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Bill Burr Roasting Women for 10 Minutes

 

Rishi Sunak’s first job? Clearing up his own mess

 A clever man, with a penchant for bad ideas writes The Economist

Oct 25th 2022

Rishi sunak entered Downing Street clutching an invisible dustpan and broom. “Mistakes were made,” declared the new prime minister on October 25th, all but rolling up his sleeves. “I have been elected as leader of my party…to fix them.” The voice was passive but the identity of the culprit was clear—Liz Truss, Mr Sunak’s hapless predecessor, who managed just 49 days in the job. It is the morning after the night before in the Conservative Party. The grown-ups have returned to find the house has been trashed. Now Mr Sunak must start the clean-up.

There is just one problem with this narrative. Mr Sunak is a cause of the problem as well as the solution. The new prime minister is helping tidy up a mess that he helped create.

When the Conservative Party has erred in recent years, Mr Sunak has nearly always been in favour of the mistake rather than the fix. There were many reasons to support Britain leaving the eu. Mr Sunak, however, picked the worst one: he thought it was a cracking idea. Britain will be “freer, fairer and more prosperous outside,” wrote Mr Sunak in 2016. It was a pragmatic decision, not a romantic one. The fundamental problem at the heart of his own government will be a policy for which he long campaigned. Likewise, Mr Sunak was comfortable with a “no deal” Brexit so long as Britain actually left the eu. Mr Sunak has pledged a more constructive relationship with the bloc. Better not to have broken it at all.

After the referendum triggered three years of political deadlock, Mr Sunak supported an extraordinary solution to the mess: Boris Johnson. That decision can be put down to cynicism. Mr Johnson was likely to win regardless of whether he was endorsed by Mr Sunak, at the time a junior minister in the department for local government. But intellectual contortions were required to join the bandwagon. Theresa May was competent and diligent yet also a total failure, ran Mr Sunak’s logic, so it did not matter that Mr Johnson was neither competent nor diligent. In July Mr Sunak resigned from his position as chancellor of the exchequer, prompting a cascade of ministerial departures that ended Mr Johnson’s reign. But why put him in Downing Street in the first place?

Mr Sunak embodies the tension between the Tories’ lust for low taxes and their habit of making big-state promises. Colossal spending programmes during the pandemic made Mr Sunak briefly the most popular politician in the country. Yet these were also the decisions he most resented; he tried to curtail schemes such as furlough prematurely in a bid to save cash. In the spring of this year, Mr Sunak similarly dragged his feet on offering support for ballooning energy bills. He is, at heart, a small-state Conservative, even if he has showed a commendable ability to overcome his natural instincts when urgent need arises.

If fiscal conservatism comes first for Mr Sunak, what comes after is much more erratic. As an ambitious backbencher Mr Sunak supported low-tax “freeports”, which shuffle economic activity around rather than generating it. As chancellor Mr Sunak championed the “Eat Out to Help Out” scheme, when the government in effect paid unvaccinated people to sit together during a pandemic and infect each other. Mr Sunak pushed the Royal Mint to issue a non-fungible token this summer, just as the market for these digital assets crashed. Support for quixotic policy is the norm for Mr Sunak rather than the exception.

In politics, however, luck sometimes masquerades as judgment. Losing the leadership contest to Ms Truss this summer was a big stroke of fortune. During that campaign Mr Sunak predicted that Ms Truss would be a disaster, and she was. He warned that reckless spending commitments would force mortgage rates higher; his campaign team even put together a calculator, pointing out the high bills that would hit households if rates hit even 5%. Yet mortgage rates were heading up regardless of Ms Truss’s rash budget. Her errors have obscured the fact that, had Mr Sunak won in the summer, rising interest rates would have left him with tricky questions to answer. Instead he can pin it all on Ms Truss.

During the summer campaign, and throughout his time on the front benches, Mr Sunak has taken a path long followed by the Conservative Party, which has governed in its narrow political interest rather than the national one. Pledges to curtail onshore wind and solar development please a few zealots but make it harder for Britain to reach its climate goals. Slashing fuel duty as chancellor provided a few days of positive headlines, but failed to put much money in people’s pockets and did not help the environment. There is little evidence that Mr Sunak will take on the vested interests, often in his own party, that hold back Britain’s economy.

Standing on the shoulders of dwarves

The prime minister is a cut above most of his peers. But this is as much a function of a Conservative civil war that killed off competent colleagues as Mr Sunak’s own talents. Elected only in 2015, Mr Sunak has not been doing the job very long. Inexperience, even with copious intelligence, is always a problem. Yet the Conservative Party had nowhere else to turn. It would be comforting to think of Mr Sunak as a clever cynic, a gambler who bet big on Brexit and Mr Johnson and (with a helping hand from Ms Truss) became the youngest prime minister in two centuries. A more worrying analysis is that he is a bright and decent man with bad ideas.

On this reading Mr Sunak does not mark a change from the Tory policies that have left Britain in such a state. Rather he personifies them. The rot in the Conservative Party did not begin with Ms Truss. Britain’s departure from the eu, which Mr Sunak supported, is the thing that acts as a handbrake on the country’s economic prospects. Mr Johnson’s chaotic reign, which he also supported, caused even more ruin. It is the Conservative Party’s failure to take on its supporters that does so much damage to the country. Mr Sunak may be the only available man to fix the government’s errors. But he also helped make them.

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Goa's Civil Code and Uniform Civil Code

 

Contrast between two parliaments - Why was the reservations bill not scrutinised?

The passage of the quota Bill highlights grave gaps in India’s parliamentary procedures writes M R Madhavan in The Hindu


Parliament ended the penultimate session of this Lok Sabha with both Houses passing the Constitution (124th Amendment) Bill, 2019, that enables 10% reservation in education and employment for economically weaker sections. The process by which this was done illustrates the collective failure of parliamentarians to review the government’s proposals and hold it to account.

Hasty steps

Let us review the sequence of events. On Monday (January 7), it was reported that the Cabinet had approved a Bill to provide reservation to poor candidates regardless of their caste, and that this would be introduced in the Lok Sabha on Tuesday, the last day of the winter session. News reports also suggested that the Rajya Sabha would extend its session by a day, so that this Bill could be discussed on Wednesday. There was no formal press release by the Press Information Bureau.

The rules of procedure of the Lok Sabha require every Bill to be circulated at least two days ahead of introduction. This is to give time for MPs to read the Bill and discuss it (or make objections) when the vote on the motion to introduce the Bill is taken up. This Bill was not circulated, even on Tuesday morning. At 11 a.m., when unstarred questions are tabled, one question concerned whether the government was “exploring the scope of providing reservation for poor candidates from forward communities for education and employment” and the details. The Ministry categorically denied that there was any such proposal under consideration. Then at 12.46 p.m., the Bill was introduced, with copies having been circulated to MPs a few minutes earlier.

The usual practice is to refer Bills to the respective standing committee of Parliament. This step allows MPs to solicit public feedback and interact with experts before forming their recommendations. In the case of this Constitution Amendment — clearly one with far-reaching implications — this scrutiny mechanism was bypassed.

The debate started around 5 p.m., just a few hours MPs had been given a copy. The debate ended around 10 p.m.

Meanwhile, the Rajya Sabha hardly functioned that day due to repeated disruptions. Finally, the chair adjourned the House till the next day — the first official indication that the sitting was extended by a day. The next day, Wednesday, the Rajya Sabha took up consideration of the Bill around 2 p.m. and ended the debate just past 10 p.m. A motion was moved by some members to refer the Bill to a select committee, but this motion was defeated by a wide margin, and the Bill was then passed.

Let us summarise the number of ways in which due oversight was skipped. The Bill was not circulated ahead of being introduced, it was not examined by a committee, there was hardly any time between its introduction and final discussion. Barring a few small parties, none of the larger Opposition parties asked for the Bill to be carefully considered by a parliamentary committee — even in the Rajya Sabha where they might have been able to muster the numbers to ensure this.

The British contrast

Contrast this with the incidents in the British Parliament the same day (Wednesday) when the Speaker ensured parliamentary supremacy over the government. A member of the ruling Conservative Party wanted to move an amendment to set a deadline for the Prime Minister to put forward new plans if she loses the Brexit vote next week. When the government objected that such amendments to set the business of the government in the House can be moved only by a Minister, the Speaker differed. He said that every member had a right to move an amendment. The motion was won by 308 votes to 297.

This case highlights three important ways in which the British Parliament works better than ours. First, the absence of an anti-defection law, so that each MP can vote her conscience. Note that the motion that put the government in a spot was moved by a former attorney general and a member of the ruling party. Second, it is known exactly how each MP voted. In India, most votes (other than Constitution Amendments that need a two-thirds majority to pass) are through voice votes — just 7% of other Bills had a recorded vote over the last 10 years. Third, the Speaker insisted on the supremacy of Parliament, and allowed a motion against the wishes of the government. Unlike in India, the independence of the Speaker is secured in the U.K. as no party contests against the Speaker in the next general election.

Parliament has a central role to secure the interest of citizens. It is the primary body of accountability that translates the wishes and aspirations of citizens into appropriate laws and policies.

Falling short

However, our Parliament often falls short of these goals due to some structural reasons. These include the anti-defection law (that restrains MPs from voting according to their conscience), lack of recorded voting as a norm (which reduces the accountability of the MP as voters don’t know which way they voted on each issue), party affiliation of the Speaker (making her dependent on the party leadership for re-election prospects), frequent bypassing of committees (just 25% of Bills have been referred to committees in this Lok Sabha), insufficient time and research support to examine Bills, and the lack of a calendar (Parliament is held at the convenience of the government). We need to address each of these issues to strengthen Parliament and protect our democracy.

You can’t just cut and run from Europe, Theresa May – it’s illegal

Helena Kennedy in The Guardian


Leaders of Britain’s 27 EU partner countries have now thrown down the gauntlet: no discussions on a trade deal will take place until there’s progress on the UK’s divorce bill, the Ireland-UK border and the rights of EU citizens.

We are told there is a document on the table relating to UK citizens living in Europe and those of citizens from other EU countries who live in Britain, but the UK is not prepared to sign. No reason has been given as to why.

The problem for our prime minister is that at every turn her head hits the hard wall of law and the role of the European court of justice (ECJ). Theresa May has cornered herself by insisting that the UK withdraw totally from the court and its decisions. Nobody explained to her that if you have cross-border rights and contracts you have to have cross-border law and regulations. And if you have cross-border law you have to have supranational courts to deal with disputes.
Call it what you like, but in the end you need rules as to conduct, and arbiters for disagreement. Even the World Trade Organisation has a disputes court.

But May has had a bellyful of European courts after her run-in with the totally separate European court of human rights when, as home secretary, she was trying to deport the fundamentalist preacher Abu Qatada to Jordan. Jordan’s use of torture on political opponents proved a handicap to his expulsion. However, although all this related to a quite separate legal regime, the words Europe and court in the same sentence still invite obstinate opposition from May.

This is now a problem in the Brexit negotiations, because all the preliminary matters raised by EU leaders involve legal commitments from which we cannot walk away. Calls to cut and run without paying a penny in the Brexit settlement are unlawful and unethical. It is not surprising that the other 27 want to see the colour of our money up front.

There is talk of a special deal to be negotiated for Northern Ireland, whatever the rest of the UK does, by possibly joining the European Economic Area (EEA) with some additional border arrangements between Northern Ireland and the rest of the UK. EEA membership is a semidetached position that Norway, Iceland and Liechtenstein have signed up to, whereby they have the benefits of the EU single market but not the full obligations. However, it also has legal implications. You cannot trade without the protection of law because things can go wrong. EEA members have to sign up to the European Free Trade Association court, a special supranational judicial body which deals with EEA disputes; it sits in Luxembourg, and is run largely according to EU law and ECJ judgments. Of course, such law is made without the input of EEA states, which makes it a solution that would be hard for many Brexiteers to swallow.

In preparation for the negotiations, EU representatives have been appearing before Lords and Commons committees and meeting Brexit ministers. They are invariably bemused. They say they keep being told the UK wants to continue to be part of various arrangements, including the European arrest warrant and Europol – yet nobody in London seems to understand that such collaboration requires the ECJ to have ultimate jurisdiction and for EU law to apply.

It seems obvious to them that cross-border collaboration requires supranational legal arrangements covering everything from financial services, trade, farming, fishing, security, environment, employment and maternity rights to industry standards and consumer rights. Intellectual property law, for instance, covers a huge array of research, entrepreneurship, invention and creativity; the European patent court has only recently been built here in London and was due to be opened. What happens to it now, they ask.

For years the British public have been subjected to a barrage of tabloid mendacity suggesting that we are victims of an onslaught of foreign-invented law and interference by foreign courts. In fact, a vast amount of incredibly advantageous law has been created in the EU in the past 40 years. And here’s the rub: we have been major contributors to that law. The British are good at law. We have had a strong hand in the creation of EU law.

The committee I chair in the House of Lords has heard overwhelming evidence about the benefits to business of being able, for instance, to secure a judgment in a British court against a recalcitrant debtor in Poland and know it will be enforced anywhere in the EU.

A mother can secure a maintenance order against her children’s renegade father who has sloped off to continental Europe, and have the order enforced. A holiday accident in Spain can lead to swifter resolution and compensation by virtue of EU law. A British father can get access to his kids by order of a court in Munich. Cross-border relationships require cross-border law, and agreements on mutual enforcement are fundamental.

No wonder the European commission president, Jean-Claude Juncker, is reported to have said Theresa May is on another galaxy in imagining she can retain the best bits of Europe without its institutions or legal underpinnings. Her fantasy that the “great repeal bill” will fix the problem by bringing EU law home, or that a deal can be done without the need for any European court, is unravelling. These legal arrangements require reciprocity. The courts of EU countries do things for us because we do likewise for them. A piece of unilateral legislation on our part does not secure that mutuality which is embodied in many regulations.

Harmonising law across Europe has raised standards – to our advantage. Europe-wide law is integrated into our lives. In the “new order” of trade agreements with China and others, none of these safeguards will exist. My guess is that if May does secure a deal with the EU, we will find ourselves quietly signing up to a newly created court or tribunal, a lesser ECJ.
The law, judges and courts are under attack in many democracies – from Trump’s America to Poland, Hungary and Turkey. It is the currency of our dangerous times. Be warned: good law is a protection we have to preserve. The price of its loss will be very high indeed.

Secret courts: justice conducted behind closed doors is no justice at all

If Britain has suddenly decided that open justice is a luxury we can't afford, then I for one was not invited to the debate

• 
• • Sarosh Zaiwalla
  • theguardian.com, Monday 19 August 2013 11.31 BST

Britain's home secretary, Theresa May, leaves Downing Street in London. Photograph: Stefan Wermuth/Reuters

Last March, I watched from afar as perhaps the most important case in my 30-year legal career was decided in a soundproofed room protected by a security guard. This was the first time in the UK supreme court's history that it had entered closed session for what has been aptly named a "secret court". It is a phrase we should get used to after a judge ruled last week that the home secretary, Theresa May, has the power to "terminate" high court challenges on national security grounds and push more cases away from public view.

This ruling is all the more worrying after my experience. Giving his final judgment on our secret court, Lord Hope described it as an "unwelcome departure from the principle of open justice", calling for a "stern and steadfast resistance to the use of that procedure" in the future. His call is one that every Briton should heed.

Representing Bank Mellat, an Iranian bank caught up in the middle of the sanctions battle between the west and Iran, I was tasked with showing that UK sanctions must be more than an indiscriminate attack on people living under regimes we dislike. My firm argued that the Treasury had no evidence to suggest the bank had somehow helped Iran's nuclear programme. The sanctions were at best irrational and at worst discriminatory. The supreme court agreed – but there was a catch. In a last ditch attempt to win the day, the Treasury claimed that they did have rock solid evidence … they just couldn't show anyone.

The dilemma was etched on Lord Neuberger's face as he announced the decision to enter a secret court. On the one hand, the Treasury insisted that the evidence must be kept secret for national security reasons, but on the other the supreme court risked undermining the whole system of open justice. Imagine being convicted of a crime by evidence you are not allowed to see and without the opportunity to defend yourself – that is the state in which the bank found itself. When the Treasury insisted that the supreme court view evidence obtained from the secret services, the judges obliged in good faith. Ultimately, the court attached little weight to this evidence and decided in Bank Mellat's favour.

The judges' concern, much like my own, is that justice conducted behind closed doors with evidence hidden from view is no kind of justice at all.

The ultimate driving force behind this self-mutilation of a proud justice system was the politics of security. Ironically, it is in our dealings with the alleged opponents of liberty that the dangerous, prejudicial and irrational politics of security push us to our most extreme. Just as the US Prism programme is unravelling the extent to which we have given up our privacy to GCHQ, so too are secret courts forcing us to be "free" in ways we are powerless to stop.

You need only look to the US to see the sacrifices made in the name of national security – a compassionless system fuelled by uncompromising secret surveillance of citizens and allowing the unchecked detention of suspects in Guantánamo Bay. Has the balance in the name of security gone too far? In Bank Mellat's instance, our supreme court may have dismissed the government's tactics, but it would be naive to hope that nine judges will be enough to rein in sustained attacks on British liberty if the rot of politics continues to eat away at our rights. Only days after the supreme court entered closed session in the case I was representing, a broad coalition of Labour, Liberal Democrats and Conservative MPs pushed through the Justice and Security bill, allowing the same secret courts used against foreign companies to apply to anyone living in the UK. This bill has now come into full force. Indeed, as the revelations about GCHQ's snooping make clear, there will be no dearth of information available to help the secret courts convict us.

If the British people have suddenly decided that open justice is a luxury we cannot afford, then I for one was not invited to the debate. It is perfectly reasonable to argue that the threats facing the UK warrant such suspensions of justice, but it is both absurd and dangerous to allow this vital judgment call to be made solely by those politicians who hope to wield the new powers against us. Privileges which we can surely only give up voluntarily have been wrestled from us without our consent.

The revelations of secret courts and Prism show just how little influence we have over our own rights. Indeed as Theresa May can now attest, not even high court judges can keep the government's secret courts at bay. It is time politicians asked for our permission before denying us access to open justice.

The justice and security bill will have a corrosive impact on individual rights.

I'm leaving the Liberal Democrats too

The justice and security bill will have a corrosive impact on individual rights. The party's support for it is a coalition compromise too far

• 
• • Philippe Sands
  • The Guardian, Monday 11 March 2013 20.30 GMT

Liberal Democrat parliamentary candidate Jo Shaw announces her resignation during a speech at the party's spring conference. Photograph: Matthew Lloyd/Getty Images

I have worked closely with the Liberal Democrats since the attacks of 11 September; it has been the only party to adopt a principled and consistent position favouring the rule of law and the protection of individual rights. In difficult times, and in the face of blanket claims invoking risks to national security, the Liberal Democrats have resisted policies embracing torture, rendition and the indefinite detention of alleged terrorists without charge, as well as war under conditions of patent illegality.

After the London attacks of July 2005 the Lib Dems stood firm against the idea that the "rules of the game" had changed, committed to respect of human rights for all. They opposed executive authority, secrecy and the rise of the "security state". In government, on many issues, that position has been maintained. But to my great regret, last week the parliamentary group was whipped to vote in favour of the introduction of secret court hearings in part 2 of the justice and security bill. If adopted, the bill will put British judges in the invidious position of adjudging certain civil claims under conditions in which one party will not be entitled to see the evidence on which the opposing party relies. Last year Lib Dem members voted overwhelmingly against this. They did so again at their conference on Sunday. Their approach was informed, reasonable, principled and correct. Why was it ignored?

This part of the bill is a messy and unhappy compromise. It is said to have been demanded by the US (which itself has stopped more or less any case that raises 'national security' issues from reaching court), on the basis that it won't share as much sensitive intelligence information if the UK doesn't rein in its courts. Important decisions on intelligence taken at the instigation of others are inherently unreliable. We remember Iraq, which broke a bond of trust between government and citizen.

There is no floodgate of cases, nothing in the coalition agreement, nor any widely supported call for such a draconian change. There is every chance that, if the bill is adopted, this and future governments will spend years defending the legislation in UK courts and Strasbourg. There will be claims that it violates rights of fair trial under the Human Rights Act and the European convention (no doubt giving rise to ever-more strident calls from Theresa May and Chris Grayling that both should be scrapped). Other countries with a less robust legal tradition favouring the rule of law and an independent judiciary will take their lead from the UK, as they did with torture and rendition.

I accept that there may be times when the country faces a threat of such gravity and imminence that the exceptional measure of closed material proceedings might be needed. This is not such a time, and the bill is not such a measure. Under conditions prevailing today, this part of the bill is not pragmatic or proportionate. It is wrong in principle, and will not deliver justice. It will be used to shield governmental wrongdoing from public and judicial scrutiny under conditions that are fair and just. The bill threatens greater corrosion of the rights of the individual in the UK, in the name of "national security".

It smells too of political compromise in the name of coalition politics. Being a party of government does not mean such compromise is inevitable. This is particularly important now, as Conservative forces ratchet up their attacks on rights for all and against the European convention. At this moment the need for the Liberal Democrats to stand firm on issues of principle – for individual rights and open justice, against the security state – is greater than ever.

Secrecy begets secrecy. I have listened to all the arguments, and concluded this is a compromise too far, neither necessary nor fair at this time. The point has been made eloquently in recent days by Dinah Rose QC and Jo Shaw. Their principled arguments have long had my full support and so I have joined them in resigning from the Liberal Democrats. I have done so with regret, given the courageous positions adopted on these issues by Charles Kennedy, Menzies Campbell and Nick Clegg in the past. I still hope that the views of the membership might yet prevail, before the bill passes into law. If not, the Liberal Democrats will have lost integrity on one issue that has truly distinguished them from other parties, and on which they can rightly claim to have made a real difference.

New-tech moguls: the modern robber barons?

Are today's captains of industry – the wealthy and powerful figures who control the digital universe – any different from the ruthless corporate figures of the past?

• 
• • John Naughton
  • The Observer, Sunday 1 July 2012

From left: Co-founders of Google Larry Page and Sergey Brin, Chairman and CEO of Dell Michael Dell, Co-founder of Microsoft Bill Gates, and Chairman and CEO of Facebook Mark Zuckerberg Photographs: AP; Getty

Here's an interesting fact: 10 of the people on Forbes magazine's tally of the world's 100 richest billionaires made their money from computer and/or network technology. At the top (second on the list) is Bill Gates, co-founder of Microsoft, whose net worth is estimated by Forbes at $61bn, despite the fact that he continues to try to give it away. Gates is followed by Larry Ellison, boss of Oracle, with $36bn, and Michael Bloombergwith $22bn. Larry Page and Sergey Brin – co-founders of Google – occupy joint 24th place with $18.7bn each. Jeff Bezos of Amazon is No 26 with $18.4bn while the newly enriched Mark Zuckerberg of Facebook sits at No 35 with £17.5bn. Michael Dell, founder of the eponymous computer manufacturer, is at No 41 with $15.9bn while Steve Ballmer, Microsoft's CEO, is three places lower on $15.7bn and Paul Allen – co-founder of Microsoft – brings up the rear at No 48 with a mere $14.2bn. Steve Jobs, who was worth about $9bn when he died, doesn't even figure.

What's striking about this is not just the staggering wealth that these people have managed to squeeze out of what are, after all, just binary digits (ones and zeros), but how recent are the origins of their good fortunes. Mark Zuckerberg, for example, went from zero to $17.5bn in less than eight years. Microsoft – the company that has propelled Gates, Ballmer and Allen into the Forbes pantheon – dates only from 1975. Oracle was founded in 1977. Bloomberg turned a $10m redundancy cheque from Salomon Brothers into his personal money-pump in 1982. Dell started making computers in his university dorm in 1984. Bezos launched Amazon with his own savings in 1995. Brin and Page turned their PhD research into a company called Google in 1998. And Zuckerberg launched Facebook in 2004.

For some of these people, great wealth is correlated with significant power. Once Microsoft captured the market for PC operating systems and office software, Bill Gates and co ruthlessly leveraged their monopoly to eliminate rivals (remember Netscape?) and dictate pricing. So we got a world where you could have any kind of computer you wanted, provided it ran Microsoft Windows. In the era when the PC was the computer, Bill Gates was king because he controlled the PC.

But although Microsoft remains a significant force, its power waned as computing moved from the PC to the network – and therefore to the people and companies who dominate that. Step forward the Google boys, who have the power to render any website virtually invisible, because if their algorithms decide not to index a site then effectively it ceases to exist – at least in cyberspace. Their computers also read our mail and store our documents. Google dominates the online advertising business. The company's founders say grandly that their mission is "to organise the world's information" – and they mean it. They have already digitised a significant amount of the world's printed books – although they are not yet authorised to make many of them available online. And Google's cars have photographed every street in the industrialised world.

Meanwhile, in another part of the jungle, Amazon's Bezos is not just vaporising bricks-and-mortar bookstores; he's also on his way to becoming the world's biggest publisher. And he's already the world's largest online retailer – the Walmart of the web. In social networking Mark Zuckerberg has cunningly inserted himself (via his hardware and software) into every online communication that passes between his 900 million subscribers, to the point where Facebook probably knows that two people are about to have an affair before they do. And because of the nature of networks, if we're not careful we could wind up with a series of winners who took all: one global bookstore; one social network; one search engine; one online multimedia store and so on.

There was a time when the power exercised by computer and internet companies seemed a matter of relatively esoteric concern. But as digital technology began to pervade our daily lives, the boundary between the "real" world ("meatspace", as geeks used to call it) and cyberspace began to blur. What happened in the latter suddenly mattered in the former – and not just in Tunisia and Egypt either. Think of the way Steve Jobs's creation – Apple – exercises such dominance over online music, smartphones and tablet computers. Or ponder what Google and Facebook now know about our lives, loves and obsessions. Or what Amazon knows about our consumption patterns. The implication is that cyberpower has correlates in the real world, which means that it's time we had a really good look at those who wield it. What are these masters of the digital universe really like? What are their values and their politics? And are they any different from the corporate moguls of the past?

Given their prominence, we know surprisingly little about our modern moguls – for various reasons. One is that we are remarkably incurious about what makes them tick. We focus instead on the fact that one of them (Zuckerberg) wears a hoodie even when being interviewed by investment bankers; or that Larry Page, co-founder of Google, refused to stop using his laptop when a big media mogul came to talk to him; or that Bill Gates used to rock furiously backwards and forwards in a rocking chair when being interviewed for an anti-trust case; or that Steve Jobs drove a comparatively modest sports car and lived in a small, old-fashioned house rather than the postmodern minimalist palace that many people would have predicted.

But this is all superficial stuff, the journalistic fluff of celebrity profiles and gossip columns. What's much more significant about these moguls is that they share a mindset that renders them blind to the untidiness and contradictions of life, not to mention the fears and anxieties of lesser beings. They are technocrats who cleave to a worldview that holds that if something is technically possible then it should be done. How about digitising all the books in the world? No problem: you just throw resources and technology at the task. And if publishers protest about infringement of copyright andauthors moan about their moral rights, well, that just shows how antediluvian they are. Or how about photographing every street in Europe, or even the world? Again, no problem: it's technically feasible, after all. And if Germans object to the resulting intrusion on their privacy, well let them complain and we'll pixelate the sods. Oh – and when we discover that those same cars have been hoovering up the details of our home Wi-Fi networks, their bosses say "Oops! Sorry: it was a mistake." Same story with the high-resolution satellite imagery beloved of Google and – now – Apple. Same story with Mark Zuckerberg's fanatical, almost sociopathic, belief that the default setting for life should be "public" rather than "private". The prevailing technocratic motto is: if something can be done, then it ought to be done. It's all about progress, stoopid.

Actually, it's all about values. And money. The trouble is that technocrats don't do values. They just do rationality. They love good design, efficiency, elegance – and profits. That's why one of the poster children of the industry is Apple's creative genius, Jonathan Ive, who designs beautiful kit in California which is then assembled in Chinese factories. And when the execrable working conditions prevalent in such places are exposed, the company's senior executives profess themselves surprised and appalled and resolve to do everything they can to ameliorate things. And we believe them – and continue eagerly to purchase the gizmos manufactured in such oppressive plants.

Why are we so credulous, so forgiving? It's partly because wealth – like political power – is a powerful aphrodisiac. But it's mainly because we accept these people at their own valuation. We've bought into their narrative. They see themselves as progressives, as folks who want to make the world a better, more efficient, more rational place. We're charmed by their corporate mantras – for example "Don't be evil" (Google) or "Move fast and break things" (Facebook). In their black turtlenecks and faded jeans they don't seem to have anything in common with Rupert Murdoch or the grim-faced, silk-hatted capitalist bosses of old. Instead of grinding the faces of the poor, our modern technology magnates move effortlessly from tech forums to TED to All Things D to Davos, reclining on spotlit sofas discussing APIs and cloud computing with respectful or admiring moderators. And in recent times, they are even invited to lunch with President Obamaor as guests at political summits where they are fawned upon by presidents and prime ministers who hope that some of the magic dust will rub off on them.

What gets lost in the reality distortion field that surrounds these technology moguls is that, in the end, they are fanatically ambitious, competitive capitalists. They may look cool and have soothing bedside manners, but in the end these guys are in business not just to make money, but to establish sprawling, quasi-monopolistic commercial empires. And they will do whatever it takes to achieve those ambitions.

The strongest link that binds them is that they are all pioneers in the exploitation of virgin territory, and that rings some historical bells. When the internet first exploded into public consciousness in the 1990s as a result of the web, many observers were reminded of what happened in the United States after the end of the civil war in 1865. Then, there was an exciting sense of a continent to be explored, gold and mineral resources to be discovered and exploited, land for anyone who was prepared to work it, industries to be founded, opportunities galore. What then followed was an explosion of speculative investment, led by railway companies which – as Anthony Trollope shrewdly observed on a visit to the US – "were in fact companies combined for the purchase of land… looking to increase the value of it fivefold by the opening of the railroad."

Thus began the era satirised by Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner in their novelThe Gilded Age: A Tale of Today, which was published in 1873. Twain and Warner were struck by the rampant greed and speculative frenzy of the times – not to mention its pervasive political corruption. But in that febrile milieu a smallish group of ingenious, ruthless and visionary entrepreneurs created a modern industrial state. Leland Stanford, EH Harriman, Jay Gould, Charles Crocker, Henry Plant, Henry Flagler, Cornelius Vanderbilt and Charles Yerkes built railways; John D Rockefeller created Standard Oil and brought his distinctive brand of oligopolistic order to the oil business, eventually controlling 90% of the industry; Andrew Carnegie, Henry Frick and Charles Schwab created a vast steel industry; and bankers such as JP Morgan, Joseph Seligman, Andrew Mellon and Jay Cooke organised the finance that funded these huge ventures.

In addition to building a modern industrial state, these gents amassed huge fortunes for themselves using a raft of dubious techniques, including fraud, stock-dilution, the bribing of corrupt politicians, the creation of secret cartels (ironically called "trusts") and the ruthless exploitation of poorly paid, non-unionised workers – which is why Matthew Josephson dubbed them "robber barons" in his book of the same title. In the end, their abuses and excesses led to a legislative backlash in the form of the 1890 Sherman Anti-Trust Act, the first federal statute to limit cartels and monopolies, and to a more general public revulsion ushered in by Theodore Roosevelt's presidency in 1901. In the twilight of their lives, some of the barons (for example Carnegie, Mellon and Frick) sought to acquire public respectability – or perhaps bargaining chips for negotiating with the Almighty – by endowing charitable foundations and eponymous museums, and engaging in other public-spirited enterprises.

In comparison with these monsters of the gilded age, our contemporary moguls – Gates, Page, Brin, Ellison, Bezos et al – may look rather tame. They appear, for example, to be much more law-abiding than their 19th-century counterparts; or at any rate they have had much less success in bending lawmakers to their will. In fact, compared with the skills of the entertainment industry in suborning members of the US Congress, the technology magnates are the merest amateurs – which is why the legislators were so astonished by the industry's vigorous reaction to Sopa, the Stop Online Piracy Act. The thought that the technology industry might actually have teeth had never previously occurred to the denizens of Capitol Hill.

We should also remember that the world in which Microsoft, Oracle, Google and Amazon operate is radically different in one important respect. The stage on which Rockefeller, Carnegie, Vanderbilt and their contemporaries strutted was predominately a national one: most of their enterprises and ambitions spanned only the continental United States, whereas the big technology companies of our day are transnational corporations that operate in a variety of different cultures and legal jurisdictions. John D Rockefeller just had to worry about fixing American officials and politicians; Larry Page, Google's CEO, has to deal not only with the US Department of Justice, but also with the European Commission, the Chinese government and Vladimir Putin's goons.

There are also radical differences in the kinds of industrial empires that the two classes of magnate have created. The 19th-century entrepreneurs built huge companies, conglomerates and cartels. They employed millions of people, operated huge plants and equipment (railways, shipping, iron and steel mills, oil refineries) and made an indelible imprint on the landscape. To use a contemporary cliche, they "shipped atoms" – physical objects. With the exception of Amazon and Apple, their modern counterparts, in contrast, are mainly in the business of shipping bits – in the form of software and online services. Despite the bleating of their PR departments, they are not huge primary employers. Google, for example, has only about 33,000 employees worldwide. And often the only tangible, physical sign of their presence and scale is the huge server farms that power their operations and which do have a significant impact on the environment – not to mention the landscape in the places where they are located.

But just because our contemporary moguls don't gouge minerals from the earth, run blast furnaces or operate oil refineries doesn't mean that their growing empires aren't real. To the physical economy created by Carnegie and co, digital technology has added a whole new economy based on information goods – nowadays embodied as ones and zeros – which may turn out to be at least as pervasive and valuable. We still make cars using steel, rubber and plastics, for example, but the value of the electronics in their engine management units and braking-control systems already exceeds the value of the vehicles' physical components. And this pattern will increasingly be replicated in other areas of economic life.

So the fact that one cannot see the information goods that Google and co gather, store, disseminate and control doesn't mean that those goods aren't real and valuable. To take just one example, Facebook now owns and controls a virtual space that will soon contain more people than the entire Indian subcontinent. Those merry throngs may delude themselves that they are cavorting in a public place. But in reality they are gathering in Master Zuckerberg's shopping mall – a fact that potentially gives him a reach and power that would make any robber baron green with envy.

Sceptics will point out that when one puts our masters of the digital universe in a historical context they aren't as rich or as important as we currently imagine. Last year, for example, Forbes commissioned an economist to come up with an inflation-adjusted list of the richest Americans of all time, and the website Business Insider published the results. The list is headed by those grizzled old robber barons, John D Rockefeller, Andrew Carnegie and Cornelius Vanderbilt, with $336bn, $309bn and $185bn respectively. The only contemporary figure who makes it on to the list is Bill Gates, whose net worth at its peak was estimated at $136bn – which (says the sceptic) rather puts Larry Ellison, the Google boys and Jeff Bezos into perspective.

Bubble punctured, then? Not quite. It could be that the reason Bill Gates makes it on to the inflation-adjusted list is simply that he's been around the longest. Microsoft, remember, dates from 1975 – 37 years ago. Facebook has only been going since 2004. Who knows where Zuckerberg and the Google boys will be in 2041? The digital economy has a lot more growth left in it. As Churchill might have said, we haven't yet reached even the end of the beginning.

But perhaps the most intriguing question about these two different groups of industrial magnates concerns their legacies. The industries and enterprises founded by the robber barons of the 19th century still endure – though in some cases (steel, for example) the action has moved to Asia and parts of the developing world. What, one wonders, will endure of Google, Facebook, Oracle and Amazon? And what will be their founders' legacies? And here we get a clue from the robber barons of the 19th century. Many years after their deaths we still recognise the names of John D Rockefeller and Andrew Carnegie. Will Zuckerberg and Page enjoy the same level of name-recognition among our great-great-grandchildren?

The answer may well depend not on how much money they make, but how much they give away. After all, the way their 19th-century counterparts live on is in the charitable foundations they established – the Rockefeller Foundation, set up in 1913, and theCarnegie Corporation of New York, founded in 1911. And here at least we do have a contemporary mogul who is way ahead of the pack. The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, with assets of $37.4bn, is the world's largest charitable trust.