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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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war