NHS horror stories, my life as a Twitter fogey, and cricket’s robot generation

Peter Wilby's "First Thoughts" column.

Horror stories about the National Health Service come thick and fast, conveniently for a government that wants to hand it over to private capital. One week, it is chaos in A&E; the next, substandard care at 14 hospital trusts and old folk being ushered to an early grave by the Liverpool Care Pathway (LCP). We should treat these stories with scepticism even when they are apparently validated by official inquiries.

With all the talk of “excess deaths”, you would think that our hospitals had become killers. Yet, as the NHS medical director for England, Bruce Keogh, observes in his report on the 14 “failing” trusts, overall mortality in hospitals has fallen by about 30 per cent over the past decade.

Inquiries, however, rarely conclude that the problems they were set up to address don’t exist and they would be dismissed as whitewashes if they did. Given the emotion and fears surrounding serious illness and particularly death, it’s easy to find allegations of medical neglect. Julia Neuberger’s report on the LCP is replete with phrases such as “some people”, “many people” and “all too often”. There are no references to randomised sample surveys. The inquiry invited submissions from the public (it received 483), talked to 113 people at meetings and looked at hospital complaints. Such evidence should not be ignored but it is naturally biased towards those who suffered bad experiences.

No institution is perfect and anything involving medicine, which is as much an art as a science, will be more imperfect than most. What we don’t know is whether a health service run by private providers would be better.

I offer this snippet: in 2010, the US health department’s inspector general reported that 13.5 per cent of Medicare hospital patients suffered “harm” from “adverse events”, nearly half of them because of care failures. British newspapers love to highlight cases of “wrong-site surgeries”, in which ovaries are taken out instead of the appendix, for example. The United States has 40 of those a week; the UK has about 60 a year. The NHS has failings but they seem relatively few and, by international standards, very cheap.

Guilt by association

What’s in a name? The Neuberger report acknowledges that “many relatives” of patients on the LCP felt their loved ones had had “good deaths”. Yet it recommends dropping the term. “Pathway”, it argues, suggests patients being speeded directly to their coffins. I wonder if “Liverpool” isn’t the greater problem. Thanks partly to the Sun and Boris Johnson, the city has acquired negative associations in the past 25 years. Mention Liverpool and people think of poverty, unemployment, riots, too much drink and a declining football team.

Seen but not heard

The BBC’s director general, Tony Hall, says that he intends to stop actors muttering in the corporation’s dramas. If so, he will be performing a service to theatregoers as well as TV viewers. Actors, it seems, are no longer being taught to articulate their lines clearly and “throw” their voices, largely because the big money is now in TV, where authenticity is thought more important than audibility. Being deaf, I nearly always buy front-row seats at the theatre, but in the West End recently, we sat in the grand circle and my wife, whose hearing is perfect, complained that she couldn’t hear, either. Theatregoers should start a campaign and, at an agreed signal, stand in unison and shout: “Speak up!”

Social outcast

We hear much about how social media companies hold extensive databases on us that could be exploited by governments and corporations. We also hear about their inadequate controls over insulting comments. But I have not noticed discussion of their arbitrary power over users. I returned from holiday to find my Twitter account “suspended”, without warning or explanation. After a polite, emailed inquiry, I was told to look at the rules. I replied I couldn’t see how I had broken them. Two weeks later, someone at Twitter emailed me, saying, “It’s been awhile since we’ve heard from you,” and that “hopefully” the matter had been resolved. It certainly hadn’t, I replied. The account was restored a few days later, still without explanation or apology.

Being an old fogey, I use Twitter spasmodically and was not greatly inconvenienced by its loss. To some users, however, it has become an essential working tool. In a telling example of how technology can restrict rather than widen choice, many feel they must use it because their professional peers do so. We should know more about the Californian geeks who run social media and what redress they offer to those arbitrarily blackballed.

Analyse this

How could Ashton Agar, a 19-year-old cricketer playing his first Test and batting at No 11, make 98, the highest score of Australia’s first innings against England at Trent Bridge? The answer is that, since Agar had played only 16 unremarkable first-class innings, the England coaches, lacking videos of him, could offer bowlers no plans for getting him out. International sides now analyse opponents exhaustively. They produce pie charts, spreadsheets, graphs and other statistical paraphernalia, searching for a batsman’s weakness as assiduously as physicists searched for the Higgs boson. Even the best modern bowlers are robots, programmed by back-room boffins. Without the usual input, they malfunction.

What redress does Twitter offer to the arbitrarily blackballed? Photograph: Getty Images

Peter Wilby was editor of the Independent on Sunday from 1995 to 1996 and of the New Statesman from 1998 to 2005. He writes the weekly First Thoughts column for the NS.

This article first appeared in the 22 July 2013 issue of the New Statesman, How to make a saint

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad