Memo to Ed and Ed: ignore the call to embrace austerity

The New-Labour, me-too approach on cuts is a political and economic dead end.

Jim Murphy, long regarded as the leading Blairite in Ed Miliband's shadow cabinet, has attracted a handful of headlines today with his Guardian interview, in which he says Labour must have "genuine credibility" on the economy and reveals that he would accept £5bn of Tory defence cuts.

The shadow defence secretary tells Nick Watt:

It is important to be both credible and popular when it comes to defence investment and the economics of defence. There is a difference between populism and popularity. Credibility is the bridge away from populism and towards popularity. It is difficult to sustain popularity without genuine credibility. At a time on defence when the government is neither credible nor popular it is compulsory that Labour is both.

"Genuine credibility". A phrase right up there with Paul Krugman's "Very Serious People". Don't get me wrong. I support cuts to the UK's defence budget. And, of course, credibility is self-evidently important. But Murphy and his fellow Labour deficit hawks have outsourced the definition of credibility to the Tory party, the right-wing press and neoclassical economists. After all, is "genuine credibility" secured through growth of 0.5 per cent? Or unemployment at 2.6 million? Yet, bizarrely, despite the economy tanking, and Osborne's deficit-reduction plans falling apart, an increasing number of New Labour figures are buying into the Tory narrative on the deficit and embracing their right-wing opponents' monomaniacal obsession with deficit reduction over economic growth and job creation.

As Watt notes:

The timing of Murphy's intervention is significant in domestic and international terms. On the domestic front it comes just as key Labour figures express doubts about the party's economic strategy. These concerns were highlighted in a pamphlet by Lord Mandelson's Policy Network think tank last month which criticised the "vagueness" of Labour's deficit reduction plans.

But embracing austerity is bad politics and bad economics. It is a strategy (if one can call it that despite the fact that I have yet to hear how it will help Labour present a convincing and appealing alternative (yes, alternative!) to the Tories' failed austerity agenda) premised on a myth: that Labour went into the last general election opposed to cuts and committed to higher levels of public spending. This is nonsense. Alistair Darling's plan to halve the deficit over four years was enshrined in the Labour manifesto - to the irritation of some on the centre-left (like Polly Toynbee, David Blanchflower and, er, me!) In fact, Darling went as far as to claim that Labour planned to make "deeper and tougher" cuts than Margaret Thatcher made in the eighties. It's a fiscal strategy that was then adopted by the two Eds, Balls and Miliband, despite the fact that it muddied the ideological and policy water between the Conservatives and Labour and has since enabled coalition ministers to defend their draconian austerity measures with a version of: "Well, Labour's own figures show they would have had to cut almost as much as we are."

If the two Eds, egged on by the likes of Murphy, now truly believe Labour can win the economic argument with a "we want cuts too, but not just yet and not as many", and by going beyond Darling, they are living in a fantasy world. Politically, austerity-lite won't cut it with the voters. Economically, it won't work in spurring much-needed growth (see here, here, here and here). It is time, as a wise man once said, for Labour to say that deficits aren't "immoral" and make the argument that "sometimes deficits are necessary to serve the society you live in". (Interestingly, the wise man in question was David, not Ed, Miliband, during the Labour leadership contest of 2010).

In fact, in today's Guardian panel on "what Ed needs to do now", columnist Zoe Williams hits the nail on the head:

The problem with Ed Miliband's opposition is not that they won't admit their past mistakes but that they don't articulate properly either their mea culpas or their triumphs. A simple graph, rendered in word form (preferably spoken by Miliband himself, rather than Balls) would demonstrate that there was no systemic deficit problem before the crash, and the upkick that made the spending look dangerous was due to the banking crisis. Then they could legitimately apologise for failing to regulate banking; point out that the coalition hasn't regulated it either and we're still subject to the same risks; and mention, furthermore, that Gordon Brown averted disaster over that period. . . If they won't make that case, they are just left tugging at the threads of the austerity drive, which comes across as unconstructive and watery.

To abandon opposition to cuts, as those cuts begin to bite, as voters back a slowdown in the deficit-reduction programme and as more and more data shows that austerity is killing the British economy, is just madness. The New-Labour, me-too approach on cuts is a political and economic dead end and, in my view, best ignored.

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 decline of the north's sporting powerhouse

Yorkshire historically acted as a counterweight to the dominance of southern elites, in sport as in politics and culture. Now, things are different.

On a drive between Sheffield and Barnsley, I spotted a striking painting of the Kes poster. Billy Casper’s two-fingered salute covered the wall of a once-popular pub that is now boarded up.

It is almost 50 years since the late Barry Hines wrote A Kestrel for a Knave, the novel that inspired Ken Loach’s 1969 film, and it seems that the defiant, us-against-the-world, stick-it-to-the-man Yorkshireness he commemorated still resonates here. Almost two-thirds of the people of south Yorkshire voted to leave the EU, flicking two fingers up at what they saw as a London-based establishment, detached from life beyond the capital.

But whatever happened to Billy the unlikely lad, and the myriad other northern characters who were once the stars of stage and screen? Like the pitheads that dominated Casper’s tightly knit neighbourhood, they have disappeared from the landscape. The rot set in during the 1980s, when industries were destroyed and communities collapsed, a point eloquently made in Melvyn Bragg’s excellent radio series The Matter of the North.

Yorkshire historically acted as a counterweight to the dominance of southern elites, in sport as in politics and culture. Yet today, we rarely get to hear the voices of Barnsley, Sheffield, Doncaster and Rotherham. And the Yorkshire sporting powerhouse is no more – at least, not as we once knew it.

This should be a matter of national concern. The White Rose county is, after all, the home of the world’s oldest registered football club – Sheffield FC, formed in 1857 – and the first English team to win three successive League titles, Huddersfield Town, in the mid-1920s. Hull City are now Yorkshire’s lone representative in the Premier League.

Howard Wilkinson, the manager of Leeds United when they were crowned champions in 1992, the season before the Premier League was founded, lamented the passing of a less money-obsessed era. “My dad worked at Orgreave,” he said, “the scene of Mrs Thatcher’s greatest hour, bless her. You paid for putting an axe through what is a very strong culture of community and joint responsibility.”

The best-known scene in Loach’s film shows a football match in which Mr Sugden, the PE teacher, played by Brian Glover, comically assumes the role of Bobby Charlton. It was played out on the muddy school fields of Barnsley’s run-down Athersley estate. On a visit to his alma mater a few years ago, David Bradley, who played the scrawny 15-year-old Billy, showed me the goalposts that he had swung from as a reluctant goalkeeper. “You can still see the dint in the crossbar,” he said. When I spoke to him recently, Bradley enthused about his lifelong support for Barnsley FC. “But I’ve not been to the ground over the last season and a half,” he said. “I can’t afford it.”

Bradley is not alone. Many long-standing fans have been priced out. Barnsley is only a Championship side, but for their home encounter with Newcastle last October, their fans had to pay £30 for a ticket.

The English game is rooted in the northern, working-class communities that have borne the brunt of austerity over the past six years. The top leagues – like the EU – are perceived to be out of touch and skewed in favour of the moneyed elites.

Bradley, an ardent Remainer, despaired after the Brexit vote. “They did not know what they were doing. But I can understand why. There’s still a lot of neglect, a lot of deprivation in parts of Barnsley. They feel left behind because they have been left behind.”

It is true that there has been a feel-good factor in Yorkshire following the Rio Olympics; if the county were a country, it would have finished 17th in the international medals table. Yet while millions have been invested in “podium-level athletes”, in the team games that are most relevant to the lives of most Yorkshire folk – football, cricket and rugby league – there is a clear division between sport’s elites and its grass roots. While lucrative TV deals have enriched ruling bodies and top clubs, there has been a large decrease in the number of adults playing any sport in the four years since London staged the Games.

According to figures from Sport England, there are now 67,000 fewer people in Yorkshire involved in sport than there were in 2012. In Doncaster, to take a typical post-industrial White Rose town, there has been a 13 per cent drop in participation – compared with a 0.4 per cent decline nationally.

Attendances at rugby league, the region’s “national sport”, are falling. But cricket, in theory, is thriving, with Yorkshire winning the County Championship in 2014 and 2015. Yet Joe Root, the batsman and poster boy for this renaissance, plays far more games for his country than for his county and was rested from Yorkshire’s 2016 title decider against Middlesex.

“Root’s almost not a Yorkshire player nowadays,” said Stuart Rayner, whose book The War of the White Roses chronicles the club’s fortunes between 1968 and 1986. As a fan back then, I frequently watched Geoffrey Boycott and other local stars at Headingley. My favourite was the England bowler Chris Old, a gritty, defiant, unsung anti-hero in the Billy Casper mould.

When Old made his debut, 13 of the 17-strong Yorkshire squad were registered as working-class professionals. Half a century later, three of the five Yorkshiremen selec­ted for the last Ashes series – Root, Jonny Bairstow and Gary Ballance – were privately educated. “The game of cricket now is played in public schools,” Old told me. “Top players are getting huge amounts of money, but the grass-roots game doesn’t seem to have benefited in any way.”

“In ten years’ time you won’t get a Joe Root,” Rayner said. “If you haven’t seen these top Yorkshire cricketers playing in your backyard and you haven’t got Sky, it will be difficult to get the whole cricket bug. So where is the next generation of Roots going to come from?” Or the next generation of Jessica Ennis-Hills? Three years ago, the Sheffield stadium where she trained and first discovered athletics was closed after cuts to local services.

This article first appeared in the 19 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The Trump era