Don’t get carried away with headline fall in unemployment

Subtantial progress may not come until 2013

The drop in the latest unemployment figures is good news. It is the first time unemployment has fallen in ten months. But underneath the headline fall is bad news for women and some worrying trends that make substantial progress over the next year very unlikely.

Today’s fall in the overall jobless count masks a continuing rise in female unemployment, now higher than at any point since 1987. Since last month’s figures, there are an extra 8,000 women unemployed and 27,000 more women out of work for more than a year. In total, there are now more than a million women (1,136,000) unemployed, the highest since 1987 and a rise of 100,000 over the last year. Of those, over a quarter (29 per cent) of women (327,795) have been unemployed for more than a year.

Long term unemployment continues to rise, reaching its highest level since 1996. Overall, long term unemployment rose 26,000, the highest level since 1996, to a total of 882,821. While 1,000 men have left long-term unemployment, there are now 27,000 more women who have been out of work for more than a year. IPPR predicts there will be almost a million unemployed for more than a year by the end of 2012. There is a real risk that these people will struggle to take advantage of any upturn in the economy.

While youth unemployment has fallen by 9,000, there are still more than a million (1,033,440) young people (aged 16-24) unemployed, the second highest since comparable records began in 1992. Of those, 263,000 young people (aged 16-24) have been unemployed for more than a year. The Youth Contract has now begun, but it has a huge job to do.

Almost half a million (430,672) people over 50 are now unemployed, up 42,000 in the last year. More than 40 per cent of unemployed over fifties have been out of work for more than a year, up 13,000 over the last year to 189, 593. It’s going to be very tough indeed for over 50s out of work for more than a year to fund new jobs, even when the economy bounces back.

There has also been a rise in part-time work, which rose by 80,000 while the level of full-time employment fell by 27,000. There are now 1.4 million people working part-time because they say they cannot get longer hours.

Public sector employment contracted by 270,000 last year, while private sector employment increased by just 226,000. The resulting gap means rising unemployment. The economy is not being rebalanced by public sector job cuts because growth in the private sector continues to lag. There are actually 19,000 fewer vacancies in the economy than there were a year ago. Looking ahead, there is going to be a rise of 100,000 in unemployment this year, according to IPPR analysis of the latest forecast from the Office for Budgetary Responsibility.

This is already hitting the north of England hard. Over the last year, unemployment is up 22 per cent in the North West (an extra 57,000 out of work) and up 11 per cent in the North East (an extra 14,000 out of work). The chancellor is wasting the opportunity to boost national prosperity by ignoring the economic potential of the north.

The priority for the government must be to prevent long term unemployment, with a job guarantee, and to support women to get back to work, by prioritising childcare. There is light at the end of the tunnel, but that tunnel stretches well into 2013. Before it gets substantially better, it’s going to get worse.

Boarded up shops wait for redevelopment in the Hanley Shopping Centre in Stoke-On-Trent. Credit: Getty

Richard Darlington is Head of News at IPPR. Follow him on Twitter @RDarlo.

Getty
Show Hide image

The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

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 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism