Kenneth
Roy's
Midweek

Powerless politics

A dying English woman, on her last holiday, is effectively kidnapped in an Egyptian hotel until she agrees to settle the bill which should have been paid by her bankrupt travel operator. Babies are denied a change of nappy amid scenes of chaos in a Cypriot airport, as stranded holidaymakers wonder when they will get home. Four thousand people who turn up for work in Canary Wharf in London end the day carrying their possessions out of the building, their livelihoods abruptly terminated by decisions taken in another country. These are among this week's images of powerlessness.
     Politicians, suddenly they look powerless too. But we should have known that already.
     One of Bush men's, a Treasury guy called Hank, appears grinning nervously at a press conference in Washington and the word 'Lehman's' is not mentioned once in a barely coherent introduction. 'Difficult times...certain excesses in the market...' he mutters. 'I'll take your questions'. The second question is good, going straight to the heart of the matter: 'How did we get here?' After Hank's attempt at a reply, we are none the wiser. The politics of obfuscation is unaffected by meltdown Monday. They're still in business to make it as difficult as possible to comprehend how we got here. All we know is what we sense for ourselves – that here is nasty and threatening; and that we're on our own.
     Meanwhile, in Britain, the Prime Minister is silent on the dying English woman, the babies without clean nappies, the redundant PAs of Canary Wharf. When he got the job, what seems a long time ago, he was overtaken at once by a series of unforeseen events, including the extensive flooding of parts of England. He responded to each of these national mini-emergencies convincingly, adopting a quiet, statesmanlike pose in marked contrast to the drama queenery of his predecessor. Although he did not do very much, for there was nothing much he could do, people thought well of him for his reassuring presence. At that early stage, the phrase 'no flash, just Gordon' would not have provoked howls of derisive laughter.
     Who knows what Mr Brown thinks these days? He says so very little. As the travel firm hovered on the brink of collapse, as the latest backbench rebellion gathered speed, the BBC reported that he was 'spending the morning in discussions about digital technology'. Either the Prime Minister was taking time off to have his laptop fixed, or he was not in full possession of the facts.
     The message of the week (so far: it's only Tuesday) is the impotence of modern government in the face of global capitalism's comprehensive horrors: not for the first time recently, politicians have been forced to acknowledge the severe limits of their capacity. Perhaps the best we can hope for is what used to be known dismissively as 'gesture politics', the minor initiative of some practical good and symbolic value. Only the First Minister of Scotland seems to be aware of the importance of gesture politics. Whether he is scrapping bridge tolls or enabling hospital visitors to park their cars without charge, Mr Salmond is a master of this small art.
     'Who do you blame?' one of the stranded holiday-makers in Cyprus is asked. 'The British government,' he replies at once. He is being unfair, just a bit. But you know where he's coming from: the lack of any sense that our government cares. The dying English woman in Egypt is entitled to feel that the Prime Minister of her country does care; that he is ready to pick up the telephone and intervene personally, breaking off his discussions on digital technology to do so. As the sky darkens, symbolism matters. Gestures count.