Up early this morning for an interview with the wonderful Kate Silverton on Five Live. Scroll forward to 1:19:00.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00r0pbd/Kate_Silverton_21_02_2010/

It was a good discussion with an informed panel. I first met George Jones around ten years ago at TUC when he was reporting on an Alan Johnson speech. I also crossed paths vaguely with Kate last year when we were both working on the BBC programme, The Speaker (she was one of the mentors; I was a consultant).

It was also great to meet Jeremy Kourdi. He kindly gave me a copy of his book, which has now leap-frogged to the top of my reading list. It looks like a brilliant book.

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A reader emailed to remind me of another famous ‘appeal to pity’ which backfired - Charles Kennedy. Absolutely right, with his first appeal to stay on as Lib Dem leader after his drink problem was exposed.

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One of the big questions speechwriters have to consider is what emotion they want to unleash in their audience, e.g. hope or fear, pride or shame, passion or anger. Usually, this is worked out by weighing up the audience’s emotions, the speaker’s character and the nature of the argument.

The answer is usually pretty obvious, e.g. a CEO speaking to staff would play to pride, a militant campaigner speaking on Iraq would play to anger and politicians usually base their appeals on one of four emotions: hope (Obama’s ‘new dawn’), fear (Blair’s ‘45 minutes’), shame (Cameron’s ‘Broken Britain’) or patriotism (Thatcher’s ‘Britain awake!’).

I’m therefore surprised that Gordon Brown seems to have made a big plunge into pity. I simply cannot remember a single political leader, victor or not, who has launched such an appeal in history.

My first reaction on watching last night’s Morgan interview was that this could be a game-changer. But that was an emotional response - it was hard not to be moved. But, on more rational reflection, I actually think it’s bound to backfire.

A. The British people don’t do pity. The stiff upper lip is our single most defining national characteristic. Rather than feeling sorry for the pitiful, we tend to want to kick them when they’re down. The only two public figures I can remember who have made appeals to pity in recent years were (i) Cherie Booth over the Aussie con-man and (ii) Princess Diana, junking in her charity work to spend more time at the gym. Both went disastrously wrong and unleashed the last emotion either expected: namely, anger.

B. No-one wants to be led by someone pitiful. Some will have urged Brown to show his human side. But he should have kept it hidden. The truth is we actually want our leaders to be super-human, and always have - from Alexander the Great to Julius Caesar from Mandela to Obama. Murray Edelman wrote about this in his fab book ‘Creating the Political Spectacle’. As soon as we discover our politicans are frail and human like the rest of us, it tends to be game over.

C.  For many people, this will reinforce their view that Brown does not have the strength of character for PM.

Will the British people feel sorry for him? Probably, yes. Will it make us more likely to vote for him? Probably not.

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Brown’s first and favourite technique is the alliterative pair. ‘Listen and learn. Challenge and change. Boom and bust.’

Alliterative pairs are designed to suggest causal connections. And it works. But you might need a ‘pile of paracetemol’ afterward…

Second. Brown argues from statistics. 500,000 businesses. 2 million jobs. 10 million lives.

The actual statistics are meaningless. People don’t remember them. Nor are they supposed to. They just assert the speaker’s authority.

Three. Brown uses Dead metaphors straight out of a business manual. ‘Opening doors. Raising ceilings. Strengthening floors.’

They’re pretty uninspiring. He sounds more like a Barartt Homes salesman than Prime Minister.

Fourth, Brown loves the old rhetorical device of contrast. So he talks about ‘opportunity for not just some, but all the people.’ The euro has to be right ‘not just in principle, but in practice.’ On public services he talks about ‘not just investment, but reform.’

Finally, we get the classic long and winding sentences. The endless clauses which go on and on and on and on and on and on. By the end, you feel ‘not just battered, but bruised’ - as Brown might put it.

Cameron’s style is very different.

One. He sets the scene with asyndeton. We get the famous Blairite verbless sentences. ‘Failing schools. Sink Estates. Broken homes.’ ‘Poverty, crime, addiction.’ The brevity isborne from emotion. It suggests he cares so much he’s almost hyperventilating with passion.

Secondly, the rule of three. ‘Family, community, country’ was the refrain in his conference speech – like Marc Antony’s ‘Friends Romans Countrymen.’ But he also talks about ‘character, temperament and judgement.’ ‘Pull together come together work together.’

The rule of three helps breaks down issues and suggests finality, appearing to shut off alternatives.

Third, like Brown, Cameron loves the rhetorical device of contrast. ‘The state is your servant never your master.’ ‘The longer we leave it, the worse it will be.‘ ‘We’ve got to stop treating children like adults and adults like children.’

This is a great way of making your arguments sound logical, when they’re actually not.

Fourth, Cameron explicitly rejects Brown’s metaphors of construction and machinering. Instead, he prefers the metaphor of personalisation. He talks about ‘the heart of the communities’, breathing ‘life into institutions’ and getting the country ‘back on its feet’.

The metaphor of personalisation makes him seem far more compassionate and less mechanical.

Fifth and finally, Cameron often concludes his arguments with a plain simple truth, often expressed in monosyllabic terms, eg ‘Time is short.’ ‘We get it.’ ‘You made it happen.’

It’s designed to show the common touch. And it does. Nice and easy. Just like that!

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I recorded a podcast for The Guardian yesterday, analysing the difference between Brown and Cameron’s rhetorical styles. You can hear it here http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/blog/audio/2010/feb/11/hung-parliament. Scroll forward to 11.45.

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http://www.newstatesman.com/uk-politics/2010/02/speech-obama-blair-british

The New Statesman have published a terrific article on ‘The Art of Speechwriting,’ with a few quotes from me. I think that this is one of the most thoughtful and accurate articles on ‘our trade’ in years. Sophie Elmhirst is always a fabulous journalist and she’s certainly done a job here, which is great news for those of us who work as professional speechwriters.

My one regret is that some of the reflections are a bit gloomy, based upon the idea of some mythical golden age of oratory that didn’t actually exist. It makes for a compelling narrative, but it’s not accurate. Oratory, like life, goes through ups and downs according to the times, characters and events. The Thatcher/Kinnock decade was a high-point because these were fiery, confrontational times. The Smith/Major years were a low-point, because the characters were so dull. Brown and Cameron bring us back to a high - they’re both, in their different ways, passionate and angry.

But these are minor grumbles. A great piece. A welcome spotlight into the world of political speechwriting.

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Crikey. There must be some new writers in Number Ten. Brown just punched out a couple of corkers in PMQs.

‘The more he talks, the less he says.’
‘The Tories inheritance tax policy was dreamed up on the playing fields of Eton.’

This is better than the usual, isn’t it?

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I was baffled by Nick Clegg’s comment that he had to ‘do his homework’ on the mansion tax. When his relative youth and inexperience must surely be the biggest barrier to his winning public acceptance, it seems extraordinary he uses a metaphor which pitches him as schoolboy. Normally politicians use metaphors which place their opponents as schoolchildren (’he needs to do his homework’) or younger still (’he’s throwing his toys out of the pram’).

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When Rocky is in training for his fight with Apollo Creed in the first movie, he sticks a photo of Creed in the corner of his mirror, so he remembers what he’s up against.

I’ve just tried the speechwriters equivalent - pasting a photo of the audience I’m writing for in the corner of my screen. Whenever I weigh up a new line of argument I look the audience in the eye(s) to see how it might play.

I’ve not had feedback on the speech yet, but it seems to me like a great reality check, and a brilliant way of ensuring audience focus.

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Every now and then, I take my baby daughter to Rhyme Time at the local library. Her face fills with joy when she hears songs like ‘Humpty Dumpty’ and ‘Zoom! Zoom! Zoom! We’re going to the moon!’

Rhymes are magical. They make us feel that all is well with the world. And it is that illusion of simplicity that also makes them powerful rhetorical weapons.

Researchers at Lafayette College have proved that people are far more likely to believe a sentence which rhymes than one that doesn’t, even if the underlying proposition is false.

Rhymes can make fallacies appear to be facts. This has been proved many times in the past: in speeches (’if the glove doesn’t fit, you must acquit’), ad slogans (’a Mars a day helps you work, rest and play’) and even classroom sayings (’i before e except after c’).

Today, the press is reporting another fallacious rhyme: the argument that Cameron still hasn’t ’sealed the deal’ with the electorate. The rhyme makes it sound like a self-evident truth. And it’s been repeated so often it’s accepted as fact.

But what are the facts? That Labour has been scraping support of 23% for the last year. That the Tories are now consistently polling in the mid 40s? That Labour is doing worse now than either the Tories under Major in 97 or Labour under Foot in 83? That, it is now possible to get a whopping 14/1 on Labour winning the election (amazing odds in a two-horse race)?

Some might say Labour was ‘cruising for a bruising’.

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