Let England shake

NOBODY asked to design a political system for Britain would ever propose the one it has. The one-and-a-bit large islands (and many smaller ones) that The Economist calls home are a hotch-potch of parliamentary systems, unevenly distributed powers and constitutional uncertainties. The set-up is as uneven as Britain’s history is eventful, which is no coincidence: the causes of the mess date back centuries. The latest upheaval—Scotland’s referendum on independence, which ended with a “no” vote on September 18th—has made things untidier still.

The formation of a United Kingdom was far from inevitable. For centuries Scotland was politically closer to France (and at times even to Norway) than it was to England. Even when the Anglo-Welsh and Scottish crowns were joined in 1603, they remained two separate countries, their border a lawless place inhabited by bands of lance-wielding “reivers”. A failed Scottish colonial venture in Panama gave the English the diplomatic leverage to form the United Kingdom in 1707. That an independent Scotland died at the quill rather than at the sword explains why it was never wholly dissolved into the British state. The country kept its own church and legal system. In 1801 Ireland, too, was assimilated into the union by treaty.

For many years the cracks between the United Kingdom’s parts were subtle; “English” and “British” were used interchangeably. Colonial derring-do helped solidify the union at home. Scots were especially prominent in the British empire: they tutored both Thomas Jefferson and James Madison, often ran India and founded Hong Kong’s mightiest trading company.

The bonds came apart in jolts, many years apart. The rise of Irish nationalism in the 1880s prompted William Gladstone, Britain’s prime minister, to advocate “home rule” for Ireland—and to muse about what was then known as “home rule all round”, or a federal structure for the entire United Kingdom. Ireland eventually gained independence after the first world war. In the 1930s separatist violence began to flare in the northern, mostly Protestant bit that had remained in Britain. Then the Empire went, dissolving the glue that had bound the union.

Land of hope and Tory

As heavy industry declined in Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland and oil was found under Scottish waters, talk of home rule started up again. In two general elections in 1974, support for the secessionist Scottish National Party (SNP) surged as posters went up bemoaning the loss of “Scotland’s oil”. The unstable Labour government that followed drew up plans for devolution in return for the support of Scottish and Welsh nationalists. Scottish voters approved an assembly in a plebiscite in 1979, but failed to clear a minimum vote threshold that had been inserted into the referendum bill.

At about the same time, the union began to pull part politically. The Scots and the Welsh resented the monetarist reforms of Margaret Thatcher, Britain’s prime minister in the 1980s, and turned away from her party. In the 1950s the Conservative Party was level-pegging with Labour in Scotland; in the 2010 general election it won just one of its 59 seats.

When, in 1997, Labour returned to government ready to finish the task that its predecessors had started two decades earlier, the Scots, Welsh and Northern Irish all endorsed devolution. Edinburgh and Cardiff got eye-wateringly expensive new civic buildings to complement their new powers. The Scottish Parliament meets in a lopsided wood-and-glass complex evoking pine forests and upturned fishing boats.

The politicians within spend a good deal, too. Scotland has done especially well out of the Barnett formula, which calculates grants for the devolved authorities by scaling down spending changes in England according to population and levels of devolution. In the 2012-13 fiscal year, the latest for which figures are available, total public spending per head was £10,152 ($16,600) in Scotland but £8,529 in England.

The Scottish Parliament can make laws in all areas, including education, health and some bits of welfare policy, not specifically reserved to Westminster by the Scotland Act of 1998. The Welsh, by contrast, can only exercise specifically devolved powers in their Assembly. Northern Ireland is another case entirely. Devolution there is tied to power-sharing between nationalists and unionists. Powers were pulled back to London when relations broke down between 2002 and 2007.

Though most politicians in the devolved authorities want more power, they are getting it at a different pace. The first minister of Wales, Carwyn Jones, says he will only take on tax-raising powers if the Barnett formula (under which Wales does worse than Scotland, though better than England) is reformed and if the power to alter tax bands is also devolved. Scotland gained control of its railways in 2007, then its planning rules in 2008. In 2012 a new Scotland Act granted Edinburgh greater income tax and borrowing powers, due to be transferred in 2015 and 2016.

Still, the overall direction of travel is clear: towards greater autonomy for every bit of Britain except England, which contains 84% of the population. The English have been remarkably sanguine about devolution: fewer than a quarter say they would reverse it. Yet resentment at the anomaly is rising.

Ask an Englishman what most riles him about devolution and he will probably mention the amount of public spending lavished on Scotland. Polling suggests that the proportion thinking this over-generous rose from a quarter to over half in the decade to 2012. In the Dog and Duck, a pub in the Yorkshire town of Beverley, it is the subject of lively debate. “They’re like the reivers,” jokes one man of the Scots, “coming over the border and raiding our coffers.”

Meanwhile the mixture of British and English identities is separating out. In a forced-choice question asked annually in the British Social Attitudes survey, 55% of English voters in 1997 called themselves British and 33% said they were English. By 2012 that 22-point lead had vanished: both identities were on 43%. English identity is now more strongly felt than most equivalents in western Europe, including Bavarian, Galician and Breton nationalities. Michael Kenny, an authority on Englishness, cites it as a factor in the rise of the UK Independence Party (UKIP), a right-wing outfit attracting disaffected voters from the Conservatives and Labour.

Despite years of devolution to Britain’s periphery, the parliament in Westminster looks remarkably similar to how it did in 1997. Scottish, Welsh and Northern Irish MPs have the same rights as English ones, even in votes not affecting their constituents. This gives rise to the West Lothian Question, after Tam Dalyell, MP for that Scottish seat, who asked in 1977 why, under devolution, he should vote on matters only affecting the English. In practice the anomaly has rarely affected votes in Parliament—with a few exceptions, including one in 2004 when Scottish MPs helped increase tuition fees paid by English students. Still, the principle appears increasingly unjust to the English (see chart 1).

Pulling apart

Austerity and the general election of 2010 intensified resentments on both sides of the border. The SNP partly owed its unexpected majority in the 2011 Scottish election to anger at spending cuts imposed by the Conservative-Liberal Democrat coalition government, which seem to have drawn Scots’ attention to the fact that many decisions are still made in London (see chart 2). That voters north of the border had strongly favoured a Labour government in the 2010 election enabled nationalists to advocate independence on the grounds that Scots would henceforth get the government they voted for.

The referendum campaign that ended with a “no” vote on September 18th was fought between nationalists decrying the heartless English yoke and unionist leaders promising Scots ever greater autonomy within the United Kingdom—and a continuation of the Barnett formula—to encourage them to stay. These pleas culminated on September 16th, when the leaders of the Conservative, Labour and Liberal Democrat parties issued a panicked “vow” to grant Scotland new powers within months of a “no” vote.

English MPs—particularly Tory ones—seethed as the Scottish campaign wore on. By referendum day, says one Conservative grandee, the anti-English tone in Scotland, combined with the promise of further devolution and the preservation of the hated Barnett formula, had rendered the status quo unsustainable. David Cameron would have to offer something to England. His response on the morning after the result, calling for a decisive answer to the West Lothian Question, was a canny way of embracing the inevitable. The prime minister reportedly hit on the wheeze over a curry with George Osborne, the chancellor of the exchequer, the night before.

The two main parties have long agreed that the English deserve more power. But they differ over the form this should take. The Tories could thrive electorally in institutions covering England as a whole, where they do better electorally than across Britain, so tend to endorse these. Labour’s strongholds are in the big cities and the north, so it leans towards regional and metropolitan devolution.

In the past three general elections, the Conservatives have included English-only parliamentary votes on English laws among their manifesto pledges. In his statement after the Scottish referendum David Cameron revived this old cause, appointing William Hague, a former Tory Party leader, to chair a cabinet committee to look into such solutions to the English question. The measure could help the Tories woo English nationalists tempted to vote UKIP and is overwhelmingly popular among Conservative MPs. Handily, it would also dilute Labour’s voting strength—from 40% of MPs at present to 37%. Ed Miliband and other Labour figures have spent the past few days wriggling when asked whether they would support the measure.

Sir Malcolm Rifkind, a Scottish Conservative, has argued that it is practical. He advocates a requirement that bills applying only to England obtain majorities both of the whole House of Commons and of English MPs. A milder solution—which Nick Clegg, the Lib Dem leader, has been talking up—was floated by the McKay commission, a panel asked to look into the matter by the government in 2012. Under this model, legislation deemed English-only would pass through committees of English MPs for amendment before being voted on by the entire house.

English-only votes in any guise would, however, be tricky. Ministers and civil servants would have to find a way of drafting legislation to separate out sections applying only to England—or perhaps England and Wales. And it would create a risk of deadlock in the event of a national government reliant on Scottish MPs for its majority. This has rarely been the case in the past, but could result from next year’s election.

Some Conservatives, along with the English Democrats, a small nationalist party, would go further and create an English parliament either in Westminster or elsewhere (York, Warwick and Winchester have all been mooted). The British prime minister would look more like a president, dealing with foreign affairs, defence and infrastructure but with little control over most domestic policy. This would solve the West Lothian Question once and for all.

But it could create big problems. Robert Hazell of University College London points out that federal systems with a single dominant state have rarely survived for long. The West Indies Federation failed in 1962 after just four years in part because of the heft of Jamaica—which was still not as great as is the might of England within the United Kingdom. An English first minister would have the power to undermine the British prime minister; if the two were of different parties, a long power struggle could ensue.

Labour’s preferred alternative—English regional assemblies covering populations roughly the size of Scotland—went down in flames when voters in north-east England voted on it in 2004. But many in the party remain convinced that sub-national devolution is the answer to the English question, or at least a large part of it. Some would revive regional assemblies, protesting that the 2004 referendum was badly managed and the offer of local power insufficiently bold. Mr Miliband, responding to Mr Cameron’s call for English-only votes, argued for a detailed constitutional convention to look at options such as greater autonomy for regions. Others in Labour would pass more power to cities and city regions (see article).

Muddling through, as usual

No solution besides English-only votes enjoys consistent majority support among the English. Backing for an English parliament has inched up in the Future of England Survey, but is still below a third. And even the popular option will not be implemented soon. Parliamentary time before next year’s general election, due to take place in May, is running out and no party is in the mood for compromise.

Instead, it is expected that Mr Hague’s cabinet committee will spell out the options for reform, which will then be used by Conservatives to bash Labour for neglecting the rights of English voters. Unless the Tories win a majority next year, the result will probably be a fudge involving one or more of the milder possibilities on offer.

For reformers, this is infuriating. Britain’s messy constitution is a product of decades, even centuries, of muddling through, slapping sticking plasters on problems and hoping the whole thing holds together. Even now, as the United Kingdom recovers from a close brush with oblivion, such an outcome appears more likely than a thorough solution. As Benjamin Disraeli, a Victorian prime minister, once put it (referring to Britain): “England is governed not by logic but by Parliament.” That Britain has an illogical Parliament, then, is perhaps only natural.