The Rest is Politics: smug British political commentary?

By Matthew Parish, Associate Editor

Friday 26 June 2026

Alastair Campbell and Rory Stewart have become one of the most recognisable double acts in contemporary British political commentary. Through their podcast, public appearances and media interventions, they present themselves as representatives of two traditions that once stood in fierce opposition — New Labour internationalism and One Nation Conservatism. Yet for many listeners, particularly those outside the metropolitan circles of British politics, what stands out is not the contrast between them but a shared tone of certitude, self-regard and moral superiority that can provoke intense irritation.

The charge of smugness is, of course, inherently subjective. What one person regards as confidence, another sees as arrogance. What one person hears as informed expertise, another hears as an endless lecture. Nevertheless the popularity of this criticism suggests that there is something worth examining in the phenomenon.

Part of the issue lies in the social milieu from which both men emerge. Campbell and Stewart are products of Britain’s governing class — albeit different wings of it. Campbell rose through journalism before becoming the formidable communications strategist behind the government of Tony Blair. Stewart travelled a more patrician route through elite education, diplomacy and Parliament. Although their biographies differ substantially, both possess the confidence of individuals accustomed to operating close to power.

That confidence often manifests itself in a conversational style that assumes a high degree of authority. They are rarely tentative. They seldom appear genuinely uncertain. Complex questions are frequently reduced to matters upon which sensible people ought already to agree. For listeners who themselves have spent years grappling with uncertainty, ambiguity and competing perspectives, such certainty can feel less like wisdom and more like condescension.

Another source of irritation is the curious position they occupy within British public life. Neither currently exercises executive authority. Neither must face the daily consequences of policy decisions. Yet both remain highly visible commentators upon the actions of those who do. There is a tendency in democratic societies to be suspicious of retired generals explaining how battles should have been fought, and a similar suspicion often extends to former politicians and advisers. The question naturally arises: if the answers are so obvious now, why were they not equally obvious when you held power yourself?

Campbell, in particular, carries the baggage of the Iraq War era. Whatever one thinks of the intervention itself, his role in advocating for it remains controversial. Consequently, when he speaks with moral certainty about contemporary international affairs, some listeners detect a lack of humility regarding past errors. Stewart faces a different but related problem. His frequent reflections on the failures of modern politics are often insightful, but they can appear detached from the fact that he too participated in the political system he now critiques.

There is also the matter of cultural signalling. Campbell and Stewart appeal strongly to a particular segment of the educated professional class — internationally minded, socially liberal, university educated and deeply alarmed by populist movements. Their discussions often reinforce the worldview of this audience. Critics argue that this creates an echo chamber in which political opponents are analysed, dissected and occasionally mocked rather than genuinely understood.

This is not to say that their observations are without merit. On the contrary, both men are intelligent, articulate and often exceptionally well informed. Stewart’s experience in Afghanistan, Iraq and the diplomatic service gives him unusual insights into international affairs. Campbell remains one of the most effective communicators in modern British politics. Their success reflects real abilities rather than mere self-promotion.

The paradox is that competence itself can contribute to perceptions of smugness. Individuals who are knowledgeable, eloquent and accustomed to winning arguments frequently develop habits of presentation that others find grating. They speak fluently where others hesitate. They express certainty where others see complexity. They occupy the role of teacher when their audience wishes them to be fellow participants in a discussion.

Perhaps the deeper reason Campbell and Stewart attract such criticism is that they embody a broader phenomenon: the persistence of Britain’s political establishment long after public trust in that establishment has eroded. Many voters feel that the institutions governing their lives have failed to deliver prosperity, security or social cohesion. When familiar establishment figures continue to explain events from prominent platforms, they become convenient symbols of wider frustrations.

Whether one regards them as thoughtful public intellectuals or insufferable know-it-alls depends largely upon one’s view of the political and cultural order they represent. Their admirers hear experience, expertise and reason. Their detractors hear self-satisfaction, complacency and an inability to appreciate why so many people have lost faith in the assumptions of the post-Cold War era.

The truth, as is often the case, probably lies somewhere in between. Campbell and Stewart are neither uniquely virtuous nor uniquely obnoxious. They are intelligent men who have spent much of their lives near the centre of power and who have retained the habits that such proximity inevitably encourages. In an age increasingly suspicious of elites, those habits can easily be interpreted not as confidence but as smugness — and perhaps that explains why the accusation follows them wherever they go.