I first picked up a copy of The New Statesman at Glasgow Central Station on one of many trips I made between my parents’ home on the west coast of Scotland to Edinburgh where I was a student. I can’t recall the year, but it must have been during the editorial reign of Anthony Howard (1972-1978) who succeeded Richard Crossman. A previous editor, Paul Johnson who I had the privilege of meeting on several occasions, had long since stepped down and had moved to the right politically. All I recall about the issue was that another, then socialist, icon and a person I always admired greatly, Malcolm Muggeridge, declared in its pages his own move rightwards.
Otherwise, I must have been hooked as I subscribed for years well into and beyond my postgraduate years until I too moved to the right. The New Statesman appealed to my youthful enthusiasm for all things socialist and intellectual. I was a Labour Party member, a member of the Fabian Society and a committed trades unionist. Only the trade unionism remains. I well recall seeing future PM Gordy Broon at Fabian meetings—we were contemporaries at Edinburgh—especially as he turned up with the Romanian beauty and one of the five daughters of King Michael I of Romania, Princess Margareta. I once watched the French Open tennis championship on television with her mother, Queen Anne of Romania, in their home in Switzerland (Editor: enough name-dropping); as I recall, Frenchman Henri Leconte won. But that is definitely part of another story.
I hardly ever read The New Statesman these days. Until Covid British Airways used to provide free copies, along with The Spectator and other political magazines in their First Class lounges. I would stuff my carry-on bag with these to consume on a long haul flight but only ever found a few articles of any interest in The New Statesman and had no notions to re-subscribe or even, ever, to pay for a copy. But I ran out of reading material on the plane on the way back from Portugal this week and as Mrs Watson had put up with enough of my whining for one weekend, I decided to buy a copy of The New Statesman and bury my head in it for the duration of the train journey from King’s Cross to Hull. And it worked.
I think that the article—later shown to have been fabricated—that led to the defenestration of the terminally ill Roger Scruton and published in The New Statesman in 2019 by George Eaton verged on the unforgiveable. The magazine was forced to issue an apology. But I did thoroughly enjoy reading the recent copy (22-28 July 2022) and the fact that I had paid for it meant I was committed as a Scotsman to getting my money’s worth. Admittedly, however, it is a bit of a curate’s egg.
I nearly gave up at the editorial which opened with: “The extreme heatwave that engulfed the United Kingdom and most of Europe in recent days was not an aberration: it was part of a deadly trend.” Later, their Political Editor and all round smart Alec Andrew Marr, writing with the “sweat trickling down” his back opined that “Kindly, the climate is giving us a warning. Out there, the monsters are real.” It may have been better if he had remained at the BBC where he claimed he was less able to talk freely as there was further copious drivel about the ‘climate emergency’ in his column that I will not inflict on you.
However, thereafter, the magazine hardly put a foot wrong. There was the expected left-wing line on Ukraine but then a very unexpected and positive column by Shehan Karunatilaka on the ousting of the Sri Lankan President and his Prime Minister. This is something all right thinking people should welcome as these were a couple of nasty characters whose organic farming policy had driven the country into starvation. There was a lengthy ‘Encounter’ column with ex-Tory leadership no-hoper Rory Stewart in which he made it crystal clear that we should all be glad he was not chosen. The man’s a socialist.
I thought their analysis of the current bumper crop of other socialists running for leadership of the Tory party hit many nails on the head. Probably it takes some to know some. Likewise, the analysis of Joe Biden’s failed presidency was accurate. Finally, I was pleasantly surprised by an article from Alex Clark on ‘the publishing wars’. This could have graced the pages of The Spectator or Salisbury Review. It was scathing about some of the recent cancellations of authors and dropping by publishers for holding unpalatable views, such as the ridiculous notion that only women have vaginas. I doubt I will be rushing out to purchase another copy any time soon but will be scouring the British Airways first class lounge this weekend en route to Nashville to see if they have reinstated free copies. I rarely do it, but I realise that from time to time it is valuable to audi alteram partem (listen to the other side).
Roger Watson is a retired academic, editor and writer. He is a columnist with Unity News Network and writes regularly for a range of conservative journals including The Salisbury Review and The European Conservative. He has travelled and worked extensively in the Far East and the Middle East. He lives in Kingston upon Hull, UK.
