually reminds me of Gordon Brown quite a lot. He speaks with a control and precision that seem to mask an inner intensity. He’s keen to construct a moral framework around his politics. And he likes to draw plentifully from the intellectual and philosophical well when delivering his political messages.
Kirkcaldy high street (Dan Hodges)
When I ask him for his take on the dramatic upswing in his party’s fortunes he trots out all the usual stuff about Labour arrogance and post referendum betrayal. But then he pauses. “Something is happening here at a deeper level. People are asking for something more. For their communities. For their culture. What were seeing here is the birth of a different sort of movement. Something more akin to the sort of political movements you see on the continent.”
A couple of hours later we’re out and about in one of those communities.
Kelty is a former mining village and Roger Mullin is doing a walkabout. Up until this point I have primarily been speaking to the traditional ensemble cast of the itinerant journalist – cab drivers, publicans, waitresses, shopkeepers. And almost to a man and woman, they have claimed to be voting SNP.
But out here I watch as politics and real life crunch up against each other. The street is sparsely populated, but the people we meet are real people. Real-real people, not the real people we saw at last week’s Question Time – politically engaged and motivated enough to turn up and pin their leaders to the floor. Politics in Kelty isn’t a distraction, it’s a never-present.
The first man we meet is from Poland, who doesn’t initially understand who Mullin and his campaign team are, or what they want. Mullin finally hooks him with a discussion on immigration. The second, a younger man with glasses, admits he doesn’t know when the election is. The next four sprint away across the street, shouting that they’re off to watch the football. A woman with a small child seems friendly, but then the child becomes alarmed at the attention of all these strangers, and the conversation is cut short.
As we reach the end of the road, I notice someone at the window of a nearby flat taking a picture on his phone. Roger Mullin waves and the man waves back. Moments later we’re knocking on his door. “Hi, that was me across the road”. The man stares at him like he has five heads. “I’m your local SNP candidate, Roger Mullin. I was…”. A woman appears from a side room. “Oh, hi, I’m Roger Mullin”. She looks him up and down. “Aye, Roger that!” She laughs hysterically, then disappears. The man is still staring. “We thought you were Gordon Brown”, he says.
When we leave the flat, Mullin leads me across the street to a small community centre. Outside is a statue of a miner, looking off into the distance. “This is to commemorate all the men who died in the local pits”, he tells me. I’m about to ask how many men were lost. Then I follow the miner’s gaze back up the deserted high street. And I remember that they all were.
The next morning I’m back in Kelty. At least, it looks like Kelty. Same pub. Same corner shop. Same bookies. Same sense of slow, irreversible decay.
But in fact, I’m in Lochgelly. It’s another former pit village, home to the Fife Labour Party. I’ve come to meet Kenny Selbie, who is planning to do some canvassing. But unfortunately the rain is bucketing down, so he’s going to be doing some phone canvassing instead.
As I wait for him in the flooded hallway of the Ore Valley business centre I look at the names on the units. A number are empty. The rest represent the standard industrial regeneration sticking plaster. Community Growing Solutions. West Fife Community Support Service. Lochgelly Community Development Forum.
Selbie finally appears, running across the rain swept car park. He’s wearing a smart dark suit and a purple tie. Standard Labour key seat issue.
But Kenny Selbie is not – quite – your standard Labour Party key seat candidate. As we talk he sticks rigidly to the Labour Party line. “Yes, I think Ed was quite right to rule out any deal with the SNP. It’s playing well in this constituency.”
When I ask him for his take on the dramatic upswing in his party’s fortunes he trots out all the usual stuff about Labour arrogance and post referendum betrayal. But then he pauses. “Something is happening here at a deeper level. People are asking for something more. For their communities. For their culture. What were seeing here is the birth of a different sort of movement. Something more akin to the sort of political movements you see on the continent.”
A couple of hours later we’re out and about in one of those communities.
Kelty is a former mining village and Roger Mullin is doing a walkabout. Up until this point I have primarily been speaking to the traditional ensemble cast of the itinerant journalist – cab drivers, publicans, waitresses, shopkeepers. And almost to a man and woman, they have claimed to be voting SNP.
But out here I watch as politics and real life crunch up against each other. The street is sparsely populated, but the people we meet are real people. Real-real people, not the real people we saw at last week’s Question Time – politically engaged and motivated enough to turn up and pin their leaders to the floor. Politics in Kelty isn’t a distraction, it’s a never-present.
The first man we meet is from Poland, who doesn’t initially understand who Mullin and his campaign team are, or what they want. Mullin finally hooks him with a discussion on immigration. The second, a younger man with glasses, admits he doesn’t know when the election is. The next four sprint away across the street, shouting that they’re off to watch the football. A woman with a small child seems friendly, but then the child becomes alarmed at the attention of all these strangers, and the conversation is cut short.
As we reach the end of the road, I notice someone at the window of a nearby flat taking a picture on his phone. Roger Mullin waves and the man waves back. Moments later we’re knocking on his door. “Hi, that was me across the road”. The man stares at him like he has five heads. “I’m your local SNP candidate, Roger Mullin. I was…”. A woman appears from a side room. “Oh, hi, I’m Roger Mullin”. She looks him up and down. “Aye, Roger that!” She laughs hysterically, then disappears. The man is still staring. “We thought you were Gordon Brown”, he says.
When we leave the flat, Mullin leads me across the street to a small community centre. Outside is a statue of a miner, looking off into the distance. “This is to commemorate all the men who died in the local pits”, he tells me. I’m about to ask how many men were lost. Then I follow the miner’s gaze back up the deserted high street. And I remember that they all were.
The next morning I’m back in Kelty. At least, it looks like Kelty. Same pub. Same corner shop. Same bookies. Same sense of slow, irreversible decay.
But in fact, I’m in Lochgelly. It’s another former pit village, home to the Fife Labour Party. I’ve come to meet Kenny Selbie, who is planning to do some canvassing. But unfortunately the rain is bucketing down, so he’s going to be doing some phone canvassing instead.
As I wait for him in the flooded hallway of the Ore Valley business centre I look at the names on the units. A number are empty. The rest represent the standard industrial regeneration sticking plaster. Community Growing Solutions. West Fife Community Support Service. Lochgelly Community Development Forum.
Selbie finally appears, running across the rain swept car park. He’s wearing a smart dark suit and a purple tie. Standard Labour key seat issue.
But Kenny Selbie is not – quite – your standard Labour Party key seat candidate. As we talk he sticks rigidly to the Labour Party line. “Yes, I think Ed was quite right to rule out any deal with the SNP. It’s playing well in this constituency.”
Kenny Selbie at a rally in Kirkcaldy in April (Danny Lawson/PA Wire)
It’s isn’t, of course. Miliband’s refusal to break bread with Nicola Sturgeon is killing Labour here just as surely as it is everywhere else in Scotland.
But there’s a humility about Selbie, a human resources manager, that is quite engaging. He talks in almost reverential tones about Brown. “He’s been wonderful … Who wouldn’t want to have the support of someone like that?” And it’s obvious he feels a keen sense of responsibility for safeguarding his legacy. When I ask him if he has nightmares about being the man who lost Kirkcaldy, he laughs. “There’s no denying it’s a pressurised situation. Obviously, when you see something like the Ashcroft poll it’s … a cause for concern”. As he says that his hand trembles slightly.
He leaves me to start his phone-canvassing. But as I sit waiting for my cab the sound of his and his team’s conversations drift into the corridor.
“Hi, I’m phoning from the Labour Party. Oh, bye”. “No, no, that’s no problem. Thank you anyway”. “Yes, we’re fighting for every vote”. “OK, that’s fine. Sorry to trouble you”.
That evening I’m back in Kirkcaldy. The SNP faithful are gathering for a rally in the Old Kirk. Well over a hundred people are in attendance. They hear a band, a speech from Winnie Ewing’s daughter and an appeal from a Buddhist monk on behalf of the Nepal relief fund.
Then Roger Mullin takes to the stage. He has an important announcement, he says. But before he makes it, he needs a promise that no one in the room will tweet what he has to say. People nod expectantly.
“I’ve just had a phone conversation”. He counts a beat. “Nicola is coming to visit us again tomorrow”. A burst of electricity surges through he audience. She is coming. The Khaleesi of Scottish nationalismis going to personally lead the charge on the final redoubt.
I look across at the stained glass window to my right. It contains an inscription. “Lord now lettest thou servant depart in peace”. Not if Nicola Sturgeon has anything to do with it.
The next morning I’m standing outside the Merkat shopping centre, just along from the SNP offices. Having been informed of Sturgeon’s impending arrival local activists have actually been encouraged not to attend. The fervour of the loyalists is apparently inhibiting their leader from greeting “ordinary voters”. This strikes me as the political equivalent of teaching a child to walk, then asking it not to. As it is, about 20 people I recognise from the Old Kirk are clustered around the small street stall, which is crammed with balloons, windmills and glad-hands with giant protruding SNP thumbs.
It’s isn’t, of course. Miliband’s refusal to break bread with Nicola Sturgeon is killing Labour here just as surely as it is everywhere else in Scotland.
But there’s a humility about Selbie, a human resources manager, that is quite engaging. He talks in almost reverential tones about Brown. “He’s been wonderful … Who wouldn’t want to have the support of someone like that?” And it’s obvious he feels a keen sense of responsibility for safeguarding his legacy. When I ask him if he has nightmares about being the man who lost Kirkcaldy, he laughs. “There’s no denying it’s a pressurised situation. Obviously, when you see something like the Ashcroft poll it’s … a cause for concern”. As he says that his hand trembles slightly.
He leaves me to start his phone-canvassing. But as I sit waiting for my cab the sound of his and his team’s conversations drift into the corridor.
“Hi, I’m phoning from the Labour Party. Oh, bye”. “No, no, that’s no problem. Thank you anyway”. “Yes, we’re fighting for every vote”. “OK, that’s fine. Sorry to trouble you”.
That evening I’m back in Kirkcaldy. The SNP faithful are gathering for a rally in the Old Kirk. Well over a hundred people are in attendance. They hear a band, a speech from Winnie Ewing’s daughter and an appeal from a Buddhist monk on behalf of the Nepal relief fund.
Then Roger Mullin takes to the stage. He has an important announcement, he says. But before he makes it, he needs a promise that no one in the room will tweet what he has to say. People nod expectantly.
“I’ve just had a phone conversation”. He counts a beat. “Nicola is coming to visit us again tomorrow”. A burst of electricity surges through he audience. She is coming. The Khaleesi of Scottish nationalismis going to personally lead the charge on the final redoubt.
I look across at the stained glass window to my right. It contains an inscription. “Lord now lettest thou servant depart in peace”. Not if Nicola Sturgeon has anything to do with it.
The next morning I’m standing outside the Merkat shopping centre, just along from the SNP offices. Having been informed of Sturgeon’s impending arrival local activists have actually been encouraged not to attend. The fervour of the loyalists is apparently inhibiting their leader from greeting “ordinary voters”. This strikes me as the political equivalent of teaching a child to walk, then asking it not to. As it is, about 20 people I recognise from the Old Kirk are clustered around the small street stall, which is crammed with balloons, windmills and glad-hands with giant protruding SNP thumbs.
SNP supporters wave from a window at a similar occasion in Largs, on the west coast (Danny Lawson/PA Wire)
Directly opposite a tall SNP worker in a yellow bib is stopping passersby, asking them if they want to meet “Scotland’s First Minister”. But again, these are real-real people. A man carrying a small child laughs and shakes his head. “I don’t, no”. An elderly woman stops, checks her watch, then moves on. A young man scurries past with a curt “no, definitely not”.
Eventually the event starts to exert it’s own gravity. The TV cameras and photographers have arrived, and a crowd is starting to gather to observe the crowd.
And then, as if someone has shouted “action”, the clouds part, the sunlight streams down, and there she is. A tiny figure in a dark jacket, bright red dress and matching red shoes. Red. Even her heels are taunting the Labour Party.
Directly opposite a tall SNP worker in a yellow bib is stopping passersby, asking them if they want to meet “Scotland’s First Minister”. But again, these are real-real people. A man carrying a small child laughs and shakes his head. “I don’t, no”. An elderly woman stops, checks her watch, then moves on. A young man scurries past with a curt “no, definitely not”.
Eventually the event starts to exert it’s own gravity. The TV cameras and photographers have arrived, and a crowd is starting to gather to observe the crowd.
And then, as if someone has shouted “action”, the clouds part, the sunlight streams down, and there she is. A tiny figure in a dark jacket, bright red dress and matching red shoes. Red. Even her heels are taunting the Labour Party.
Red Dawn: Sturgeon arrives in Kirkcaldy (Danny Lawson/PA Wire)
She strides confidently up to the first person she sees, a woman who is excitedly extending her hand. The press pack surrounds them, and in that instant the moment of truth arrives. Does she have “the thing”?
To be a truly great politician, you have to have it. That ability – and it is a natural ability, it cannot be taught or coached – to transmit to the person in front of you the feeling that for that brief moment of interaction they are the only person on your planet. Blair had the thing. Clinton patented the thing.
Nicola Surgeon has the thing. The eyes lock. The body leans in. The free hand reaches over in the classic “double clasp”.
So off she goes, doing the thing. Her thing. Children are swept up (she really is very good with children). Supporters are hugged. Selfie after selfie after selfie is snapped.
Next to her Roger Mullin trots along, awkwardly trying to work out whether to try and interpose himself on proceedings, or step back. For a moment I feel a pang of sympathy for him – no one has the slightest interest in having their photo taken with him. But then I look at his face. The reserve and control have gone, and he’s standing there grinning like a young child on Christmas morning. “Nicola, this is my daughter”, he says. “Could she have a selfie as well?”
She strides confidently up to the first person she sees, a woman who is excitedly extending her hand. The press pack surrounds them, and in that instant the moment of truth arrives. Does she have “the thing”?
To be a truly great politician, you have to have it. That ability – and it is a natural ability, it cannot be taught or coached – to transmit to the person in front of you the feeling that for that brief moment of interaction they are the only person on your planet. Blair had the thing. Clinton patented the thing.
Nicola Surgeon has the thing. The eyes lock. The body leans in. The free hand reaches over in the classic “double clasp”.
So off she goes, doing the thing. Her thing. Children are swept up (she really is very good with children). Supporters are hugged. Selfie after selfie after selfie is snapped.
Next to her Roger Mullin trots along, awkwardly trying to work out whether to try and interpose himself on proceedings, or step back. For a moment I feel a pang of sympathy for him – no one has the slightest interest in having their photo taken with him. But then I look at his face. The reserve and control have gone, and he’s standing there grinning like a young child on Christmas morning. “Nicola, this is my daughter”, he says. “Could she have a selfie as well?”
Sturgeon at a similar event in Largs (Danny Lawson/PA Wire)
Next to me to women stand looking on with genuine awe. “She’s so natural”, says one. “It’s incredible” says her friend “she’s so easy with people”.
It is incredible, actually. Sturgeon has only been SNP leader since November, but the composure and skill with which she’s managed herself and her party through this election campaign has been remarkable.
But as I watch Nicolamania unfolding in front of me I can’t help wondering: is it political? People are grabbing photos. People are wishing her luck. But is it because she’s Scotland’s leading revolutionary, or because she’s now Scotland’s foremost celebrity?
As Sturgeon prepares to do a quick round of TV grabs I turn away, and start to walk back along the street towards the station. All around me are a lot more real-real people. They seem happy to let the excitement outside the Merkat centre pass them by.
The SNP surge is clearly real. Or perhaps more accurately, the Sturgeon Surge is real. But if I had to bet, I would bet Labour’s last redoubt will hold. And maybe a few more besides.
The people of Scotland want to send a message to Westminster. They want to register their anger at what they see as the post-referendum betrayal. And they want to show Ed Miliband and David Cameron and Nick Clegg that they dismiss them a their peril.
But what do the real-real people of Scotland want? The real-real people of Kirkcaldy? Of Kelty? Of Lochgelly?
I’m not sure. But someone needs to offer them something. Anything, actually.
Next to me to women stand looking on with genuine awe. “She’s so natural”, says one. “It’s incredible” says her friend “she’s so easy with people”.
It is incredible, actually. Sturgeon has only been SNP leader since November, but the composure and skill with which she’s managed herself and her party through this election campaign has been remarkable.
But as I watch Nicolamania unfolding in front of me I can’t help wondering: is it political? People are grabbing photos. People are wishing her luck. But is it because she’s Scotland’s leading revolutionary, or because she’s now Scotland’s foremost celebrity?
As Sturgeon prepares to do a quick round of TV grabs I turn away, and start to walk back along the street towards the station. All around me are a lot more real-real people. They seem happy to let the excitement outside the Merkat centre pass them by.
The SNP surge is clearly real. Or perhaps more accurately, the Sturgeon Surge is real. But if I had to bet, I would bet Labour’s last redoubt will hold. And maybe a few more besides.
The people of Scotland want to send a message to Westminster. They want to register their anger at what they see as the post-referendum betrayal. And they want to show Ed Miliband and David Cameron and Nick Clegg that they dismiss them a their peril.
But what do the real-real people of Scotland want? The real-real people of Kirkcaldy? Of Kelty? Of Lochgelly?
I’m not sure. But someone needs to offer them something. Anything, actually.
