This cracking analysis by an amateur blogger is worth a read: Say what you like about Blair, the guy's a genius. Here he is in the 1980s, lacking certain qualities which the world seems to value, viz. a work ethic, principles, convictions of any sort. He is not very good at lawyering, by all accounts, and ponders various avenues of self advancement. Question: where is the motherlode? What is the position in British life which is the fount of all patronage? How, by virtue of the judicious dispensation of said patronage, can all wealth be persuaded to flow in the opposite direction (that is to say, towards myself)? In short: how can I, lacking talent, principles or drive, enrich myself to the maximum while expending the minimum effort? [Addendum: this should ideally be done within the framework of the law. If not, I should be able to escape prosecution.] Hmmm. Perceiving the Conservatives to be invincibly led, at the time, by Margaret Thatcher, his attention is drawn to the other party, a ragbag of crypto and not-so-crypto Marxists and sundry bruvvers, many sporting flat caps and dwelling in barbaric and little-known parts of the UK such as Wales and the North. They are mostly cretins who can be led hither and thither by the nose. He observes that the party is in disarray and has no chance of winning a general election in its present form. In other words, it is an ideal candidate for infiltration and subversion. It can with a few swift moves be converted into a second conservative party, and as such will prove an ideal vehicle for his rapid ascension to the throne of omnipotence. It should be said here that Blair is by nature's gift a confidence trickster: plausible, personable, charming, all things to all men. When you speak to him you believe that you alone exist in his world; that he hears and absorbs all you say and will act upon it forthwith. Never mind that his mind is elsewhere at the time, focused like the sun's burning rays on the question of himself! As you will know, to your bitter cost, all as prophesied by St Tony came to pass. He remade the Party in his own image, and saw that it was good. Kinnock, the St John who came before and prepared the way (we gloss over Smith, an irrelevance) sidelined the Derek Hatton tendency for him. Tony's remaining task was trivial by comparison. He needed merely to pull the wool over the eyes of the bruvvers. He gave them their own idol to worship, Prescott, and with this they seemed, despite a few low grumblings, satisfied. Tony had not underestimated them. By now the Tories were self destructing. He could hardly believe his luck. If fooling the bruvvers had been easy, hoodwinking the middle classes was a piece of cake. How natural it was that Michael Levy and Tony Blair should be mutually attracted. One a small-time impresario, the other a small-time actor; the first already rubbing shoulders with, and a member of, the nouveaux riches of north-west London, and the second eager for the trappings of wealth and ease. Imagine -- tennis with the man behind Alvin Stardust. You can't get much further from t'pit than that. This, then, is the structure of the New Labour project. A swindle. Basically, no more than a swindle, with no object other than the advancement of its chief architect. While it was running, nothing was too precious to sacrifice. British sovereignty, the integrity of our borders, the entire heritage and economy: all these were expended like so much barbecue fuel at one of Levy's Sunday-morning gatherings. Sooner or later, it had to come to an end. Given his conduct, that end would inevitably be ruinous. So he handed control beforetimes to his surly Scottish henchman and made an elegant escape. Levy, dropped now of course, cannot really be blamed for scraping a few quid from the bottom of the barrel. Like Blair's wife, he made sure his memoirs were published in the most profitable period, before the whole Labour Party imploded and there was no one left to embarrass. I wonder what Brown's memoirs will say, and whether anyone will want to publish or even read them.