Cameron's promise of more austerity is an election trap for Labour

Miliband must not let austerity define the next election.

The economic significance of David Cameron's suggestion that austerity will last until 2020 is far outweighed by the political significance. Three years out from the next election, the Prime Minister is already attempting to define the terms on which it will be fought. Having previously indicated that austerity will last for another two years, he now speaks of a full five.

In part, this is an admission of failure. The Conservatives' original plan was to go into the 2015 election able to boast that they had cleaned up "the mess" left by Labour - a powerful political narrative - and offer significant cuts in personal taxation. But the failure of George Osborne's deficit reduction plan (the OBR forecasts that the UK will have a deficit of at least £79bn - 4.5% of GDP - in 2015) has forced them to abandon this strategy. Gone are the "sunlit uplands" that Cameron once spoke of, now he forecasts only grey skies. In the Prime Minister's view, however, all is not lost. If the next election is defined by austerity, he believes it is the Tories, rather than Labour, who will benefit. Cameron and Osborne will attempt to paint Labour as the defender of a bloated welfare system (they are encouraged by the popularity of the coalition's benefits cap) and an overmighty public sector. Osborne's promise of another £10bn in welfare cuts is an early preview of this strategy, with Labour uncertain how to respond.

The biggest question now facing the party is whether to allow Cameron to frame the debate or whether to resist him. Should the party accept the Tories' spending plans with some modifications (as it did in 1997), or should it offer a distinct alternative? If it is to win the next election, it must take the latter course. Labour will not triumph on a platform of austerity-lite. Instead, rather than allowing the next election to be defined by austerity, it must ensure it is defined by growth. As Labour MP Gregg McClymont argued last year in a pamphlet for Policy Network, "A patriotic appeal to the nation to improve growth and living standards, not a simple defence of the public sector and public spending, is crucial to foiling Conservative attempts to render Labour the party of a sectional minority."

The frame for Labour's policy offering should be a promise of national reconstruction. Having established a narrative of renewal and growth, it can then move to propose specific institutions such as a British Investment Bank. In 1945, it was Clement Attlee's promise of national revival that allowed him to triumph over the war lion Winston Churchill. Nearly seventy years later, a patriotic vow to "rebuild Britain" could do the same for Miliband.

David Cameron said he doesn’t “see a time” when the government’s austerity programme will end. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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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