Labour's right to join the economic debate is under attack

Osborne's attempt to create a sense of equivalence between Fred Goodwin and Ed Balls is a threat to

George Osborne's speech had two distinct purposes. The first and most obvious was to show that the government is not complacent about the stagnating economy and the effect it is having. This he aimed to do with a rash of announcements, the most significant of which is surely the interest in "credit easing", by which the Treasury lends directly to firms. As my colleague George points out, this looks like a tacit admission that Project Merlin - the deal between government and the banks to increase the supply of private sector credit - is failing. It is worth adding that other devices that were meant to stimulate the economy by disbursing government cash, notably the regional growth fund, are also implicitly belittled by this move. The growth fund has yet to actually hand out any money.

The second of Osborne's tasks was to reinforce the coalition's central political message about Labour's responsibility for creating the crisis. This Osborne did with a sleight of rhetorical hand, embarking on what sounded like an attack on the bankers but blended seamlessly into an attack on the shadow chancellor. The aim is to create some sense of equivalence in people's minds between the dereliction of responsibility shown by the likes of Fred Goodwin at RBS and the fiscal management of the last government. It is a crude device but one that poses a big threat to Labour. Osborne doesn't want to beat the two Eds in an argument on the economy, he wants to trash their moral credentials to even participate in an argument about the economy.

Given how effective the Chancellor has already been in promoting his account of Labour profligacy as the prime cause of austerity, Miliband should be worried by this renewed assault on his entitlement to have a view. The argument Miliband made in his conference speech - that the Tories' economic analysis represents the last gasp of a failed model of irresponsible free market capitalism - requires a degree of historical and ideological perspective that many voters don't bring to bear when apportioning blame. Labour badly needs a sharper rebuttal.

One other point on Osborne's political calculations: The heavy emphasis on the failings in the eurozone was inevitable, but the tone, essentially blaming continental governments for creating the conditions that are now holding back the UK economy, was new. The Chancellor clearly felt the need to lash out at "Europe" in some way to appease the large numbers in his party who see the single currency crisis as an opportunity to renegotiate Britain's whole settlement with Brussels. But I sense another element to this argument. Osborne lavished praise on William Hague for his 2001 election campaign dedicated almost entirely to demands to "save the pound". The Tories lost by a landslide. Now that the euro is in dire trouble, Tory strategists are sensing an opportunity to salvage some credibility from their wilderness years. This isn't so much a eurosceptic argument as part of the Tory "decontamination" agenda. Osborne seems to be re-branding old political failures as a kind of foresight.

The Chancellor doesn't just want to monopolise economic argument in the present and future, he wants to rewrite the past too.

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

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Politics doesn't just connect us to the past and the future – it's what makes us human

To those people who tell me that they’re not interested in politics, I often say: “But politics is interested in you!”

I have long been haunted by a scene in George Orwell’s great novel Nineteen Eighty-Four. Winston Smith, the hero, is forced to watch propaganda films depicting acts of war and destruction. He is moved by something he sees: a woman trying to protect a child by wrapping her arm around him as they are attacked. It’s a futile gesture. She cannot shield the boy or stop the bullets but she embraces him all the same – before, as Orwell writes, “The helicopter blew them both to pieces.”

For Winston, what Orwell calls the “enveloping, protecting gesture” of the woman’s arm comes to symbolise something profoundly human – an expression of selflessness and of unconditional love in an unforgiving world. Scenes such as this we now witness daily in footage from the besieged eastern Aleppo and other Syrian towns, people in extreme situations showing extraordinary dignity and kindness.

I read Nineteen Eighty-Four for the first time in late adolescence. I’d dropped out of sixth-form college without completing my A-levels and was commuting on a coach from my parents’ house in Hertfordshire to London, where I worked as a junior clerk for the Electricity Council. During this long daily journey – sometimes two hours each way – I started to read seriously for the first time in my life.

I was just getting interested in politics – this was the high tide of the Thatcher years – and Orwell’s portrayal of a dystopian future in which Britain (renamed “Airstrip One”) had become a Soviet-style totalitarian state was bleakly fascinating. Fundamentally the book seemed to me to be about the deep ­human yearning for political change – about the never-ending dream of conserving or creating a better society.

Nineteen Eighty-Four was published in 1949 (Orwell died in January 1950, aged 46), at a time of rationing and austerity in Britain – but also of renewal. Under the leadership of Clement Attlee, Winston Churchill’s deputy in the wartime coalition, the Labour government was laying the foundations of what became the postwar settlement.

The National Health Service and the welfare state were created. Essential industries such as the railways were nationalised. The Town and Country Planning Act was passed, opening the way for the redevelopment of tracts of land. Britain’s independent nuclear deterrent was commissioned. New towns were established – such as Harlow in Essex, where I was born and brought up.

To grow up in Harlow, I now understand, was to be part of a grand experiment. Many of the families I knew there had escaped the bomb-ruined streets of the East End of London. Our lives were socially engineered. Everything we needed was provided by the state – housing, education, health care, libraries, recreational facilities. (One friend described it to me as being like East Ger­many without the Stasi.)

This hadn’t happened by accident. As my father used to say, we owed the quality of our lives to the struggles of those who came before us. The conservative philosopher Edmund Burke described society as a partnership between “those who are living, those who are dead, and those who are to be born” – and I find this idea of an intergenerational social contract persuasive.

Progress, however, isn’t inevitable. There is no guarantee that things will keep getting better. History isn’t linear, but contingent and discontinuous. And these are dark and turbulent new times in which we are living.

A civil war has been raging in Syria for more than five years, transforming much of the Middle East into a theatre of great-power rivalry. Europe has been destabilised by economic and refugee crises and by the emergence of insurgent parties, from the radical left and the radical right. The liberal world order is crumbling. Many millions feel locked out or left behind by globalisation and rapid change.

But we shouldn’t despair. To those people who tell me that they’re not interested in politics, I often say: “But politics is interested in you!”

And part of what it means to be human is to believe in politics and the change that politics can bring, for better and worse.

What, after all, led so many Americans to vote for an anti-establishment populist such as Donald Trump? He has promised to “make America great again” – and enough people believed him or, at least, wanted to believe him to carry him all the way to the White House. They want to believe in something different, something better, in anything better – which, of course, Trump may never deliver.

So politics matters.

The decisions we take collectively as ­humans have consequences. We are social creatures and rational agents, yet we can be dangerously irrational. This is why long-established institutions, as well as the accumulated wisdom of past generations, are so valuable, as Burke understood.

Politics makes us human. It changes our world and ultimately affects who we are and how we live, not just in the here and now, but long into the future.

An edited version of this essay was broadcast as part of the “What Makes Us Human?” series on BBC Radio 2’s “Jeremy Vine” show

Jason Cowley is editor of the New Statesman. He has been the editor of Granta, a senior editor at the Observer and a staff writer at the Times.

This article first appeared in the 01 December 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Age of outrage