The £2 broadband tax echoes Canada's 30¢ tax to save music

"Boy, hurting that new industry to save this dying one; that definitely won't backfire!" - Nobody, ever.

Remember when Canada introduced a compulsory levy on blank CDs to save the recorded music market, and how that totally made everything OK? Oh, you don't? 

Canada is one of a few countries which enacted what's known as a "private copying levy". Any "blank audio recording media", such as cassettes, CD-Rs, or MiniDiscs, is subject to a tax – of $0.29 per unit for CD-Rs, and $0.24 per unit for cassettes.

In a way, it's very similar to David Leigh's proposal to save journalism. Charge a levy on the new technology which is eating the old, and save the "valuable" incumbent at the expense of the upstart new entrant. In fact, it's better than Leigh's proposal; most audio recording media does have music on it, whereas very little internet bandwidth is used for news (if we were being fair about where the money goes, most of that £2 would subsidise porn – which is also suffering under the yoke of the internet).

So how did the levy do? It saved the Canadian recording industry, right? Not so much:


The money taken from downloads is actually on the up in Canada, as with everywhere else; and eventually, the industry will recalibrate around this new funding source. But to pretend that state funding – particularly state funding based on a tax of an unrelated resource – can save the industry is sadly wishful thinking.

Newspapers pile up on the street floor. Photograph: Getty Images

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

Show Hide image

For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood