James Kelman. (Louis MONIER/Gamma-Rapho via Getty)

Modern politics is a business that obliterates the self. It turns its winning practitioners into one-dimensional media-facing personalities schooled for the soundbite and the photo-op. Yet plenty of voters, and news outlets with gnat-sized attention spans, still hanker for glimpses of a private hinterland of tastes, preferences, even passions. The spin machine duly delivers this as a Potemkin Village of confected enthusiasm for beloved sports teams, pop stars, Hollywood movies and the like. David Cameron, for instance, was supposed to be an Aston Villa fan until, one day, he forgot the agreed script and disclosed a hitherto unsuspected devotion to West Ham United. He blamed “brain fade”.
Now take our new Prime Minister. Does he have a favourite book? Pre-election profiles suggested, unexpectedly, that he carried a flame for James Kelman’s 1989 novel A Disaffection: the Glaswegian writer’s virtuoso monologue, which voices a young teacher’s dark night of the soul. Legal colleagues have reported that the former DPP admired and absorbed Franz Kafka’s The Trial (not such a surprise). Then a cagey interview in The Guardian portrayed an opaque figure with no particular novel or poem to champion.
The Kelman salute allegedly came from Starmer’s 2020 appearance on Desert Island Discs. Listen to the episode in question, however, and you find that, in addition to his “luxury” (a football), the future PM actually picked as his reading-matter not existentialist fiction from Scotland but “a detailed atlas, hopefully with shipping lanes in it” — so that he could plan an escape. His affection for A Disaffection seems to derive from a Labour Party fundraiser in Camden in 2019, which featured a Desert Island Discs-style event.
The two lists — one for his local party comrades, the other for Radio 4 listeners — reveal other notable discrepancies. Among his musical picks, Beethoven’s Emperor concerto and Jim Reeves (a favourite of his mother’s) survive. But Starmer’s NW1-based love for Desmond Dekker’s ska classic “The Israelites” and Shostakovich’s second piano concerto — genuinely interesting choices — gave way in the BBC studio to a dismally predictable nod for the Lightning Seeds’ “Three Lions”.
So the verdict on James Kelman from 10 Downing Street remains — as with much about its new incumbent — a matter of speculation. But if Starmer does understand and appreciate the 78-year-old novelist, short-story writer and social activist, so much the better for him. An easy “gotcha” trap looms here that it would be wise to avoid. Famously, Kelman is a radical socialist and internationalist, albeit with a fiercely anti-state, even anarchistic, streak. In works such as the Booker-winning How Late It Was, How Late, he deploys the abrasive and profane vernacular of the West of Scotland to express the pain and rage of poor people crushed by overweening power. And Starmer is — well, we know what, in political if not personal terms. Kelman, whose protagonist in his latest novel inveighs against “elitist fuckers, racists, monarchists, imperialist bastards”, has over the five decades of his published work exhibited sub-zero respect for London lawyers, Labour politicians or senior UK state officials. Starmer neatly ticks each box.
So: bland centrist apparatchik loves potty-mouthed hard-Left diehard who would happily string him up with his own red tape? Let’s hold back on the sarcastic sneers for a moment. What matters is not Starmer and Kelman’s notional positions on the light-pink to deep-red spectrum, but the novelist’s rare ability to endow the inner lives of people “left behind” by money, status and power with grace, depth, even grandeur. All politicians should take heed of such a gift. Kelman is not just a polemicist and campaigner — courageous and stubborn, for instance, in his support for victims of workplace asbestosis poisoning — but a deeply serious literary artist. A disciple of modern literature’s giants of innovation in language and vision (Samuel Beckett, Franz Kafka, Albert Camus, Knut Hamsun), he invests the working-class life, thought and speech of post-industrial Scotland with all the nuance, scope and subtlety that Marcel Proust attributed to Parisian aristocrats or Virginia Woolf to the denizens of upper-bourgeois Bloomsbury.
Always a voracious reader, Kelman laboured on building sites and in factories (one, in Manchester, exposed him to asbestos) before, in the early Seventies, he joined open creative-writing classes in Glasgow run by Philip Hobsbaum. This poet-academic had a quite extraordinary record as a literary mentor. In Belfast, his apprentices had included a young teacher named Seamus Heaney. In Glasgow, Kelman’s classmates would constitute a galaxy of future Scottish stars, from the poet Tom Leonard to the artist-novelist Alasdair Gray. So Hobsbaum’s writing students have won the Nobel (Heaney), the Booker (Kelman) and now, via the film adaptation of Gray’s Poor Things, four Oscars. By 1973, Kelman had published a volume of stories while still working as a bus driver. He got no advance, but his 200 author’s copies arrived just as he set out for a winter dawn shift.
In the Eighties, sporadic critical acclaim did nothing to blunt his cutting edge. When How Late It Was, How Late took the Booker, to the outraged howls of various critics and even a couple of judges, journalists gleefully totted up its 4,000-odd “fucks”. “My culture and my language have the right to exist, and no one has the authority to dismiss that,” Kelman retorted. But the novelist — raised in Govan and Drumchapel, his father a skilled picture-framer and his mother a late-qualifying teacher — has never transcribed street talk into agitprop fables. On the contrary: his finely-wrought streams of consciousness and deadpan comic dialogue make uncompromising art from suffering and victimhood.
Sammy Samuels, the blinded hero of How Late… dragged through a torturous “daymare” of arrest and imprisonment, descends not just from Kafka’s Gregor Samsa (in The Metamorphosis) but Milton’s Samson Agonistes. Kelman’s short stories — with collections such as Greyhound for Breakfast (1987) among the strongest of all his works — bring the sensibility of Beckett and Chekhov to the boredom, panic and fitful joy of joblessness or drudgery around the Clyde. A Disaffection met a warmer reception from what he would call “establishment” critics than his fiction often does; according to the author, because its glumly erudite protagonist, although of working-class origins, shared their frames of cultural reference. Still, its torrential soliloquy of thwarted love and hope hits hard.
Praise Kelman and you laud not some facile cheerleader for the traditional proletariat in eclipse but a refined artist who shows that the blows struck by economic, and political, injustice drive people into tragi-comic states of soul. That plight stretches the limits of literary language and fictional form. “The stronger artists always make a challenge,” said Kelman recently: “not only do they write of people from… the lower areas of society, they work within the languages of these same communities. They do not assimilate.” Don’t look to Kelman for feelgood fightbacks against rustbelt adversity, Full Monty-style — although Alan Bleasdale’s Boys from the Blackstuff edges closer to his territory.
If Starmer does back Kelman, he votes not for condescending fairy-tales of pluckily-borne deprivation but tough, ambitious, experimental literature. The writer has spoken of his debt to “two literary traditions, the European Existential and the American Realist, allied to British rock music” — itself, Kelman notes, the offspring of Blues and Country-and-Western. From a British politician, a homage to any creative figure with such a complex pedigree would make a change. Besides, Kelman needs, and merits, the endorsement.
Even after the triumph of Kieron Smith, Boy — a searingly tender portrait of Glasgow childhood that, among other things, enabled Douglas Stuart’s Booker winner Shuggie Bain — his star faded and his income fell. His fancy publishers departed. Although one of his funniest, most approachable works, Kelman’s 2022 novel God’s Teeth and Other Phenomena appeared not from some grand imprint but a small California-based indie, PM Press. Piling insult on injury, it garnered hardly any reviews in UK media until this glaring neglect itself became a story, and prompted some catch-up coverage.
“Surviving is fucking hard,” muses Jack Proctor, the rebellious curmudgeon becalmed on a North American campus who narrates God’s Teeth… For Kelman, it has been, although his humour, outrage and resilience persist. Not quite a self-portrait, Proctor nonetheless sports several Kelmanesque traits, such as exasperation with his rep as “the chap who writes the swearie words” and a history of winning a posh accolade known as “the Banker Prize”. For Jack’s creator, some conspicuous applause — even from a metropolitan KC who heads what he would deem a sell-out party — might not come amiss.
In any case, Kelman’s work and stance may have something to teach the PM beyond the eternal sniping that Labour leaders expect from the Left. Notice that tribute to “Country-and-Western” in Kelman’s roll-call of the art he loves. In a talk to Texas schoolkids (given while he lived and taught in Austin), he numbered among his earliest inspirations Connie Francis, Buddy Holly, Sam Cooke and Fats Domino. Such musicians “sang in their own voice and for their own people”, motivated by “self-respect” and respect for their own culture. Scrupulously, Kelman refuses to draw any ethnic dividing-lines.
His sympathy with the downtrodden in a landscape of exploitation has always been utterly ecumenical. When he was 15, his family briefly emigrated to America. The teenage Kelman roamed hardscrabble California on formative journeys of discovery. Hillary Clinton’s “deplorables” became his kind of folk as much as Clydeside ex-shipbuilders or, later, the Nigerian peasant farmers and village story-tellers celebrated by one of his own favourite authors, Amos Tutuola. Perhaps this ideal of underclass solidarity is a sentimental myth: Dirt Road, the picaresque 2016 novel that captures his musical passions, culminates in a festival that miraculously blends the sounds of black, white and Hispanic America into a redemptive harmony. If so, it now feels like a myth that heals.
Read Kelman, as we should assume Starmer has, and you will learn the many meanings of disaffection: not just estrangement from a system that rejects its economic outcasts and cultural backsliders but from others and, eventually, from oneself. Social crisis becomes spiritual crisis. Where dominant institutions and — crucially — the language they wield inflict a widespread sense of worthlessness and failure, a new job or a new house alone may not staunch the inner wound. Kelman speaks from the unyielding Left but his diagnosis may help explain the West’s revolt on the Right.
His writing channels the lacerating emotions of humiliation and disempowerment that go with membership of despised, or sidelined, classes and communities. An essay on the apartheid-era South African writer Alex La Guma reminds us that “Nothing is more crucial nor as potentially subversive than a genuine appreciation of how the lives of ordinary people are lived from moment to moment”. The prime minister of a country in which 40% of citizens declined to vote at all needs to know that. Political disaffection will haunt the Starmer years. He should seek a “detailed atlas” of disgruntled souls. Kelman might help him draw some accurate maps.
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SubscribeThe SNP’s dream of independence has been rehearsed in elections and referenda and failed to convince enough people. To attract more support will require a more detailed explanation of how things could look after independence and how they could be better.
The practical consequences of independence are rarely addressed in detail by the SNP, probably because they would be too painful to endure unless you are really, really, determined to be independent whatever the cost – and that is not a characteristic of those who remain to be convinced.
When I go back home to Scotland, I always think what a joke it is that the national fantasy is to be like Scandinavia. It does help if you are serious minded and well educated if you wish to emulate them. That is not the 2022 Scots.
Perhaps Serbia or Croatia or Greece would be more realistic. Or if those are too far away, even Ireland.
My main about the SNP, though, is that they never give me the impression they are interested in the Scottish people, poorly educated, mired in substance abuse, and with an awful diet. They cannot even form families and have children any more.
So-called New Scots, now that would be something they could like!
Living in Stockholm for the last few decades and spending a lot of time in Scotland there are a couple of similarities but then there are no more. Both are backpedalling in terms of prosperity and are afflicted with a desire to support an immigrant influx which is a social and economic burden on society and the economy. In Scotland’s case the backpedalling will lead to 3rd world status and for Sweden it could be signalling the end of relative affluence and a high standard of living. Scotland’s many problematic issues behind this seem unsolveable as long as the current insane drive for independence dominates proceedings. As for the rest, the respective governments are underperforming, Sweden’s to a lesser extent considering Scotland’s doesn’t give a d.mn about the country’s wellbeing. Scotland should just be thankfull that it hasn’t yet inherited Sweden’s out of control social problems with gangland killings, widespread no-go suburbs and the degradation of law and order. Sweden’s govt is incapable of addressing such issues whereas Scotland’s is just cemented in cloud cuckoo land.
Scottish indepence is a solution without a credible problem.
And I say that as an ex-Scottish nationalist living in Midlothian.
As someone living in groundhog Day every election is like the previous one. Nothing changes and no one is interested in interested in change. The SNP vote is monolithic (both inside and outside Holyrood) and what goes on in Scotland hardly matters to anyone.
In 4 years’ time the SNP will be entering their third decade in power. That is a frightening thought!
If Scottish independence isn’t happening following Brexit, I can’t imagine what else would be enough to trigger it.
Things break down not up – they will be free soon enough.
More predictable British Nationalism from Unheard. Still the fundamental question remains, why should Scotland not be a fully functioning democracy. Why should our neighbours decide our country’s policies. Yet to hear a good reason from those who obsess about the SNP yet fail to grasp they are just a part of the independence movement. As for Braveheart ,grow up. That’s not our motivation,taking responsibility for our country is. We should be able to expect a bit more from Unheard.
Just two small points.
1) Surely that is what one gets in the EU? Neighbours deciding the policies? Okay, you get your say and your vote too, but so does Scotland in the UK.
2) The debate is ABOUT whether the rest of the UK should be just a neighbour to Scotland or if Scotland is a PART of the UK.
The debate is about whether Scotland should govern itself or be governed by our neighbours.
The EU is not comparable to Westminster in terms of powers. The UK never gave all its money and sovereignty away to the EU, to receive pocket money back.
That is not an accurate description of the present arrangement, as well you know: It is a combination of calculated mis-representation and rabid bigotry. The reason that Scotland has not withdrawn from the union is that a majority of Scots voted not to do so .
Perhaps the most effective route to “Freedom!” would be for you to campaign for the English to have a vote on the dissolution of the union. It would work on me Paul, because I do not wish to share a country with you.
I know that if you don’t hire your politicians and you cannot fire them then they don’t work for you.
No bigotry,no crying for freedom. Just a proper functioning democracy where Scots choose their own governments rather than foisted on them by their neighbours. Like democratic western nations do. After all as Brexit showed us England wouldn’t stand for anything less.
You have as much freedom as any English person in the UK and far more than you would have in the EU. But that is for the Scots to decide in a democratic way. So far they have refused to vote for freedom from their wicked English oppressors. Well in due course, maybe they will and then again, maybe they won’t, but in the meantime perhaps you could refrain from run around shouting “Freedom!” and “Braveheart!”, because, to be frank, it make you sound like an idiot.
Absolutely laughable.
Firstly ‘You’ were roundly defeated at Culloden, Vae Victis!
Secondly how many people actually pay tax in Scotland?
The Barnet Formula has kept ‘you’ in manner that quite frankly you are not entitled to.
”Go it alone” Scotland could be a functioning democracy if you turn a blind eye to issues of defence, geographic location, and the economic consequences. Then if EU membership is a decisive factor in attaining a more viable future your neighbours deciding policies would be located in Brussels and the other 27-30 (sooner or later) states. The thing is, Scotland is a country of dreamers, not everyone but too many of them. There are absolutely no factors or conditions where Scotland could be sucessful or economically viable. All the positives are massively outweighed by the negatives. 10 years ago I believed in independence as the only way to get rid of the shackles of a London/SE-centric government (eg. Crosslink,HS2, Fortess Heathrow, St.Pancras disconnect from Europe, just to take infrastructure investment as an example) and give Scotland a chance at establishing itself as a free standing (-defence) nation, albeit under Brussels. Now I’ve realised that there is no realistic possibilty of this, the problems are too many and the clowns in Holyrood are a level above the clowns in Westminster in terms of incompetence and blind power obsession.
“why should Scotland not be a fully functioning democracy”?
Because quite simply ‘you’ cannot afford it! Without the massive English subsidy you would resemble Ruanda or worse. But you must know this, so why keep up this embarrassing bleating?