Whatever is decided on the 50p tax rate, it will cost Osborne dear

The 50p tax rate is the first occasion Miliband has been properly ahead of the curve.

Ed Miliband has outmaneuvered George Osborne. That may seem a strange thing to be writing less than a week after Labour's leader tried to clamber into the Dispatch box and hide, rather than dare to raise the issue of the economy at Prime Minister's questions. But by floating the prospect of axing the 50p tax rate, our Chancellor has wandered blithely into Miliband's well-laid trap.

Actually, it hasn't even been that well-laid. For the best part of the year, Red Ed has been trying to re-cast himself as the People's Ed. He's felt the pinch of the Squeezed Middle, pointed to the betrayal of "Britain's promise", and attempted to align himself with "the many", whilst David Cameron courted an affluent "few".

This stuff hardly represents political rocket science. It's not even political A-level science. Very few election campaigns have been launched with the slogan; "I am committed to governing for the few, not the many". The Squeezed Middle are merely the latest incarnation of Middle England, Worcester Woman, Mondeo Man and the C2s.

But it's worked. Osborne, for reasons best known to himself, has fallen for it. Actually, he hasn't so much as fallen for it, as let out a hearty "Wahoooo!" and leapt right on in.

Let's think about this for a second. Here are a chancellor and coalition who have spent their entire period in government talking the language of austerity. This time last year, Cameron's assessment was blunt; "I think people do understand the basic proposition, which is we are living beyond our means. We are spending too much and taxing too little and building up our debts". As recently as last week, Osborne was himself holding to the iron line; ""We will stick to the deficit reduction plan we have set out. It is the rock of stability on which our economy is built". To underline the importance of this craggy fiscal outcrop, Britain's most cherished public services have been consistently hurled against it; police cuts in the wake of the riots, army cuts in the run up to the anniversary of 9/11.

Yet Osborne is now seriously contemplating turning that policy, or perhaps more importantly, that narrative, on its head. Suddenly we are to be told "actually, we are taxing too much". Or rather, "we are taxing the richest too much". We are to be told too, "we will not stick to the deficit reduction plan". Or at least, "we will not stick to the deficit reduction plan where it inconveniences the wealthiest". And those police officers and soldiers who were told their jobs were being axed to bring the nation's accounts into balance are to be shown they were, in truth, dispensed with to provide new yachts and private jets for the super-rich.

The Chancellor may point to the statistics, such as the Institute for Fiscal Studies analysis that queries whether the 50p rate actually raises any income at all. He may cite the experts, such as the 20 economists who entirely spontaneously wrote to the Financial Times last week calling for the rate to be abolished.

It won't matter. If George Osborne abolishes the 50p tax rate, he'll be blown away. For Ed Miliband and the Labour party it will be like shooting fish in a barrel. In fact, it will be more like climbing into the barrel and opening up with an Uzi.

The few instead of the many. The merciless squeezing of the middle. The breaking of Britain's promise. Miliband won't have to say, "listen to me". He will simply say "listen to Osborne".

Even if Osborne belatedly tries to scramble to safety, the trap will still be sprung. If the 50p rate remains, it represents another U-turn, another victory for the opposition. And not over something peripheral, like forests, or school sports. This retreat will have been conducted over an issue that goes to the heart of the government's economic agenda, and in full view of a group of increasingly fractious and rebellious backbench Tory right-wingers.

Since becoming Labour leader, Miliband has not been punching his weight. And he wasn't the heaviest guy in the room to begin with.

Yes, he's landed blows on sentencing reform, welfare reform and phone hacking. But on each occasion, the punch was delayed, or a follow up to an opening made by others.

The 50p tax rate is the first occasion Miliband has been properly ahead of the curve. He has followed a strategy, rather than exploit an opportunity, and it has paid off. Osborne, by contrast, has been staggeringly inept. Possibly that ineptness has been brought about by complacency; a feeling that Labour's inability to make inroads on the economy has gave him license to do as he pleases.

Either way, he is now trapped between Miliband and a hard place. Whatever decision is now made on the 50p tax rate, it will cost Osborne dear.

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What David Hockney has to tell us about football

Why the sudden glut of blond footballers? A conversation I had with the artist back in 1966 gave me a clue. . .

In 1966, I went to interview David Hockney at a rather run-down flat in Bayswater, central London. He was 28 and had just won a gold medal at the Royal College of Art.

In his lavatory, I noticed a cut-out photograph from a newspaper of Denis Law scoring a goal. I asked if he was a football fan. He said no, he just liked Denis Law’s thighs.

The sub-editors cut that remark out of the story, to save any gossip or legal problems. In 1966 homosexual activity could still be an offence.

Hockney and a friend had recently been in the United States and had been watching an advert on TV that said “Blondes have more fun”. At two o’clock in the morning, slightly drunk, they both went out, bought some hair dye and became blond. Hockney decided to remain blond from then on, though he has naturally dark hair.

Is it true that blonds have more fun? Lionel Messi presumably thinks so, otherwise why has he greeted this brand-new season with that weird blond hair? We look at his face, his figure, his posture and we know it’s him – then we blink, thinking what the heck, does he realise some joker has been pouring stuff on his head?

He has always been such a staid, old-fashioned-looking lad, never messing around with his hair till now. Neymar, beside him, has gone even blonder, but somehow we expect it of him. He had foony hair even before he left Brazil.

Over here, blonds are popping up all over the shop. Most teams now have a born-again blondie. It must take a fortune for Marouane Fellaini of Man United to brighten up his hair, as he has so much. But it’s already fading. Cheapskate.

Mesut Özil of Arsenal held back, not going the full head, just bits of it, which I suspect is a clue to his wavering, hesitant personality. His colleague Aaron Ramsey has almost the full blond monty. Paul Pogba of Man United has a sort of blond streak, more like a marker pen than a makeover. His colleague Phil Jones has appeared blond, but he seems to have disappeared from the team sheet. Samir Nasri of Man City went startlingly blond, but is on loan to Seville, so we’re not able to enjoy his locks. And Didier Ndong of Sunderland is a striking blond, thanks to gallons of bleach.

Remember the Romanians in the 1998 World Cup? They suddenly appeared blond, every one of them. God, that was brilliant. One of my all-time best World Cup moments, and I was at Wembley in 1966.

So, why do they do it? Well, Hockney was right, in a sense. Not to have more fun – meaning more sex – because top footballers are more than well supplied, but because their normal working lives are on the whole devoid of fun.

They can’t stuff their faces with fast food, drink themselves stupid, stay up all night, take a few silly pills – which is what many of our healthy 25-year-old lads consider a reasonably fun evening. Nor can they spend all their millions on fun hols, such as skiing in the winter, a safari in the spring, or hang-gliding at the weekend. Prem players have to be so boringly sensible these days, or their foreign managers will be screaming at them in their funny foreign accents.

While not on the pitch, or training, which takes up only a few hours a day, the boredom is appalling, endlessly on planes or coaches or in some hotel that could be anywhere.

The only bright spot in the long days is to look in the mirror and think: “Hmm, I wonder what highlights would look like? I’ve done the beard and the tattoos. Now let’s go for blond. Wow, gorgeous.”

They influence each other, being simple souls, so when one dyes his hair, depending on where he is in the macho pecking order, others follow. They put in the day by looking at themselves. Harmless fun. Bless ’em.

But I expect all the faux blonds to have gone by Christmas. Along with Mourinho. I said that to myself the moment he arrived in Manchester, smirking away. Pep will see him off. OK then, let’s say Easter at the latest . . . 

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times