I’m proud to be a “deficit denier”

The Tories have no empirical or historical basis for their hysteria over the debt.

I've spent the past year on this blog mocking and riling so-called climate-change sceptics or "deniers", so I'm amused to find myself for the first time included in a different list of "deniers". According to the Prime Minister, those of us on who are critical of his government's austerity measures, and prefer to delay spending cuts and tax rises, are "deficit deniers". Hilarious.

Let me be clear: I'd much rather be a so-called deficit denier than succumb, as the Tories and their allies in the media and the business world have, to "deficit hysteria". Those of us who oppose the coalition's fiscal sadism do not deny the existence of this country's largest Budget deficit since the war, nor do we pretend that cuts will never come. We prefer, however, to contextualise the deficit and to point out that, for example:

  1. the national debt as a proportion of GDP is much lower than at other periods in our recent history,
  2. the national debt as a proportion of GDP is lower in the UK than in the United States, Japan, Italy and other industrialised nations,
  3. the UK and Greek economies are not at all comparable,
  4. deep and early spending cuts don't guarantee the retention of our much-lauded triple-A credit rating,
  5. the deficit is a result of a collapse in tax revenues after a recession caused by the bankers, rather than Labour's "profligacy", and
  6. the best route out of debt and deficit is economic growth and fiscal stimulus rather than Hooverite cuts and premature fiscal consolidation.

This last point is perhaps the most important. I'm amazed that some senior Labour Party figures seem to have bought in to this Tory narrative of the deficit and the importance of deficit reduction.

The shadow industry secretary, Pat McFadden, said in a speech this morning that Labour's current opposition to cuts risks exposing the party to accusations by voters of "wishing the problem away".

Peter Mandelson says in his new memoir that the party's biggest mistake in its final years in office was "allowing ourselves to be characterised as indifferent to the deficit or in denial about the consequences as to what was happening in our public finances".

This is a load of rubbish. Labour figures should be at the forefront of explaining the importance of deficits in rescuing fragile economies from double-dip recessions. Labour figures should be, as David Miliband has said, making the "moral" case for deficits. Labour figures should be excavating their copies of J M Keynes's General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money.

As the economists Ann Pettifor and Victoria Chick argue, in a brilliant contribution on the Bloomberg website:

It may seem obvious that if you want to cut debt, you cut expenditure, but Keynes showed that the government finances were very different from a household budget. For him, macroeconomic outcomes were often the reverse of outcomes based on microeconomic reasoning.

Keynes was instrumental in the development of national accounts, which give us the opportunity to test his conclusions. Combining the official estimates with British economist Charles Feinstein's invaluable historical estimates permits an analysis of the impacts of fiscal policy over the past century.

They point out that there are "eight episodes over which changes in the public debt (as a percentage of gross domestic product) can be compared with those in public expenditure" and they report that "the results stand wholly opposed to the conventional wisdom". As Pettifor and Chick write:

Comparing for each episode the average annual change in the public debt as a share of GDP and the average annual growth in government expenditure in cash terms, we have results that are perhaps even more remarkable than Keynes might have imagined. There is a very strong relationship between changes in government expenditure and the public debt.

But, outside the two world wars, the relationship goes in the opposite direction to that predicted by most commentators: increases in public expenditure are associated with reductions in public debt. Very roughly, so long as there is unemployment, for every percentage rise in government expenditure, the public debt falls by half a per cent, and vice versa. This is very compelling evidence in favour of Keynes's insights.

Even Simon Jenkins -- no friend of Gordon Brown or Alistair Darling! -- argues in today's Guardian::

Worst of all for Osborne is that, were it not for the continued rise in public spending, Britain would still be in recession. The ONS was quoted today on the crucial role of government spending in the first three months of this year in underpinning the economy. Private wages have been falling by 1.9 per cent and state wages rising by 3.6 per cent. Osborne is right to assert that this dependency on government is unwise and unstable. But it is one thing to accuse the patient of being a drug addict, quite another to send him cold turkey overnight.

Everyone professes not to want a double-dip recession, yet every bit of news, from home and abroad, suggests that this is now a real prospect.

He adds:

Why the west's economic leaders seem so trapped in a pre-Keynesian time warp is intellectually intriguing. An answer recently given by the economist Paul Krugman in the New York Times is that they care more about their "institutional credibility" in financial markets than about refloating a depressed economy. They are like statesmen who prefer to rattle sabres than avert war.

Another answer, closer to home, is that politicians seek to curry favour from their immediate circle. In the crises of the 1960s and 1970s, Britain's rulers spent their time with trade unionists and businessmen. They neglected the "supply side" and generated raging inflation. Now they associate with bankers obsessed with the security of bonds, and therefore with budgetary asceticism. In this respect, Osborne is no different from Darling. Both ignore Keynes's simple insight that businessmen will not invest and the economy will not grow if there is no consumer demand for products.

Hear, hear!

Mehdi Hasan is a contributing writer for the New Statesman and the co-author of Ed: The Milibands and the Making of a Labour Leader. He was the New Statesman's senior editor (politics) from 2009-12.

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad