Cosmetic reshuffles can’t hide the yawning chasm where a plan for government should be

Neither Cameron nor Miliband seems serious about finding reasons why anyone with an existing inclination to one side should actually consider switching to the other.

The Prime Minister could declare war and no one would notice – goes an old Westminster joke, usually attributed to Tony Blair – as long as the announcement is contained in a speech entitled “Rising to the Skills Challenge”.

The point is not that Blair was an obsessive militarist (although his critics say he was). It is that worthy but vital things the government does go unreported. The Westminster news juggernaut doesn’t brake for policies that outrage no one. Journalists won’t read a speech about the skills challenge unless they are briefed by a reliable source that it contains a declaration of war.

Politicians complain about the lack of attention paid to policy while feeding the cult of personality. The recent front-bench reshuffles illustrate the point. Downing Street let it be known that personnel changes were being made to boost the number of women and MPs with northern accents speaking on behalf of the Conservative Party. Their elevation served a cosmetic function, rebutting the view of the Tories as a club for southern men.

If that looks like a denigration of the other talents candidates for ministerial office might possess, it is. They certainly aren’t there to make policy. Independent thought is seen in Downing Street as a kind of nervous tic – best ignored since it cannot be helped, while criticism only causes offence. David Cameron has got better at pretending to listen to his MPs but in reality he sets the Tory agenda almost exclusively in consultation with George Osborne and Lynton Crosby, the party’s election strategist. The value of a policy is measured by its utility as a weapon against the opposition. Does it neutralise an Ed Miliband attack or trap him on the wrong side of public opinion? No 10 aides boast that campaign strategy and policymaking are now inseparable.

In that context, the job of MPs and ministers is to receive and repeat the message: Conservatives are fixing the economy for the benefit of hard-working people, whom Labour betrays with mass immigration, welfare profligacy and debt. Most Tories submit to this regime because they like the punchy tone and because it makes a change from the pre-Crosby routine of rolling incompetence punctuated with civil war.

Only a handful of dissidents worry about the stultifying effect of monolithic messaging between now and the election. Crosbyism is not conducive to responsible government in the long or even medium term. It is a system for spiking Nigel Farage’s guns and fomenting fear of Labour in order, they hope, to scrape over the electoral finish line in 2015.

There is a parallel problem on the opposition side. Ed Miliband insists that his “one nation” vision is an agenda for social and economic transformation on an epic scale. His shadow cabinet reshuffle was meant to raise the profile of MPs who were elected in 2010, and so clean of contamination by the old clan fighting between “Blairites” and “Brownites”. The impulse to prove that those rivalries are obsolete is sound. The danger is that the price for doing so is burial of policy questions that Miliband deems divisive. At the top of that list is discussion of how, in practical terms, Labour would run big-spending departments without big spending.

Ed Balls has committed the party to Budget discipline. That doesn’t answer the question of what the state could be doing better, or not at all. Labour insiders say it is hard to pin Miliband down on that topic even in private conversations. His advisers insist that a “one nation” story will be told about fixing broken government as well as intervening in broken markets; just not yet. For the time being, public-sector reform is treated as a lower-tier issue; an obsession for the kind of people who read speeches about “rising to the skills challenge”.

But Miliband needs more than paper pledges of fiscal rectitude. People vote Labour when they don’t trust the Conservatives to look after schools and hospitals or to provide a social safety net. Many are less minded to vote Labour now because they accept the claims that there isn’t any money for schools, hospitals or social security and that the more pressing task is national belt-tightening. For that, they turn to the Tories. Miliband cannot separate the question of responsible budgeting from innovation in public services because being serious about one demands seriousness about the other.

The temptation is to gloss over that challenge. In the past few weeks, Miliband’s stock has risen. His pledge to cap energy prices proved that popularity is not the same as free-market orthodoxy. His battle with the Daily Mail over poisonous allegations about his late father proved that popularity is not the same as conservative reaction.

Those achievements may bring floating voters to look at Miliband afresh but their likeliest impact will be in giving Labour-leaning people new reasons to vote Labour. That is better than giving them reasons to sit at home or vote Liberal Democrat. In much the same way, Crosby’s aggressive message discipline will succeed largely in persuading Tory-leaning people to vote Tory, which, from Cameron’s point of view, is an improvement on watching them vote Ukip.

Still, neither Cameron nor Miliband seems serious about finding reasons why anyone with an existing inclination to one side should actually consider switching to the other. They claim to talk about the future while their opponent is wedded to the past but the future they have in mind is a campaigning construct – a sun-drenched Never-Never Land of balanced budgets, gleaming hospitals, well-policed borders, higher wages, lower bills, new homes, fairer taxes. And the real future, which begins the day one of them flops into Downing Street with a flimsy mandate and a manifesto full of show policies that were crafted to destabilise the enemy party or appease an unappeasable fringe? On that future there is silence.

Ed Miliband signs autographs as he attends the Pride of Britain awards at Grosvenor House on October 7, 2013 in London. Photograph: Getty Images.

Rafael Behr is political columnist at the Guardian and former political editor of the New Statesman

This article first appeared in the 11 October 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Iran vs Israel

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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