Strategic Betrayals Are Always Rewarded
by Phil Hall
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In the Middle Ages, in 1381, the mayor of London, William Walworth, killed Wat Tyler at a parley by stabbing him in the stomach with a knife and then cutting off his head. The mayor’s coat of arms then became the Saint George’s cross with a dagger drawn in one corner. This should be the coat of arms for all traitors to progressive causes.
From the Anonimalle Chronicle:
When the king reached St. John’s Fields, he was joined by a fine company of well-armed men. And they kept the commons like sheep within a pen. Meanwhile, the mayor went to kill Wat Tyler. When he came to Smithfield, he asked what had become of the traitor. He was told that Wat Tyler had been carried by a group of the commons to the hospital for the poor near St. Bartholomew’s and put to bed. The mayor went there and found him, and had him carried out to the middle of Smithfield and had him beheaded. The mayor had his head placed on a pole and carried before him to the king at St. John’s Fields.
When the commons saw their chieftain, Wat Tyler, was dead, they fell to the ground like beaten men, imploring the king for mercy for their misdeeds. The king kindly granted them mercy, and then they went home. The king knighted William Walworth. The same day, he made three other citizens of London knights for the same reason. These are their names: John Philipot, Nicholas Brymber, and Robert Launde. The king gave Sir William Walworth £100 in land, and each of the others £40 in land.
This historical episode serves as a stark reminder that betrayals, when executed strategically, are often richly rewarded. But what does it mean to “sell out” in a modern context? To some extent, we are all complicit in compromise. Yet, when we accuse someone of selling out, we imply they had a choice. In places like China, where dissent is brutally suppressed, the concept of choice is far more constrained. Would anyone willingly stand in front of a tank?
Of course, not all compromises are equal. Many professionals—doctors, engineers, pilots, architects, researchers, and chemists—contribute immensely to society, often without their politics coming into question. Their value lies in their expertise, not their ideological purity. The wealth of a nation, after all, is measured by the quality and number of its skilled, educated individuals. But when it comes to politics, the stakes are different. Here, the line between compromise and betrayal becomes blurred.
Many honorable liberals have fought against colonialism, the Nazis, apartheid, and other forms of injustice. They didn’t sell out socialist dreams because they were never socialists to begin with. Liberals have championed democracy across the globe, often at great personal cost. Yet, there are also those who call themselves socialists while displaying a toxic, dogmatic, and tyrannical mindset, showing little regard for democracy. Does it matter if such individuals sell out? Perhaps not. But their actions often undermine the very causes they claim to support.
Take, for example, the story of Ralph Allen, the Bath entrepreneur. At the age of 24, in 1716, Allen intercepted a letter from James Paynter and betrayed the Cornish Jacobites. His reward? Contracts to run post offices across England. This pattern of betrayal for personal gain is not confined to history. It echoes in modern politics, where strategic betrayals are often the key to advancement.
Consider the case of Neil Kinnock, the ‘left-wing’ Labour MP. In 1981, Kinnock convinced Joan Lestor to vote against Tony Benn in the pivotal deputy leadership contest, helping Denis Healey secure the position. This act of betrayal earned Kinnock significant media support, propelling him to the Labour leadership. The parallels between Kinnock’s betrayal of Benn and Keir Starmer’s treatment of Jeremy Corbyn are hard to ignore. As the Financial Times put it, “Starmer faces his Kinnock moment.”
Christopher Hitchens offers another example of a successful strategic betrayal. For years, Hitchens played the role of the enfant terrible, only to pivot at the right moment, supporting the Gulf War and praising George Bush and Tony Blair. His reward? Lionisation and a comfortable place within the US establishment. These examples illustrate a recurring theme: to betray successfully, one must first be in a position of consequence. Betrayal, after all, requires trust to be broken.
Once a sellout is noticed, they begin signaling their loyalty to the establishment. Labour MPs, for instance, might defend Israel in one breath, refuse to criticise a US bombing raid in the next, and then harshly condemn Russia, Libya, Syria, or the Serbs. These calculated moves are not random; they are deliberate attempts to align with power.
Michael White of The Guardian offers a different perspective, arguing that Benn was not betrayed in 1981 but was instead a purist whose idealism made him an enemy of the good. White’s critique, published after Benn’s death, reflects a broader tendency to dismiss uncompromising reformers as unrealistic dreamers. This analysis serves to justify the sidelining of those who advocate for radical change.
The argument for compromise often masks a willingness to betray fundamental principles. Reformers and revolutionaries are labeled as fantasists, their visions dismissed as unattainable. This pattern is not new. From the days of the abolitionists to the present, those who challenge the status quo are often vilified and marginalised.
Even within left-wing alternative media, the allure of stability and security can lead to compromise. Many of the enfants terribles of 2021 were ultimately seeking well-paid, secure jobs in journalism. When Novara Media cautiously navigated the antisemitism controversy, it was signaling its willingness to play the game. Similarly, its criticism of Laura Kuenssberg, while justified, was less an act of bravery and more a calculated move to align with prevailing sentiments.
Kuenssberg herself is a case study in the rewards and pitfalls of bias. Her overzealous attacks on Jeremy Corbyn earned her a journalism prize but ultimately rendered her ineffective as a political editor. The BBC retained her only long enough to save face, much like a manager tasked with firing others before being fired herself.
The co-opting of intellectuals serves a similar function. Figures like Slavoj Žižek are invited to US universities not to challenge the system but to inoculate it against radical ideas. Their presence acts as a vaccine, neutralising the threat of revolutionary change. This dynamic underscores the insidious nature of strategic betrayals: they often go unnoticed, their consequences erased from memory.
But to betray successfully, one must be willing to go all in. Half-hearted betrayals, like that of Clare Short, are rarely rewarded. Short, the minister for foreign aid in Tony Blair’s government, initially opposed the Iraq War but was lured into supporting it with promises of an increased aid budget. Her regret came too late; she was swiftly sidelined, her voice silenced.
Blair’s supporters, like Alastair Campbell, continue to dominate the media landscape, while opponents like Short are forgotten. This selective memory is a hallmark of capitalism, a system that thrives on exploitation and inequality. Corporations will never hire everyone or pay fair wages; to believe otherwise is either naive or dishonest.
The political-philosophical contributions of John Rawls and Margaret Thatcher’s “shareholder democracy” reflect a similar logic: give just enough people a stake in the status quo, and it becomes self-sustaining. This balancing act avoids both generosity and insurrection, ensuring the system’s survival.
Strategic betrayals, by their nature, often fade from memory. Their impact lies in the destruction of what might have been. For supporters of Jeremy Corbyn and the reforming left in the Labour Party, the betrayals are all too familiar. They represent the loss of a shared vision for a more equitable society.
Who knows what might have been? The question lingers, a reminder of the high cost of the rewards of betrayal.
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