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Laurie Penny: this divorce tax is emotional terrorism

Persuading poor people to stay married eases the strain on housing stocks and provides a modesty slip for inequality.

The denial of compassion is big business for this government. Under the coming austerity package, which includes a de facto large tax break for bankers, single mothers will be punished more than any other group in society, save those with severe disabilities. Roll that sentence around your mouth and see how bitter it tastes.

This month, expected plans by the Tories to charge separating couples to use the Child Support Agency - essentially a divorce tax for parents - have hit the news. Put this in the context of tax credits and housing benefit cuts that will force many single mothers out of their homes and leave hundreds of thousands more in penury, the removal of legal aid services that allow women to leave abusive husbands without threatening their children's safety, and cuts to front-line public services that will leave more than a million women jobless, and it is hard not to see the scheme as an attack on women dressed up in the bad, Thatcherite drag of think-of-the-children-ism.

What the coalition has just done has made it all but illegal for women earning much under £25,000 a year to leave their husbands. Why? Because it wilfully misunderstands the purpose of the welfare state. In The Pinch, written at the height of Tory propagandising against single and working mothers, David Willetts, who is now a cabinet minister, laments: "A welfare system that was originally designed to compensate men for loss of earnings is slowly and messily redesigned to compensate women for the loss of men."

This is untrue. The welfare state was brokered at a time of high employment when many women were raising children alone because of wartime bereavement. It was there to protect women, working unpaid, from destitution, and was later expanded to allow women with children the option of independence from men. That painfully won independence has just been kneecapped.

Think of the children

The line we are usually spun is that marriage is good for kids, but anyone who grew up with parents guilt-tripped into staying together "for the sake of the children" will understand why decades of research has failed to prove any causative, rather than correlative, link between parents staying married and children growing up happy. The notion that marriage, which only ceased to be understood as a deal to protect property within the past century, magically creates loving relationships through the power of a legally binding document is just propaganda.

Furthermore, it's quite possible that couples forced to stick together because of the financial threat of this new divorce tax might not go on to create a happy little house on the prairie together.

None of this matters to the coalition. The real reason behind the government's crusade to "recognise marriage in the tax system" is breathtakingly cynical: it's about saving money. Persuading poor people to stay married eases the strain on housing stocks and provides a modesty slip for rising inequality; rich couples can still divorce as they please.

This financial intimidation of women with families has nothing to do with the welfare of children and less still to do with "family values". It is a simple cash-grab, dressed up in the language of moral manipulation. This intimate micromanagement of the personal relationships of the poor is a shameless about-face for a party that accused Labour of instituting a nanny state.

The sheer hypocrisy of withdrawing welfare only to shrink the state small enough to fit into people's bedrooms, and the cruelty of playing on women's guilty fear of being bad parents in order to force them to swallow Thatcherite benefit cuts have nothing to do with child welfare.

It's emotional terrorism, and any government should be above it.

Laurie Penny is a contributing editor to the New Statesman. She is the author of five books, most recently Unspeakable Things.

This article first appeared in the 17 January 2011 issue of the New Statesman, War on WikiLeaks

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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